Clave & Cleavage

  San Jose, Costa Rica
Thursday, July 17, 2008

It was 8 pm and I hadn´t slept or eaten since departing Ashland, so I was starving and and exhausted when I asked the desk clerk for a directions for a place to eat. It had been dark and raining for the last few hours and I learned that most shops and restuarants close rather early. Actually they barricade themselves behind metal garage doors, the  streets which just a few hours earlier were buzzing with empty and become a barren maze.  All for good reason, apparently the city is strife with crime. There are police everywhere. Every bank has armed guards dressed in suits at the entry to insure the keep out the riffraff. The larger branches have guys decked out in SWAT style outfits and armed with pistolgrip shotguns. By their attentiveness finger above the trigger, I´m guess they mean buisiness. The good news is the biggest crime in the city is bank holdups, so I´m not too concerned as I wander the streets looking for a place to eat, however I am cautious and stick to close to the hotel. Actually its a dive gringo guesthouse replete with hammocks, free internet, movies playing before mattresses full of grungy travellers and the sounds of a handfull of languages at any given moment. Its 2 blocks from a park which my lonely planet guidebook describes as the former hotbed of street prostituion, which has been cleaned up to make the area more presentable for tourists. I has skirted the park earlier, curious to see the Templo de Musico which turned out to be little more than an architectutral anomaly.

Anyway,. as I returned to my gringo hostel with no luck finding a cheap local dive soda (a place to eat) I decided to break down and ask...a bit of precaution after discovering that my hostel was right around the corner from what appeared to be a high class gentlemens club, replete with sauna and silouettes of curvaceous chichtas on the frosted glass windows...and mafia style guards at the door. So, in broken english desk clerk esplained that all I had to do was ¨go down this street for 200 meters, turn right at go down another 800.....and don´t go down any of the other streets because no seguro¨. I had learned enough from my spanish phrasebook to know that seguro means safe and no means no. I asked again....¨its easy 200 then  800, across the street from the Aimmeee PiEMeeeee and no hookers ¨.

Oh , across the street from the Aimmeee PiEMeeeee....HuH?

Well at least there are no hookers, so I asked again...we walk out to the street and he points towards the park, which is just a few blocks away and explains that I go the park, to the templo de musico and turn right...making sure not to turn earlier because no seguro. I´m to ¨....look for the paris bar, its right across from the Aimmeee PiEMeeeee¨.  I pull the hood of my raincoat up and walk into the dark and rain. The park and templo de musico are nearly empty as I turn right, in front of a Holiday Inn highrise which I had not previously seen and seemed bit comforting as I began my walk for 800 somethings, searching for the ¨Aimmeee PiEMeeeee¨. The street has a bit of activity amidst the bars and barricades of the shop facades. Its the local bus run street and I hold tight to my pepper spray, fiddling with the safety, trying to see if thumb or index finger would work better in the event of its necessity.
Soon I see a huge neon sign on a corner for a market....the  name is close enough to ¨Aimmeee PiEMeeeee¨ so I look across the street. I spot the only lights and open doorway of the last 4 blocks. I peer thru the windows and see table full of locals eating, drinking, smoking and generally revelling in the absense of quiet in the evening. I look above the door ....¨Paris Bar and Cafe¨....salsa music bellows from the entry an draws me in .  Soon, I´m seated and attempting to decipher the menu with my trusty phrasebook which conviently has a section dedicated to food. The waiter is somewhere between bewildered and indifferent to his gringo client, but patient and friendly as i say ¨uno moment por favor¨ every time he asks what I want...although that my best guess as as to what he is asking. Anyway 30 minutes later I make my 1st attempt at ordering what i hope will be beans and rice. Success! The order is accepted...with some pantomime and pointing, to assist my stumbing thru spanglish.
Success! Steaming hot food arrives. I ask ¨Esta salsa picante?¨ Success! A bowl and spoon of something which has not seen a refrigerator since the place opened arrives at my table. Spoonful goes on my rice....muy caliente! I´m happy and as I devour my simple meal, hunger begins to subside. The exhaustion, on the otherhand doesn´t seem too impressed with the salsa picante. As I squeeze my way thru the crowd of guys towards the back of the bar... in search of something approximating a bathroom, I begin to think sleep before exploration is a good idea. I find a trough in the back (si senor...es el servicias sanitario) and take a whizz onto the stained tile. On my way out the door, into the rain the waiter stops me, handing me some change. I was unsure what the tab was he has rattled off something which I guess was numeros, so I just left 300 colonies on the table (about 3 US dollars). The waiter smiled and I re-confrimed my feeling of being in a country of friendly honest people.

