On Being Alone
By Thomas Scott Daly
I don’t have to be alone, you know. I do have my opportunities.
I asked a beautiful young Costa Rican girl to marry me while in line at the border. She declined,
but seemed to enjoy being asked. Said she had always hoped for something a little more
romantic (the question was popped in regards to citizenship or something). I told her I was in a
hurry cause I knew she would go away soon. I knew that because I wasn’t serious, she was too
good for me, and was next at the window. We had a good conversation waiting to get into
Panama and she was a delight on the eyes and the ears. Twenty-One years old. I almost
remember being that old. When I looked into her eyes I felt like a man for a minute there, not a
sixty year old man. It was good. Then she walked away, smiling, saying nice things. I hope she
has a great life.
It was a good trip to Panama for a change. I decided it would be and it was. Sometimes all you
have to do is quit being an asshole. Not so easy after you get used to being one. I hate when I’m
not being one and people treat me like one anyhow, which makes me turn it up a notch just so
they can be sure. Generally I find it easiest to just be alone a lot. I’m not the only asshole out
there you know.
The ride up to Boquete was beautiful and so was the town. I spent one night in David and went
to a movie the first night. Trying to think of what the movie was; guess it’s not important. Boquete
was the second day. While cresting the hill in my little blue car and rolling down into the valley,
seeing the town and the mountains and the river all spread out there picturesque-like I was sure
the place had potential to be my final resting spot. It seems every time I find one of those final
resting spots I live longer than I expected, become disgruntled with my current situation, or get
evicted. Perfection in life seems illusive.
Without hesitation, I homed in on the local bar of great fame and notorious notability for being the
“expat” hangout in Boquete, Amigos. I needed answers, and fast. This seemed like the place to
get em, from what I’d read. Stu was there and Lorraina was waitressing. I told her her brother
Joe, from Pasa Canoa (my friendly border expediter) said to say “HI!”. She said, “Joel?” I wanted
to argue with her, but figured she must know her brother’s name better than I do. Anyhow, she
was nice and I had some great eggs and bacon. Stu pointed me towards The Oasis Hotel for the
night, and offered many opinions, comments, reminiscences, observations, thoughtful
reservations regarding numerous things, and insights into local goings-on. I felt like an instant
insider. I was ready to take on the town!
The Oasis Hotel, was without question, a very nice location and establishment. It took me awhile
to rustle up someone to check me in and so forth, but after being there a night I noticed that was
because where you drive in to check in is not where the actual office is. I got to meet a few of the
other staff members while waiting for the manager to get the word I had arrived at their door. I
had hoped for a reasonably-priced single room with a view. Not. I chose the upper-lower with the
two balconies over-looking the river, the valley, the town and the smokestack from the restaurant.
Talked her down to the price of the other two upper-lowers, one of which I wish I had moved into,
cause the smoke from the fire place below fucked up my whole open-window, balcony happiness
as I attempted to languish with great satisfaction and smug security there in my barco-lounger
and 36 inch flat screen, with great, cool, mountain air, sound of the river making me feel at
home. It was a nice room, but if the wind always blows the direction it did that night, it’s for
suckers, baby. Avoid that room.
I returned to Amigos after running amok around the hills and the town a bit. Stu was still there,
holding forth. Some new people rolled in, working barwards, into the night. Rain kept everyone
close to the bar and under the eves. I was becoming a bit weary when three lovely women (20’s-
30’s something’s) on a mission pressed upon us with great illustriousness of dress and
importance of purpose, striding into Amigos offering, nay, extolling, that there was a ticket to be
had to the night's big affair, The Mystery Dinner Theater. I’d heard all about it from multiple
sources through my travels, including the director hiself while I was at Bistro Boquete, briefly,
and had decided it wasn’t for me. Now they were standing right in front of me to a point it
seemed, yet offering this ticket to anyone. Earlier as they first arrived there were many
introductions, all across myself as if I wasn’t there but hard to ignore at the same time. Finally I
piped up, “I’m Tom!”, and felt as if it was taken pretty well. Then as they persisted offering this
“extra” ticket (for 25 instead of the 35 dollar door price one heckler threatened to buy one and
scalp it at the door) I attempted to make myself invisible again. I had decided against going to
that theater thing, and no three good-looking females was going to budge me. I softened,
considered a bit, shored up resolve, shrank some, became a non-entity. No one took the ticket.
They went into the bar.
Stu had left, and I was talking with a couple of local tour-guides that spoke pretty good English.
Nice guys. I was losing any impetus I may have had earlier regarding a night on the town. The
three nice looking 20-30 something’s left the bar heading off I presume to the Mystery Dinner
Theater. The one I liked the most said, “Bye Tom” as she walked by. It had a nice sound to it,
and still rings in my ear.
