How much is $207,000,000 divided into, say 15?
(More than my cell phone calculator can compute, apparently).
It actually works out to $1,380,000. Before taxes and all that.
Of course, I didn't need to calculate it. It's been calculated more than a dozen times by several participants of our office lottery pool.
The publisher's secretary started one Tuesday to go after that night's Mega Millions drawing. In the course of collecting the money, the math was done. Over and over and over and ...
We learned our fate today. We got a $16 return on our $77 investment (which considering the odds you're talking about, isn't completely a bad thing).
But I think I'm more amazed at the reaction. We all had it spent.
One co-worker wanted to quit her job and become more of a freelancer. Everyone wanted to pay off their debts. Another one was ready to jet off to Europe.
Of course, the money won has been reinvested. And those who didn't play before, now want in.
Is it desperation, wishful thinking or both? What is it that's driving this mini-frenzy?
I can tell from my office that people are tired. Maybe this isn't about the money. Maybe it's about hanging on to the hope that we're all going to find a way out. That, despite the huge job losses and the amount of added work being piled on to the remaining workers, maybe, just maybe, luck will smile upon us and we'll find an exit.
Isn't that what we all want? We're all on this wild roller coaster ride called recession where we've been plummeting for a long time. And now we just want to stop and get off. Not even take the ride to the top again - just get off.
The conversation about the lottery has been fun. Watching people's growing enthusiasm for something that is a 1-in-a-billion or so chance is fascinating. But for me, there's this undercurrent of financial urgency to everyone's escapist fantasies.
But wouldn't it be nice if we won?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Commentary: How insurance firms drive debate
(CNN) -- Having grown up in one of the most conservative and Republican places in the country -- East Tennessee -- I understand why many of the people who are showing up at town hall meetings this month are reacting, sometimes violently, when members of Congress try to explain the need for an expanded government role in our health care system.
I also have a lot of conservative friends, including one former co-worker who was laid off by CIGNA several years ago but who nonetheless worries about a "government takeover" of health care.
The most vocal folks at the town hall meetings seem to share the same ideology as my kinfolks in East Tennessee and my former CIGNA buddy: the less government involvement in our lives, the better.
READ THE REST
I also have a lot of conservative friends, including one former co-worker who was laid off by CIGNA several years ago but who nonetheless worries about a "government takeover" of health care.
The most vocal folks at the town hall meetings seem to share the same ideology as my kinfolks in East Tennessee and my former CIGNA buddy: the less government involvement in our lives, the better.
READ THE REST
Friday, August 7, 2009
Memories of our trip
So I'm still hung up on my trip to Costa Rica. What can I say? When you have that much fun, it's hard to let go. So here is a video that Bill made (with my input). It's a chronological photo account of the parties.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Costa Rica conversations (Part 2)
I’m back. And I’m bound and determined to finish my blogging on Costa Rica. A tough thing to do when you get swallowed by your work.
But I’ve been anxious to finish with some of my memories. Yesterday, I was reflecting back to the trip to the Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica‘s active volcano. The whole thing was a bit wild, literally and figuratively …
The long winding road
“Wow, that’s some bridge,” I told our tour guide Rodolfo in Spanish.
The van wagon, or micro-bus as they called it, had rolled up on a line of cars waiting for oncoming traffic to cross a very narrow bridge.
It wasn’t rickety. It seemed sturdy. But it was surrounded by twisted rusting metal. It spanned the length of a rushing river. That river’s banks and the mountain slopes near it were denuded.
“They built this after a landslide destroyed the original bridge,” Rodolfo said. Since we were not moving, he was able to turn from his seat and point to the towering cliff above us. We were just outside the borders of San Ramon. “About two years ago, we had heavy rains. It rained and rained. It finally brought the mountain down. It took everything out, the road, the bridge, everything.”
When we finally get moving, we could see the rushing water as we drive over. It just rains a lot, he said. Fortunately, no one was one the road at the time of the slide, so there were not injuries, he said.
