Running on Empty
My earlier years in Costa Rica were spent running…
mainly running uptown for a drink.
My life had taken some dramatic twists and I often reacted poorly by seeking solace in the wrong places.
I can distinctly remember one of those nights.
This was back when Costa Rica was still a basically lawless frontier for a newbie gringo like me. I harbored the all-too-common and wrong-headed notion that here one could get away with anything.
Well, this tall tales of Costa Rica Guy episode proved me partially wrong and, at least this time, partially right…
I was returning late from one of my favorite watering holes in downtown San Jose. I admittedly shouldn’t have been driving, but I felt capable (don’t we always?).
I took the back roads to avoid any problems, but finally found myself about to intersect with the main highway, only a few blocks from my apartment.
The intersection I mistakenly took only allowed me to turn left and when I looked in that direction I saw what looked like the entire traffic division of the San Jose police force.
It was a traffic stop.
I really didn’t want that to happen at the moment, so despite the sign that clearly stated left-turn only I decided to turn right…
after all, traffic rules in Costa Rica are more along the lines of suggestions, right?
Well of course, since it was rather late and there was not much traffic on the road, the entire contingent caught wind of what I was doing and started waving their hands for me not to be so stupid right before their collective eyes.
I did it anyway.
But then fear took over and I quickly self-corrected via a U-turn in the middle of the highway (another no-no) and headed back in their direction.
They were waiting, hands on hips, and signaling in the most dramatic way for me to pull my gringo ass over.
I did.
Back then my Spanish was not so good and the cop began speaking way too fast and animated for me to possibly understand…
other than the fact that he was clearly not too pleased with what he had just witnessed.
“Estas tomando?”
Okay, I understood that question.
With which I gave the proverbial “two beers” response.
“Sus papeles, por favor.”
At which point it dawned upon me that I was a bit overdue for a border run (my passport was beyond the 90 limit).
Okay, how many strikes are you allowed in Costa Rica?
As Smokey informed the Bandit, I was clearly in a whole heap of potential trouble.
But wait, this is Costa Rica.
All I have to do is offer about diez rojitas ($20) and all will be well.
That didn’t work.
He instead laughed and told me that my troubles were worth quite a bit more.
But that is all I had on me.
Look officer, I said in my best Spanish. I live just a few blocks away. I have no more cash with me. But I know there is a cajero (ATM machine) right over there. You can follow me right over there (pointing) and I’ll take out $100 for you.
That finally got his attention.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching too closely, then signaled vamos (or, let’s go).
I had three potentially function-able debit cards in my billfold.
Number one turned up empty.
Number two also no good.
I said a prayer and inserted number three.
I was able to get another $20 with that one.
I exited the cajero and shuffled over to the police car, head low in as humble a fashion as I could muster.
Sir, it seems I am a little short of $100.
“Cuanto tiene?”
Well, perhaps I could get $40?
“Gringo, vete su casa!”
But sir, listen, you have tried to help me. So, if you would give me your phone number, tomorrow I will call you and we can fix it.
He just looked at me as if I were an alien from planeta idiota.
I got the message, hopped in La Poderosa and made a b-line for home.
I have since calmed down a bit. That’s a good thing, because too many close calls like that one and I would probably have been deported.
Needless to say, on this night, as with a few others I still have enough brain cells to recall,
I was definitely running on empty (of head and wallet).
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