It gets easier the more I do it, pass on social invitations, but I may have fucked up on that one on
numerous levels new even to me.
I spent the night with a dinner at the hotel I didn’t really like, then the smoke filled the room and I
had to close the windows which I was enjoying being open except for the smoke. I drank some
rum, went to sleep, had Eggs Benedict at La Crepes in the morning and hit the road for the
beach and the bookstore on the road and the hope of some adventure. Something more
solitidinous seemed a better fit. I’ve been a bit reclusive of late and sorta like it that way.
The bookstore, The BOOK MARKER, jumped into my vision as I putted along downhill towards
David, Panama. I slammed on the brakes and managed to back up without major catastrophe
into the parking lot in front. I liked the place at first glance; then as I looked into one window then
the next it seemed if I wanted books, this was the place to be. I strolled in and worked my way
towards the back as I surveyed the multiple rooms and attempted to make sense of where what I
might want might possibly be. I saw an old fart with a hearing aid putting away books in yet
another secret room. I figured I’d just ask him. “Hi. Do you have any Jim Thompson?” I said. He
adjusted the hearing aid and after a few renditions of the original question, it became clear I had
won at STUMP THE BOOK SELLER! It wasn’t intentional; I just wanted some Jim Thompson
books. His younger assistant hadn’t heard of him either so I shifted seamlessly to Hunter S.
Thompson, which they had heard of, and had plenty of, along with Jack Kerouac and surely many
authors I’ve admired and not. In this part of the world a bookstore like this is not an easy find. It’s
a gem. It will be part of my future travel itineraries. The old guy was at my side throughout after
making him feel ignorant via Jim Thompson, not something I had planned, but someone he
oughta have heard of, I think. I asked for a little consideration for buying seven books while at the
check-out and the younger guy offered that they always tried to be “fair”. I replied
enthusiastically, "That's all I ever hope for." He puzzled over how much he could discount the
books when the old guy went apoplectic. “These are Hunter S. Thompsons, and Jack
Kerouacs, not some fucking Daniel Steeles! I barely make any money at the sticker
prices!” and on and on and on…I finally interjected from the side of my mouth to the young guy,
“I’m just trying to buy some of his books here, not pull off an armed robbery!” He laughed and the
old guy simmered down then when we settled on a price roughly two dollars more than the total of
all of em added up, he was my friend again and talked my ear off till I managed a getaway, at a
lope, to the car.
The beach was there, somewhere, I knew it. A sign in David saying, “Las Olas Resort”, Playa La
Barqueta, seemed in the right direction, so I went. Through some pleasant rice and cattle fields
with easy-looking homes and hammocks all along I drove. I maintained my distance, no time to
break the string of solitudity. Then before I knew it..I was at THE BEACH! Odd, that first view of
Playa La Barqueta. On the right, a high security, gated and guarded resort for CIA, FBI, DEA,
DUI, AFU, FTA, all under the psuedonomically named auspices of The Turtle Project. They
pointed me the opposite direction, where I found two local bars, restaurants and cabanas on the
beach. None had air-conditioning, which nixed the deal for me, being hot and tired and all. I had
a beer and moved on to the last resort, which was Los Olas. I moved in and never looked back.
I had the second room ground floor from the pool and bar. I wondered who had the first one.
Then I spotted him out in the surf. I hoped he’d float away so I could have his room, but he
seemed pretty sturdy and bobbed from one end of the beach to the other as I read my book, fell
asleep in the sun. It was the "off-season" and it seemed at the time we were the only two guests
in residence. Then he returned to his chair, not staying long, only to invade my pool later.
Solitude is not a thing to be shared. He seemed a good enough sort, but I saw no point in his
existence and I suspected the importance of mine was lost on him. We nodded in semi-numerous
passings, yet offered no happy greetings or salutations. I drank Margaritas from the poolside bar,
and took them off to my various locales. Had a sauna, and wallowed in my element. It was good.
The ride home in the morning was lovely, and a breeze, by way of McDonald's in David. I tried
the new breakfast meal there, Muy Bueno Huevos Grande, or something, and it was good.
It was nice coming back to Costa Rica knowing I had done my full 72 hours out of the country and
didn’t have to give anyone a wink or a tip for stamping me back in. I was goin home, yeah, and
that’s always a good feeling if you like your home.
I take back some of the bad things I said about Panama in previous, recent Jungle Journals. I
guess I'm just a homebody of late and if I have to leave it irks me. Then Panama goes all NAZI
anti-smoking league on me and what am supposed to do? Write happy shit?