This was one of the first introductions Bill and I got to the jungles of Costa Rica. I had traveled around them as a child. But obviously, the wilds change. And I was anxious to see, hear and feel it all.
From Ciudad Colon, where my cousin lives, out to the volcano was a two-hour drive. As we drove, a part of me just wanted to enjoy the fact I was being driven around. He had driven past the city, which then became rows of home.
Before long, the space between homes increased, until they almost entirely disappeared and thick jungle hugged the sides of the tiny road. The tropical moisture has taken its toll on all of Costa Rica’s roads. But this road to Arenal has been especially hard hit th
anks to the merciless weather. Holes are not unusual. In some cases, the road has been cut in half.
Along one mountain side was a piece of the highway that had been reduced to one lane because the land that had been holding it was washed away. About half of the lane on the cliff side was gone. To remedy the situation, warning signs have been put up and cars must yield in an orderly manner.
Our poor tour guide. I treated him like we were in Cash Cab. I was full of questions, which he patiently answered. He told me a lot about the terrain. He took us to a lake with a view of the volcano and introduced us to the captain of a small tourist boat who took us out on a tour.
When we arrived, it was pouring rain. Despite that, the captain was out giving a tour. So we took shelter under a tarp that covered a small vendor’s truck. It was manned by a young man who was selling everything from coconuts to chips and drinks.
And we started to chat.
“Hopefully it will warm up so you folks won’t get too cold,” the young man said. “I’m freezing.”
I hated to say anything to him, but I felt warm. It was almost humid to me, even though it was pouring rain. Even Lucky was fine, running around and having the time of his life in the rain. I finally did cave and tell him that we had come from a dry desert climate and were rather enjoying the rain.
“Really? I’m freezing,” he said. “Actually I do have an uncle in California. I’m not sure where he lives. He lives somewhere near Los Angeles.”
“Really? Well then while your freezing, he’s baking,” I told him. “It’s over 100 degrees where
we live in the desert areas. Los Angeles is in the high 90’s. It’s like sitting in an oven. Even when you get in your car.”
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the U.S. But I need to learn more English. I’ll be going back to school. I’ll make it there one day.”
I told him he’d be surprised how many people in the U.S. speak Spanish. He smiled. We chatted some more. I got the sense he really wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Physically, he was selling pipas (coconuts) by the side of the road. Mentally, he was trotting about the promising streets of California. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Who cares if life here is more am/pm and less Spagos. I let the boy dream.
Soon enough, I would learn that our economy is not the only one suffering, though. After we finished up there, we went to grab some lunch and I finally got the chance to have a conversation with Rodolfo about the tourism, one of Costa Rica’s biggest industries.
“It’s terrible right now,” he said.
Terrible?
Yep. Rodolfo has been providing tours for eight years. And business has always been good, he said. But when the economy collapsed here, it did there, too.
“I run bicycle tours for companies,” he said. “A lot of cyclists come here wanting to pedal around the roads. I take them around anywhere they want to go. And they are happy. But the companies are just not spending the money anymore. We had eight tours scheduled earlier this year. Guess how many actually happened?”
I shrugged, “Half?”
“One,” he said. To make ends meet, he has started working at a friend’s auto repair shop. Fortunately, his buddy lets him almost freelance. This is how he’s biding his time until the economies start to recover.
We talked some more, mostly about the volcano and the insanity of living and taking a vacation at hotels so close to an active volcano.
“I stayed at a hotel here once,” he told me. “I was lying in bed and I swear I could feel the vibrations. I heard the booms. I don’t know. It just seems like a bad idea to live so close to it. But everyone here just seems used to it.”
I had to agree. Not long after that, we got our meal, filled out tummies and headed down past the lush greenery back to the city and … into the horrid traffic.
Exhausting, yes. But beautiful. And memorable. I want to take that tour again and get another chance to talk to Rodolfo.
Anyone want to come with us?
