From the Dinosaur Hotel to the Temple of Literature
In San Jose, California, at gate 15 waiting for my flight to Tokyo. Madison and Morgan very kindly gave me a 4am lift to the airport. It was very sad to be leaving them although we have done so much since I first arrived from Mexico City. Looking down from the window of the plane I was once again amazed by the seemingly endless forested ridges and mountains, some of the higher ones showing bare rock and small patches of snow above the tree line. Down towards the coast stretched low banks of cloud barely indistinguishable from the sea in the far distance. The short two hour flight with Alaska Airlines was the most comfortable yet; it as easy to get through passport control and security, I had a comfortable seat and plenty of leg room. If only all my flights were like that. I crossed the Pacific to Tokyo on Zip, the budget version of Japan, Airlines. It was a comfortable flight, but like most budget airlines, nothing came free. On arrival at Narita airport I had hoped to be able to get a train to near my hotel, but the tickets were so complicated that I ended up waiting two hours and got a bus.I was surprised by the heat and humidity outside the airport and in minutes I was absolutely soaking with sweat. It was easier than I expected to find the Henn Na hotel, it was about fifteen storeys high. Henn Na is a chain of high tech hotels with simple well designed basic rooms. This one had two dinosaurs running the front desk!
Really the dinosaurs just moved and repeated instructions in Japanese and English telling you how to operate the check in touch pad.
I found a small restaurant nearby that seemed mostly frequented by students and had a delicious meal meal and cold beer which I ordered by pointing. I made the faux pas of using the wrong bowl for my rice, but apart from that all seemed to go well.
Yesterday I decided to go and check my next stay which is in a capsule in a bookshop. I’m very glad I did this rather than trying to go to a museum or something else as Google Maps directed me to a branch that was closed some time ago. I have found the Tokyo transport system, very difficult and confusing, so I made plenty of mistakes and often had to ask for help, thankfully everyone was very kind and helpful.
Bed and Books was on the eighth floor of and apartment building and by the time I arrived I was drenched in sweat. I made the mistake of ordering a black ice cream and a cup of coffee. The coffee was fine but the ice cream stained my face and hands and was removed with difficulty to the amusement of the staff. By the time I returned to Henn Na I was exhausted and after a cold beer in my room I did not feel like eating so simply fell asleep.
The following day after I’d checked out I decided to visit the Modern Art Gallery before heading to Shinjuku and my capsule at Book and Bed. The gallery was only a few stops along the line and I am a little better at using the system though I’m a very long way from understanding it.
I approached the gallery by walking through a long narrow park split in half by a highway and wide canal crossed by a pedestrian bridge. As soon as I stepped into the park I was hit by the deafening sound of cicadas. It took me a moment or two to realise they were cicadas and it was not just the noise coming from nearby roadworks. The day was overcast and dark clouds were steadily building up. The heat and humidity of the Tokyo heatwave meant that after only a few steps I was already drenched in sweat and water poured off me as though I was standing under a shower. Because I was moving to another hotel as well as carrying my bag was wearing the travel shirt and gilet that Ashwini had given me via.Liz; clothes suitable for the heat of India but still too much for this heat. When I arrived at the gallery the main exhibition was a David Hockney retrospective! The biggest ever shown in Asia. I have never been a huge fan of Hockney but I came away impressed by his extraordinary talent and continuing capacity for innovation. While I was in the gallery the storm broke, lightening flashed, thunder crashed and rain hammered down outside, but luckily it was all over in less than an hour.
After the usual problems with the trains I arrived in Shinjuku, an area of skyscrapers and narrow alleys, some quite sleazy but unthreatening like Soho is now. But this being Japan all is clean and safe; I have only seen one person sleeping on the street.
