I'm a writer who walks slow to read streets. Visible cues become stories and scenes, it's impossible to ignore the flow. If they're shared, you're invited in for more. It's a challenge to reveal truth in a stranger's home by just walking by it. At glance, one might see plants, a porch, color, a car, or the building's design and not much more. At closer inspection, more clues: children's toys in the yard, double garage, whether the house and garden look well maintained.
This cursory viewing produces an immediate impression and transitory thought in the passerby. The passing thoughts replaced by the next house; steps away, with a new set of assumptions. The energy of the home's residents and their backstories seldom touch the sidewalk.
It was on such a walk; in visiting the neighborhood as a tropical tourist I noticed a stylish-dressed, well-coiffed, elderly lady ensconced on a wicker settee in the prolific rose garden of her unpretentious, upper-class home. This brief sighting of the demure matron with an open Bible on her lap, eyes closed, lost in reverential thought, intrigued me. I discovered, after casual inquiry with the neighbor's gardener I was mistaken in thinking of her reason for sitting there. She wasn't in a lost state of blank dementia; she was sitting in silent contemplation as older people do in the calm sunset of age. Looking back in quiet reflection of life best lived, the tender heart of her first love, not diminished by time. The thoughts gave her peace and to find peace before passing is a precious gift of God. She was waiting for a man she loved to return after a lifetime away, and the page-marked Bible offered solace for her loneliness.
6 Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its ardor unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. 7 Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away…
Solomon 8:6,7 NIV
In Central America, the tropical, rainy season comes in torrential force starting in May. Costa Ricans know rain better than foreigners; it rains half their entire lives. Non-natives find the rain unpredictable, but not so the locals born into it from birth. To enjoy the warm weather as an escaping the north tourist in tropical paradise, I walked the streets near my lodgings. If a sudden downpour swamped the neighborhood, I'd run to safety and find close cover.
Lang Street runs off the expansive Parque Sabana (Sabana Park) in western San José, the nation's capital. The Sabana residential area is an elegant, yet unpretentious neighborhood of the wealthy secluded in a curtsey of mist drifting from the southern foothills. The Roble Sabana tree's apple blossom pink flowers in season have forfeited their blooms to monsoon. The light mist 'pelo de gato' (hair of a cat) after a downpour creates a dampening light drizzle that evaporates in a steam under the intense sunshine that follows the air cleansing rain.
Scattered, fat raindrops turned into splattering buckets, drenching everything exposed to the onslaught. Caught without an umbrella, I'm the next foreign fool to be soaked by the sudden deluge.
The only refuge from the downpour; a red-tiled portico rooftop extending over a fancy, wrought iron fenced drive entryway. From this scant cover, I waited out the worst of the storm, legs drenched in the splatter pouring off the tiles above me.
A group of teen boys, playing rag-tag football on the road picked up their ball and ran for cover. Veering to the gate to avoid their melee, I noticed a lady sitting, oblivious to the world, under the red-tiled roof patio set deep in the garden. There to find shade from sun, protection from rain and peace for her daily ambulation.
Rain-scrubbed air invigorates the nose with petrichor; with earth we are one. Plump robins melodic in the lush dampness after lilting flight. Worms crawling in the soaked lawns escape drowning but not the birds that celebrate feast from the parched, dry ground. The gardens of the homes long dead and brown elevate to green and vibrant glorious after the six-month dry of summer season. I note the robins here are slate gray, but find my home comfort in the exact toned spring breeding song as their rose-breasted northern cousins, the migrating thrush.
Inset on her corner gate post, at my studious eye level, a delft-blue, ceramic number 1627 plaque nestled in the facing stone. The well-appointed, older woman seemed unperturbed by the storm sat secluded behind large, framed sunglasses in the roof protected garden courtyard. She wasn't reading the opened Bible on her lap she was reciting in undertone the passages dear to her.
A silver handle cane leaned against her wicker chair, not worn by use but beside her for assurance; the comfort of security is a treasure to the old. The calm breeze, sweet smell of air following the rain became personified in her under my gaze. In my impertinence, I thought she was sitting in religious contemplation. But her calmness in the eclipsing green garden in the rain, and her serene facial expression belied a far different reality.
The Señora sat quiet and seemed content, regardless of her thoughts. The affluent residents in these houses pay scant attention to the goings-on beyond their gates. For an unexplained reason, she took notice of my respite from the downpour under her entryway roof. I nodded, apologetic for my uninvited arrival at her front-gated private world and spoke a neighbor's greeting:
“Buenas tardes Señora. ¿Como esta usted?”
She answered in faint Spanish,
“Bien, por dicha, Señor. Gracias a Dios.” (I'm well, thank you Sir for asking. Thanks to God).
A normal exchange of pleasantry between two passersby but unusual for a woman of her social status and age to acknowledge me, a male stranger beyond her decorative-iron, protected world. To a lady of polite society, I'm a respectful tourist from the hustle-bustle world, a stranger beyond her life and caring.
She sat on a plush, cushioned, white-wicker love seat placed below an arbor trellised wisteria coming into its draped, fragrant purple bloom. The garden was tidy and well-manicured; everything in place with the places well chosen. A sublime sight; a lady appearing like an angel, the air humid, the scene tranquil.
The massive, wood double door entryway of the house stood open. Inside the exposed foyer, a polished mahogany door stood ajar. Beyond the open door, illumed in soft light, I saw a well-stocked library. As a writer, it riveted my attention to the immense collection of floor-to-ceiling leather spined antique books. On my inquiring glance into their private, air-conditioned world, the uniformed maid moved brusque to close the library and then the front door clicked shut.
Privacy is a determining characteristic of any Latin America household and more so for the wealthy few. Keep what is yours and valued hidden and protected behind barred windows, barred entryways and block walls topped with shards of broken glass. Wrought iron doesn't make you feel locked in, it offers comfort and safety by keeping intruders locked out. After centuries of experience protecting their homes from invaders, those with ancestry know how to do it best.
Her head bowed in reverence framed by a cavalcade of roses caned to the wall intrigued me. Noting yellowed envelopes held in transparent, protective sleeves inserted in her Bible to mark favored passages piqued my writer interest: What passages marked, why, what of the letters?
She took such quick notice of me at her gate I thought she might be alert for an expected visitor. I realized there might be a good story centering on this aged, patient woman, her Bible, a luxurious home and extensive library. Her visible situation stirred me to discover more than cursory glance; I was not to be disappointed.