But I’ve been anxious to finish with some of my memories. Yesterday, I was reflecting back to the trip to the Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica‘s active volcano. The whole thing was a bit wild, literally and figuratively …
The long winding road
“Wow, that’s some bridge,” I told our tour guide Rodolfo in Spanish.
The van wagon, or micro-bus as they called it, had rolled up on a line of cars waiting for oncoming traffic to cross a very narrow bridge.
It wasn’t rickety. It seemed sturdy. But it was surrounded by twisted rusting metal. It spanned the length of a rushing river. That river’s banks and the mountain slopes near it were denuded.
“They built this after a landslide destroyed the original bridge,” Rodolfo said. Since we were not moving, he was able to turn from his seat and point to the towering cliff above us. We were just outside the borders of San Ramon. “About two years ago, we had heavy rains. It rained and rained. It finally brought the mountain down. It took everything out, the road, the bridge, everything.”
When we finally get moving, we could see the rushing water as we drive over. It just rains a lot, he said. Fortunately, no one was one the road at the time of the slide, so there were not injuries, he said.
This was one of the first introductions Bill and I got to the jungles of Costa Rica. I had traveled around them as a child. But obviously, the wilds change. And I was anxious to see, hear and feel it all.
From Ciudad Colon, where my cousin lives, out to the volcano was a two-hour drive. As we drove, a part of me just wanted to enjoy the fact I was being driven around. He had driven past the city, which then became rows of home.
Before long, the space between homes increased, until they almost entirely disappeared and thick jungle hugged the sides of the tiny road. The tropical moisture has taken its toll on all of Costa Rica’s roads. But this road to Arenal has been especially hard hit th
anks to the merciless weather. Holes are not unusual. In some cases, the road has been cut in half.Along one mountain side was a piece of the highway that had been reduced to one lane because the land that had been holding it was washed away. About half of the lane on the cliff side was gone. To remedy the situation, warning signs have been put up and cars must yield in an orderly manner.
Our poor tour guide. I treated him like we were in Cash Cab. I was full of questions, which he patiently answered. He told me a lot about the terrain. He took us to a lake with a view of the volcano and introduced us to the captain of a small tourist boat who took us out on a tour.
When we arrived, it was pouring rain. Despite that, the captain was out giving a tour. So we took shelter under a tarp that covered a small vendor’s truck. It was manned by a young man who was selling everything from coconuts to chips and drinks.
And we started to chat.
“Hopefully it will warm up so you folks won’t get too cold,” the young man said. “I’m freezing.”
I hated to say anything to him, but I felt warm. It was almost humid to me, even though it was pouring rain. Even Lucky was fine, running around and having the time of his life in the rain. I finally did cave and tell him that we had come from a dry desert climate and were rather enjoying the rain.
“Really? I’m freezing,” he said. “Actually I do have an uncle in California. I’m not sure where he lives. He lives somewhere near Los Angeles.”
“Really? Well then while your freezing, he’s baking,” I told him. “It’s over 100 degrees where
we live in the desert areas. Los Angeles is in the high 90’s. It’s like sitting in an oven. Even when you get in your car.”“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the U.S. But I need to learn more English. I’ll be going back to school. I’ll make it there one day.”
I told him he’d be surprised how many people in the U.S. speak Spanish. He smiled. We chatted some more. I got the sense he really wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Physically, he was selling pipas (coconuts) by the side of the road. Mentally, he was trotting about the promising streets of California. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Who cares if life here is more am/pm and less Spagos. I let the boy dream.
Soon enough, I would learn that our economy is not the only one suffering, though. After we finished up there, we went to grab some lunch and I finally got the chance to have a conversation with Rodolfo about the tourism, one of Costa Rica’s biggest industries.
“It’s terrible right now,” he said.
Terrible?
Yep. Rodolfo has been providing tours for eight years. And business has always been good, he said. But when the economy collapsed here, it did there, too.