If you did not look up you could easily miss Book and Bed; it is on the ninth floor of a block and the sign for it is among all the others businesses in the block, high up on the side of the wall. To enter the block there are ordinary lift doors at street level, you enter and press a button. Book and Bed is divided into two, you enter a small cafe bar area open to the public but beyond that is the sleeping area which is only for guests with a key code. At first glance the dormitory, for that’s what it is, looks just like a bookshop, high bookshelves dotted with black squares, and books mainly in Japanese but some in English and other languages, an open seated area for reading and a stepped wooden slope with books on three sides. Look closer and you will notice that nearly all the books are on art and a good proportion are actually magazines. No ‘ Where is your section on railways?’ here. The books are not for buying, they are for the guests to read or rather browse, I have noticed very few people reading. Most pick up a book skim through it for a minute or two and then move on to another. The black squares on the shelves are in fact curtains concealing a narrow wooden box which is to be your bed. Inside the box is a mattress, sheets, pillows and coverlet. There is a power socket and a light switch but nothing else. To reach the upper beds there are short ladders set into the shelves. Not for claustrophobics but I found it very comfortable nevertheless. The communal toilets and showers showers are in a separate area; that worried me but I did not want to miss the chance to stay here and so far it has not been a problem.
The other guests are mostly young as you might expect and the majority are girls; slim, elegant and stylish everyone. I am reminded of the beautiful Chinese fox spirits in the stories of Pu Sungling but I will never be lucky enough to die in the arms of a fox. But like the world of illusion in Pu Sungling this place is a fake! It is a place to pose and spread the tailfeathers of your intellect without flapping your wings. It is all lookatmehowcoolitisthatilovebooks and little more.
I should hate it but I love it.
Bring on the foxes.
In San Jose, California, at gate 15 waiting for my flight to Tokyo. Madison and Morgan very kindly gave me a 4am lift to the airport. It was very sad to be leaving them although we have done so much since I first arrived from Mexico City. Looking down from the window of the plane I was once again amazed by the seemingly endless forested ridges and mountains, some of the higher ones showing bare rock and small patches of snow above the tree line. Down towards the coast stretched low banks of cloud barely indistinguishable from the sea in the far distance. The short two hour flight with Alaska Airlines was the most comfortable yet; it as easy to get through passport control and security, I had a comfortable seat and plenty of leg room. If only all my flights were like that. I crossed the Pacific to Tokyo on Zip, the budget version of Japan, Airlines. It was a comfortable flight, but like most budget airlines, nothing came free. On arrival at Narita airport I had hoped to be able to get a train to near my hotel, but the tickets were so complicated that I ended up waiting two hours and got a bus.I was surprised by the heat and humidity outside the airport and in minutes I was absolutely soaking with sweat. It was easier than I expected to find the Henn Na hotel, it was about fifteen storeys high. Henn Na is a chain of high tech hotels with simple well designed basic rooms. This one had two dinosaurs running the front desk!
Really the dinosaurs just moved and repeated instructions in Japanese and English telling you how to operate the check in touch pad.
I found a small restaurant nearby that seemed mostly frequented by students and had a delicious meal meal and cold beer which I ordered by pointing. I made the faux pas of using the wrong bowl for my rice, but apart from that all seemed to go well.
Yesterday I decided to go and check my next stay which is in a capsule in a bookshop. I’m very glad I did this rather than trying to go to a museum or something else as Google Maps directed me to a branch that was closed some time ago. I have found the Tokyo transport system, very difficult and confusing, so I made plenty of mistakes and often had to ask for help, thankfully everyone was very kind and helpful.
Bed and Books was on the eighth floor of and apartment building and by the time I arrived I was drenched in sweat. I made the mistake of ordering a black ice cream and a cup of coffee. The coffee was fine but the ice cream stained my face and hands and was removed with difficulty to the amusement of the staff. By the time I returned to Henn Na I was exhausted and after a cold beer in my room I did not feel like eating so simply fell asleep.
The following day after I’d checked out I decided to visit the Modern Art Gallery before heading to Shinjuku and my capsule at Book and Bed. The gallery was only a few stops along the line and I am a little better at using the system though I’m a very long way from understanding it.