Tom..out.
By Thomas Scott Daly
I don’t have to be alone, you know. I do have my opportunities.
I asked a beautiful young Costa Rican girl to marry me while in line at the border. She declined,
but seemed to enjoy being asked. Said she had always hoped for something a little more
romantic (the question was popped in regards to citizenship or something). I told her I was in a
hurry cause I knew she would go away soon. I knew that because I wasn’t serious, she was too
good for me, and was next at the window. We had a good conversation waiting to get into
Panama and she was a delight on the eyes and the ears. Twenty-One years old. I almost
remember being that old. When I looked into her eyes I felt like a man for a minute there, not a
sixty year old man. It was good. Then she walked away, smiling, saying nice things. I hope she
has a great life.
It was a good trip to Panama for a change. I decided it would be and it was. Sometimes all you
have to do is quit being an asshole. Not so easy after you get used to being one. I hate when I’m
not being one and people treat me like one anyhow, which makes me turn it up a notch just so
they can be sure. Generally I find it easiest to just be alone a lot. I’m not the only asshole out
there you know.
The ride up to Boquete was beautiful and so was the town. I spent one night in David and went
to a movie the first night. Trying to think of what the movie was; guess it’s not important. Boquete
was the second day. While cresting the hill in my little blue car and rolling down into the valley,
seeing the town and the mountains and the river all spread out there picturesque-like I was sure
the place had potential to be my final resting spot. It seems every time I find one of those final
resting spots I live longer than I expected, become disgruntled with my current situation, or get
evicted. Perfection in life seems illusive.
Without hesitation, I homed in on the local bar of great fame and notorious notability for being the
“expat” hangout in Boquete, Amigos. I needed answers, and fast. This seemed like the place to
get em, from what I’d read. Stu was there and Lorraina was waitressing. I told her her brother
Joe, from Pasa Canoa (my friendly border expediter) said to say “HI!”. She said, “Joel?” I wanted
to argue with her, but figured she must know her brother’s name better than I do. Anyhow, she
was nice and I had some great eggs and bacon. Stu pointed me towards The Oasis Hotel for the
night, and offered many opinions, comments, reminiscences, observations, thoughtful
reservations regarding numerous things, and insights into local goings-on. I felt like an instant
insider. I was ready to take on the town!
The Oasis Hotel, was without question, a very nice location and establishment. It took me awhile
to rustle up someone to check me in and so forth, but after being there a night I noticed that was
because where you drive in to check in is not where the actual office is. I got to meet a few of the
other staff members while waiting for the manager to get the word I had arrived at their door. I
had hoped for a reasonably-priced single room with a view. Not. I chose the upper-lower with the
two balconies over-looking the river, the valley, the town and the smokestack from the restaurant.
Talked her down to the price of the other two upper-lowers, one of which I wish I had moved into,
cause the smoke from the fire place below fucked up my whole open-window, balcony happiness
as I attempted to languish with great satisfaction and smug security there in my barco-lounger
and 36 inch flat screen, with great, cool, mountain air, sound of the river making me feel at
home. It was a nice room, but if the wind always blows the direction it did that night, it’s for
suckers, baby. Avoid that room.
I returned to Amigos after running amok around the hills and the town a bit. Stu was still there,
holding forth. Some new people rolled in, working barwards, into the night. Rain kept everyone
close to the bar and under the eves. I was becoming a bit weary when three lovely women (20’s-
30’s something’s) on a mission pressed upon us with great illustriousness of dress and
importance of purpose, striding into Amigos offering, nay, extolling, that there was a ticket to be
had to the night's big affair, The Mystery Dinner Theater. I’d heard all about it from multiple
sources through my travels, including the director hiself while I was at Bistro Boquete, briefly,
and had decided it wasn’t for me. Now they were standing right in front of me to a point it
seemed, yet offering this ticket to anyone. Earlier as they first arrived there were many
introductions, all across myself as if I wasn’t there but hard to ignore at the same time. Finally I
piped up, “I’m Tom!”, and felt as if it was taken pretty well. Then as they persisted offering this
“extra” ticket (for 25 instead of the 35 dollar door price one heckler threatened to buy one and
scalp it at the door) I attempted to make myself invisible again. I had decided against going to
that theater thing, and no three good-looking females was going to budge me. I softened,
considered a bit, shored up resolve, shrank some, became a non-entity. No one took the ticket.
They went into the bar.
Stu had left, and I was talking with a couple of local tour-guides that spoke pretty good English.
Nice guys. I was losing any impetus I may have had earlier regarding a night on the town. The
three nice looking 20-30 something’s left the bar heading off I presume to the Mystery Dinner
Theater. The one I liked the most said, “Bye Tom” as she walked by. It had a nice sound to it,
and still rings in my ear.