“I run bicycle tours for companies,” he said. “A lot of cyclists come here wanting to pedal around the roads. I take them around anywhere they want to go. And they are happy. But the companies are just not spending the money anymore. We had eight tours scheduled earlier this year. Guess how many actually happened?”
I shrugged, “Half?”
“One,” he said. To make ends meet, he has started working at a friend’s auto repair shop. Fortunately, his buddy lets him almost freelance. This is how he’s biding his time until the economies start to recover.
We talked some more, mostly about the volcano and the insanity of living and taking a vacation at hotels so close to an active volcano.
“I stayed at a hotel here once,” he told me. “I was lying in bed and I swear I could feel the vibrations. I heard the booms. I don’t know. It just seems like a bad idea to live so close to it. But everyone here just seems used to it.”
I had to agree. Not long after that, we got our meal, filled out tummies and headed down past the lush greenery back to the city and … into the horrid traffic.
Exhausting, yes. But beautiful. And memorable. I want to take that tour again and get another chance to talk to Rodolfo.
Anyone want to come with us?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Conversations from Costa Rica (Part 1)
Almost a week home and I finally emerge.
I am so sorry. It’s been an interesting few days. I’ll go into them at a later date. Not now. Right now, I wanted at least begin to spill the contents of my head about the trip to Costa Rica. I am surprised to be writing these words but: I miss it. And I wish I could move there. I just have no idea how to make a living. But if I find a way, like my like uncle likes to say, if you can count, don’t count on me (being here anymore that is)
But while I was there, I became a Chatty Cathy.
So I was chatty. Big deal. Actually it was a big deal. I found myself doing the reporter thing a lot because I desperately wanted to absorb as much as I could about the people I was spending time with.
I talked with the cabbies, I talked with our tour guide. I chatted with the young salesman who sold me the coconuts. And I asked lots of questions of my uncles and relatives. I had questions. And I got some great answers … and some interesting looks. Here‘s the first installment of my conversations of Costa Rica:
Taxi Please!
I did not catch their names and they never caught mine. But that didn’t keep the conversation from flowing.
“There’s not a whole lot to see in the city,” our first cabbie told us. “The museum is the best choice.”
We had approached our cabbie while he was parked in front of the main bus stop in San Jose, Costa’s Rica’s crowded capitol. The cabbie took us on a wild ride, diving between vehicles and through crosswalks. Pedestrians, many of them used to insanity of the traffic, boldly leaned in toward the cars. Their confidence in the driver’s ability to navigate around them was impressive if not well founded.
“There’s a big crime problem,” the cabbie told us. He went on to say, as unsafe as the big city was years ago, it was even worse these days as immigrants from Nicaragua flooded in. Our cabbie was surprisingly diplomatic about the issue. Others I spoke to, were less courteous.
Our diplomatic cabbie told us that many Costa Ricans are unhappy with how the immigrants don’t seem invested in their host country. They throw their trash on the ground, he said. Many are unskilled laborers desperate to survive the global downturn. Problem is that Costa Rica has been hit as bad as the rest of the world. So while some immigrants resort to hawking everything from cell phone accessories to plastic Bic pens for 100 colones (about 20 cents) apiece on the street, others have turned to crime. Jewelry, cameras, cell phones, hang on tight to your belongings or you may never see them again.
The conversation took on a lighter tone on our ride back to the bus station (after a very pleasant visit at Costa Rica’s Museo Nacional)
We hailed another cabbie, or rather stopped him, as he was leaving after dropping off people who were obviously tourists. One of them wore a college baseball cap. They left one of the cab’s back doors open. I ran to stop him.
“Well now that you’ve stopped would you take us to the Coca Cola bus stop?”
Oddly he seemed somewhat reluctant but then he said “sure.”
He told me he had picked up the group just before us at Pavas.
“What’s in Pavas?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” he said. Bill and I were missing out apparently. There was lots of shopping and the national stadium where they worship soccer I suppose. Why those tourists came to San Jose, God only knows. I guess everyone is curious about the capitol, he said. He encounters a lot of tourists, he said. They jump in and, to his relief, at least speak in short choppy sentences. Or they may show him a brochure of a hotel where they are staying and give him the “take me there” hand gesture.