Templo del Musico

On the way home, I walked passed the Holiday Inn and eyed the templo del musico, It was empty, except for the 2 police officers maintaining their vigil against the business of the night.I decide to explore and approach the templo...its a domed roof supported on greek pilliars lacking walls. I begin to hear the sound of clave: da da da - da da      da da da - da da      da da da - da da      da da da - da da ....its the rhythmic backbone to salsa. It coming from across the street...where there is a huge neon....¨KEY LARGO¨....breaks both the silence and darkness. I notice the 2 police officer have gone across the street....to the entrance. Sensing seguro, I follow...thinking following cops is safe. The are talking to 2 burly guys in suits...must be bouncers. All 4 notice my  approach and  part for my entry. I keep walking, into the courtyard of ¨Key Largo¨ where I find another bouncer and an entryway which my ears indicate will lead to the music. I enter and find a ritzy colonial style bar. The band is on stage. The music is hot and I´m happy.

¨Hola senor, como es tas?¨ I hear as I feel a hip meet my hip, a breast meets my arm. I look down and see a senoria...one of many senoritas I had noticed after the last of the bouncers. The senoritas are hard to miss....earlier in the day I had noticed that the women of San Jose are confident in their manner of dress...and their breasts. San Jose is a city of cleavage. Every bud seems bundled and pushed up ready to bloom in a garden of flesh. So to see a hacienda full of flashy senoritas was no suprise. However in a land of machismo, where women fend off the attention of men,  I was certain the breast on my arm was an invitation  and  in that moment realized the  women of the night who once worked the templo del musico, were now trying to make  music at Key Largo....and explains why there were so few hombres in a bar full of scantily dressed senoritas....on a wednesday day nite.

The music inspires a few gals and guys with the gals to dance. Although high heels abound, few of the women can walk properly in them , much less dance.

Except one. I´m tempted to make an ass out of myself, but remember the bouncers and wonder if you need to pay to play (or listen  or dance or generally be inside key largo)....there was no cover charge, and I´m not drinking anything at this place...or indulging in anything else which would run up a tab. I scout the building looking for alternate exits. There is a billliard hall. A helpful senorita in a sequined mini skirt points the banos por hombres. I explore further....another bar....a ritzy restauant with a few  seemingly american  married patron couples oblivious to the other side of key largo. There is no 2nd floor, there is no basement....just ground level.  So its not a house of ill repute, just a bar full of hookers in the shadow of the Holiday Inn.

I sneak out thru the restaurant and head home, debating whether to go ask the desk clerk if its free to dance with the senoritas. My recently converted puma leather soled and heeled dance sneakers are buried somewhere in my pack and the thouht of breaking them in at key largo seems amusing and I think the story alone would be worth going back for, despide my distain for getting close to the senoritas of the night.

The shift has changed at the gringo hostel, there is no way I´m asking the senorita behind the desk about key largo...the staff is full of information, but some questions are best not to ask. I quitelty sneak into my dorm room, find my bunk climb up and attempt to sleep amidist the sounds of 7 other travellers attempting to sleep amidst the din of street noise just outside out window....and the noise of some japanese movie with spanish subtitles playing right outside our door.....