Desperately Seeking Simon Bolivar

Some people, most people, when they visit foreign countries, go to museums, churches, cathedrals, palaces and castles, quaint little villages, night markets (foto above), mountains and waterfalls, stuff like that. I teach and ride around in cars. So you don’t get stories about, you know, cathedrals and stuff. You get stories about riding around in cars.

The last time I wrote about riding in cars was in Shanghai, where, oddly enough, the taxi drivers seem to speak only Chinese, and the directions are all in Chinese.

So. I’m in San Jose, Costa Rica. Or at least, I was when I wrote this. I’m excited. I’ll be able to read the street signs. I’ll know where I’m going. I can even speak a little Spanish. I can say, look, there it is, the school we’re looking for! Drive past it and I’ll hit you in the cabeza with a stale burrito! Don’t mess with me, hombre! I can read here! None of this Chinese character stuff. Real letters and real words. OK, not being culturally sensitive here, but cultural sensitivity means squat when you’re being sold into white devil slavery in Shanghai.

I arrive in Costa Rica totally pumped. Street signs! Letters! Real words!

Hah! is what the driving demons say to that.

Here’s the thing about San Jose. The streets have no names.