Good thing for a man who’s most practiced English phrase it “No speak-a Inglish.”
Sometimes when communication becomes impossible, he pulls out his cell phone, calls a friend who can speak English, and has him translate over the phone. It’s worked so far but for one time. In weird incident, he said a black man and a white woman shoved their suitcases in the trunk, jumped in the cab, then tried to tell him where they wanted to go. But neither spoke a word of Spanish and neither could make clear where they wanted to go.
The cabbie did what he usually does, pulled out the cell and tried to call his English speaking friend. As he did, the duo suddenly jumped out, and tried to hightail it out of there.
“I barely had time to get their suitcases out of my car before they took off,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he may have been lucky to survive that day.
When the riders are non-English or non-Spanish speakers, then they are all screwed, he said.
“I get them where they want to go, but other than knowing they’re human, I have no idea who I have in the cab,” he said.
Stay tuned. More fun conversations from Costa Rica to come.
GT.
I am so sorry. It’s been an interesting few days. I’ll go into them at a later date. Not now. Right now, I wanted at least begin to spill the contents of my head about the trip to Costa Rica. I am surprised to be writing these words but: I miss it. And I wish I could move there. I just have no idea how to make a living. But if I find a way, like my like uncle likes to say, if you can count, don’t count on me (being here anymore that is)
But while I was there, I became a Chatty Cathy.
So I was chatty. Big deal. Actually it was a big deal. I found myself doing the reporter thing a lot because I desperately wanted to absorb as much as I could about the people I was spending time with.
I talked with the cabbies, I talked with our tour guide. I chatted with the young salesman who sold me the coconuts. And I asked lots of questions of my uncles and relatives. I had questions. And I got some great answers … and some interesting looks. Here‘s the first installment of my conversations of Costa Rica:
Taxi Please!
I did not catch their names and they never caught mine. But that didn’t keep the conversation from flowing.
“There’s not a whole lot to see in the city,” our first cabbie told us. “The museum is the best choice.”
We had approached our cabbie while he was parked in front of the main bus stop in San Jose, Costa’s Rica’s crowded capitol. The cabbie took us on a wild ride, diving between vehicles and through crosswalks. Pedestrians, many of them used to insanity of the traffic, boldly leaned in toward the cars. Their confidence in the driver’s ability to navigate around them was impressive if not well founded.
“There’s a big crime problem,” the cabbie told us. He went on to say, as unsafe as the big city was years ago, it was even worse these days as immigrants from Nicaragua flooded in. Our cabbie was surprisingly diplomatic about the issue. Others I spoke to, were less courteous.
Our diplomatic cabbie told us that many Costa Ricans are unhappy with how the immigrants don’t seem invested in their host country. They throw their trash on the ground, he said. Many are unskilled laborers desperate to survive the global downturn. Problem is that Costa Rica has been hit as bad as the rest of the world. So while some immigrants resort to hawking everything from cell phone accessories to plastic Bic pens for 100 colones (about 20 cents) apiece on the street, others have turned to crime. Jewelry, cameras, cell phones, hang on tight to your belongings or you may never see them again.
The conversation took on a lighter tone on our ride back to the bus station (after a very pleasant visit at Costa Rica’s Museo Nacional)
We hailed another cabbie, or rather stopped him, as he was leaving after dropping off people who were obviously tourists. One of them wore a college baseball cap. They left one of the cab’s back doors open. I ran to stop him.
“Well now that you’ve stopped would you take us to the Coca Cola bus stop?”
Oddly he seemed somewhat reluctant but then he said “sure.”
He told me he had picked up the group just before us at Pavas.
“What’s in Pavas?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” he said. Bill and I were missing out apparently. There was lots of shopping and the national stadium where they worship soccer I suppose. Why those tourists came to San Jose, God only knows. I guess everyone is curious about the capitol, he said. He encounters a lot of tourists, he said. They jump in and, to his relief, at least speak in short choppy sentences. Or they may show him a brochure of a hotel where they are staying and give him the “take me there” hand gesture.