It gets easier the more I do it, pass on social invitations, but I may have fucked up on that one on
numerous levels new even to me.
I spent the night with a dinner at the hotel I didn’t really like, then the smoke filled the room and I
had to close the windows which I was enjoying being open except for the smoke. I drank some
rum, went to sleep, had Eggs Benedict at La Crepes in the morning and hit the road for the
beach and the bookstore on the road and the hope of some adventure. Something more
solitidinous seemed a better fit. I’ve been a bit reclusive of late and sorta like it that way.
The bookstore, The BOOK MARKER, jumped into my vision as I putted along downhill towards
David, Panama. I slammed on the brakes and managed to back up without major catastrophe
into the parking lot in front. I liked the place at first glance; then as I looked into one window then
the next it seemed if I wanted books, this was the place to be. I strolled in and worked my way
towards the back as I surveyed the multiple rooms and attempted to make sense of where what I
might want might possibly be. I saw an old fart with a hearing aid putting away books in yet
another secret room. I figured I’d just ask him. “Hi. Do you have any Jim Thompson?” I said. He
adjusted the hearing aid and after a few renditions of the original question, it became clear I had
won at STUMP THE BOOK SELLER! It wasn’t intentional; I just wanted some Jim Thompson
books. His younger assistant hadn’t heard of him either so I shifted seamlessly to Hunter S.
Thompson, which they had heard of, and had plenty of, along with Jack Kerouac and surely many
authors I’ve admired and not. In this part of the world a bookstore like this is not an easy find. It’s
a gem. It will be part of my future travel itineraries. The old guy was at my side throughout after
making him feel ignorant via Jim Thompson, not something I had planned, but someone he
oughta have heard of, I think. I asked for a little consideration for buying seven books while at the
check-out and the younger guy offered that they always tried to be “fair”. I replied
enthusiastically, "That's all I ever hope for." He puzzled over how much he could discount the
books when the old guy went apoplectic. “These are Hunter S. Thompsons, and Jack
Kerouacs, not some fucking Daniel Steeles! I barely make any money at the sticker
prices!” and on and on and on…I finally interjected from the side of my mouth to the young guy,
“I’m just trying to buy some of his books here, not pull off an armed robbery!” He laughed and the
old guy simmered down then when we settled on a price roughly two dollars more than the total of
all of em added up, he was my friend again and talked my ear off till I managed a getaway, at a
lope, to the car.
The beach was there, somewhere, I knew it. A sign in David saying, “Las Olas Resort”, Playa La
Barqueta, seemed in the right direction, so I went. Through some pleasant rice and cattle fields
with easy-looking homes and hammocks all along I drove. I maintained my distance, no time to
break the string of solitudity. Then before I knew it..I was at THE BEACH! Odd, that first view of
Playa La Barqueta. On the right, a high security, gated and guarded resort for CIA, FBI, DEA,
DUI, AFU, FTA, all under the psuedonomically named auspices of The Turtle Project. They
pointed me the opposite direction, where I found two local bars, restaurants and cabanas on the
beach. None had air-conditioning, which nixed the deal for me, being hot and tired and all. I had
a beer and moved on to the last resort, which was Los Olas. I moved in and never looked back.
I had the second room ground floor from the pool and bar. I wondered who had the first one.
Then I spotted him out in the surf. I hoped he’d float away so I could have his room, but he
seemed pretty sturdy and bobbed from one end of the beach to the other as I read my book, fell
asleep in the sun. It was the "off-season" and it seemed at the time we were the only two guests
in residence. Then he returned to his chair, not staying long, only to invade my pool later.
Solitude is not a thing to be shared. He seemed a good enough sort, but I saw no point in his
existence and I suspected the importance of mine was lost on him. We nodded in semi-numerous
passings, yet offered no happy greetings or salutations. I drank Margaritas from the poolside bar,
and took them off to my various locales. Had a sauna, and wallowed in my element. It was good.
The ride home in the morning was lovely, and a breeze, by way of McDonald's in David. I tried
the new breakfast meal there, Muy Bueno Huevos Grande, or something, and it was good.
It was nice coming back to Costa Rica knowing I had done my full 72 hours out of the country and
didn’t have to give anyone a wink or a tip for stamping me back in. I was goin home, yeah, and
that’s always a good feeling if you like your home.
I take back some of the bad things I said about Panama in previous, recent Jungle Journals. I
guess I'm just a homebody of late and if I have to leave it irks me. Then Panama goes all NAZI
anti-smoking league on me and what am supposed to do? Write happy shit?
Tom..out.
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