Good thing for a man who’s most practiced English phrase it “No speak-a Inglish.”
Sometimes when communication becomes impossible, he pulls out his cell phone, calls a friend who can speak English, and has him translate over the phone. It’s worked so far but for one time. In weird incident, he said a black man and a white woman shoved their suitcases in the trunk, jumped in the cab, then tried to tell him where they wanted to go. But neither spoke a word of Spanish and neither could make clear where they wanted to go.
The cabbie did what he usually does, pulled out the cell and tried to call his English speaking friend. As he did, the duo suddenly jumped out, and tried to hightail it out of there.
“I barely had time to get their suitcases out of my car before they took off,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he may have been lucky to survive that day.
When the riders are non-English or non-Spanish speakers, then they are all screwed, he said.
“I get them where they want to go, but other than knowing they’re human, I have no idea who I have in the cab,” he said.
Stay tuned. More fun conversations from Costa Rica to come.
GT.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The party rolls on
As I write this, we have moved from the busy and crowded area that my uncle lives in (Alto de Guadalupe), to the much less developed area of my cousin. I'd tell you the exact location, but I have no clue.
So, let's recap:
* Saturday was a day of rest after a full day of parties Friday.
To be honest, I kind of freaked out a little bit. My grandma's house was crowded and insane. And after a while, Lucky got tired and cranky, so we left early, over the objections of the rest of the family (who didn't fly the whole day before).
But we went and ran some errands in town with my uncle. We went to the bank and exchanged money (roughly 745 colones per dollar), then went to the store. There we bought diapers, milk, juice, sodas, razors and shaving cream for 15,020 colones ($25.84). We estimate that back home, the diapers alone would have been about $13. So, as you can tell, the dollar is still pretty mighty here.
* Sunday was a busy day, with many events planned. I just want to make a note here to say what an amazing host my uncle has been.
Not only did he have our family as guests (screeching 2-year-old included), but he had his brother (my dad) who is limited in movement with his cane and his "sponge" girlfriend in the house while being one the lead organizers for the weekend's events. He was gracious host, up every morning setting the table and putting out breakfast, and acting as taxi for his guests, making two trips per event in his small car.
Friday was big, Sunday was huge.
We started, of course, with a mass at a small little chapel within walking distance of my grandmother's house, where 98 percent of the people in attendance were family.
Then, we moved to a banquet hall on the grounds of the college of engineering nearby. The place was decked out, the band was booked and food and drink flowed aplenty.
Things started slow. My uncle gave a speech, and the band played while people got their food.
But when the food was done, the slideshow put together by my cousin Alfonso, brought everyone to tears.
And then we danced and danced. That was one hell of a party.
This was likely one of the most joyous family parties I've ever been to. And I've been to some whoppers. All of the cousins were just so happy to be together.
Life hasn't always been easy for us cousins, there have been moments of resentment, things we regret. It was all forgotten and I just wanted to hold all of them. I was just so happy to be there and so happy to share this with my son and my husband. It was just the best. I haven't felt that type of joy in a very long time.
After the party wrapped up, some of us went to my cousin Marcel's house (which had been my family's house when we had lived here). He has completely renovated the place and it looks incredible. We hung out for a little bit, until it was time to head back and get Lucky to sleep.
* And Monday, we rested. Though, we shopped, Bill made salsa. Yes, you read right, Bill made salsa for the Costa Rican family. And we had a small gathering and barbecue at my uncle's house. It was nice ... until it ended on weird note with everyone (aka my aunt) having had a bit too much to drink and either taking naps or going to bed early.
So, that's the summary for now. As more comes into my head, I'll vomit it onto this blog (how's that for a visual?).
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Are you there God? It's me Gina
I went to church and did not burst into flames.
I didn't even get singed.
Nice. I was worried for a bit there. As most of you know, Bill, Lucky and I are in Costa Rica to celebrate my grandmother's 100th birthday. It is, by all accounts, a very big deal.
And what else would my very Catholic grandmother want to do on her birthday? That's right, she wanted to go clubbing. No, no, she wanted to go to church. And not just any church. The big church in Cartago. We have photos but, we're battling to get them to download. If they appear any time soon, you will see what I mean.
The service was beautiful to us, and boring to Lucky who decided the church perfect acoustics for the high pitched shrieks he likes to omit. They make him an ideal alarm for any occasion.
But that was just a start. I am in awe of what is being done for my grandmother. Things I would never have been able to afford for the ones I love at home. The church service was just the start of the day. After the mass, we all went to lunch at a place called Solo Rosas (Only Roses).
Set on a steep hillside, the place is a rose garden with a banquet area. The aroma of thousands of roses from around the globe swallows you as you step in. Small dainty bowls with a variety of roses rest on counters and tables.
The hillsides are steep. And the group, which included many elder members of the family, took a short tour while waiting for the tables to be ready. It didn't take too long, and we were all seated for lunch.
What do you get when you turn 100? A buffet style lunch with soup and salad, arroz con pollo, black beans and lots and lots of sweets. Chocolate fountain with strawberries, cake and cookies with coffee following the meal. And wine, tea and sodas to drink.
They rented a small van to help get everyone up there (and did it struggle up that hill). But my grandmother was surrounded by family and a nun. It was amazing. And the driver took the long way down the hill, so we were able to see some of the natural beauty of the region. Big forests with clouds misting around them. We were swallowed up by the clouds at certain points.
We were even stopped by the cops. They were looking for drug runners we were told. They took down the names and poked around the van for a second.
"It's getting dangerous over here. They just want to make sure they know who's coming and going," one of my grandma's in-laws said.
Sorry that all of these came in all at once, but we jump on when we can. We'll try to get more as we go.
I didn't even get singed.
Nice. I was worried for a bit there. As most of you know, Bill, Lucky and I are in Costa Rica to celebrate my grandmother's 100th birthday. It is, by all accounts, a very big deal.
And what else would my very Catholic grandmother want to do on her birthday? That's right, she wanted to go clubbing. No, no, she wanted to go to church. And not just any church. The big church in Cartago. We have photos but, we're battling to get them to download. If they appear any time soon, you will see what I mean.
The service was beautiful to us, and boring to Lucky who decided the church perfect acoustics for the high pitched shrieks he likes to omit. They make him an ideal alarm for any occasion.
But that was just a start. I am in awe of what is being done for my grandmother. Things I would never have been able to afford for the ones I love at home. The church service was just the start of the day. After the mass, we all went to lunch at a place called Solo Rosas (Only Roses).
Set on a steep hillside, the place is a rose garden with a banquet area. The aroma of thousands of roses from around the globe swallows you as you step in. Small dainty bowls with a variety of roses rest on counters and tables.
The hillsides are steep. And the group, which included many elder members of the family, took a short tour while waiting for the tables to be ready. It didn't take too long, and we were all seated for lunch.
What do you get when you turn 100? A buffet style lunch with soup and salad, arroz con pollo, black beans and lots and lots of sweets. Chocolate fountain with strawberries, cake and cookies with coffee following the meal. And wine, tea and sodas to drink.
They rented a small van to help get everyone up there (and did it struggle up that hill). But my grandmother was surrounded by family and a nun. It was amazing. And the driver took the long way down the hill, so we were able to see some of the natural beauty of the region. Big forests with clouds misting around them. We were swallowed up by the clouds at certain points.
We were even stopped by the cops. They were looking for drug runners we were told. They took down the names and poked around the van for a second.
"It's getting dangerous over here. They just want to make sure they know who's coming and going," one of my grandma's in-laws said.
Sorry that all of these came in all at once, but we jump on when we can. We'll try to get more as we go.
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