I approached the gallery by walking through a long narrow park split in half by a highway and wide canal crossed by a pedestrian bridge. As soon as I stepped into the park I was hit by the deafening sound of cicadas. It took me a moment or two to realise they were cicadas and it was not just the noise coming from nearby roadworks. The day was overcast and dark clouds were steadily building up. The heat and humidity of the Tokyo heatwave meant that after only a few steps I was already drenched in sweat and water poured off me as though I was standing under a shower. Because I was moving to another hotel as well as carrying my bag was wearing the travel shirt and gilet that Ashwini had given me via.Liz; clothes suitable for the heat of India but still too much for this heat. When I arrived at the gallery the main exhibition was a David Hockney retrospective! The biggest ever shown in Asia. I have never been a huge fan of Hockney but I came away impressed by his extraordinary talent and continuing capacity for innovation. While I was in the gallery the storm broke, lightening flashed, thunder crashed and rain hammered down outside, but luckily it was all over in less than an hour.
After the usual problems with the trains I arrived in Shinjuku, an area of skyscrapers and narrow alleys, some quite sleazy but unthreatening like Soho is now. But this being Japan all is clean and safe; I have only seen one person sleeping on the street.
If you did not look up you could easily miss Book and Bed; it is on the ninth floor of a block and the sign for it is among all the others businesses in the block, high up on the side of the wall. To enter the block there are ordinary lift doors at street level, you enter and press a button. Book and Bed is divided into two, you enter a small cafe bar area open to the public but beyond that is the sleeping area which is only for guests with a key code. At first glance the dormitory, for that’s what it is, looks just like a bookshop, high bookshelves dotted with black squares, and books mainly in Japanese but some in English and other languages, an open seated area for reading and a stepped wooden slope with books on three sides. Look closer and you will notice that nearly all the books are on art and a good proportion are actually magazines. No ‘ Where is your section on railways?’ here. The books are not for buying, they are for the guests to read or rather browse, I have noticed very few people reading. Most pick up a book skim through it for a minute or two and then move on to another. The black squares on the shelves are in fact curtains concealing a narrow wooden box which is to be your bed. Inside the box is a mattress, sheets, pillows and coverlet. There is a power socket and a light switch but nothing else. To reach the upper beds there are short ladders set into the shelves. Not for claustrophobics but I found it very comfortable nevertheless. The communal toilets and showers showers are in a separate area; that worried me but I did not want to miss the chance to stay here and so far it has not been a problem.
The other guests are mostly young as you might expect and the majority are girls; slim, elegant and stylish everyone. I am reminded of the beautiful Chinese fox spirits in the stories of Pu Sungling but I will never be lucky enough to die in the arms of a fox. But like the world of illusion in Pu Sungling this place is a fake! It is a place to pose and spread the tailfeathers of your intellect without flapping your wings. It is all lookatmehowcoolitisthatilovebooks and little more.
I should hate it but I love it.
Bring on the foxes.
In The Abditory
My flight from Tokyo to Hanoi, what is smooth and efficient, except for the padded seats, rather uncomfortable, and the day later still feel a bit sore. Hanoi airport was not huge and I was able to use Grab, the Asian Uber, to get a ride to my Air B&B and the car arrived just as it started to rain. Vietnam was on the edge of the cyclone that had been battering China and Taiwan. my room was a short distance down a dark and narrow alleyway and the keys were waiting for me in a key box beside the entrance. On opening the door, I entered one of the most delightful rooms I have stayed in. Linnie Phung, my host, had furnished it with impeccable taste and it was cool, clean and comfortable. There was a kettle, tea and coffee, and Pot Noodles is waiting to be used. If there is a disadvantage, then the only one is the fact that the bathroom is just across the alley from the door into my room, a bathroom spotlessly clean and well equipped.Ihave not met Linnie, we have only talked by message but she immediately replied to my questions and sent me a clear and detailed list of places to visit, eat and do shopping. I rested for an hour or two before taking my clothes to the laundry and learning as I had once had to do in Jogjakarta how to step boldly out into the never ending stream of motorbikes and cars and let them swirl by you as you cross the street. I had bought a local Sim card so that I could use Google Maps to find my way around Hanoi and I set out with some confidence that evening to find the place that Linnie said made the best Pho in town. I set out on foot and was only a stones throw from reaching my destination when the battery on my phone was getting dangerously low, and I was forced to turn back. It was not raining, but the humidity was over 80% and after any movement I was soaked in sweat. Now I use Grab even for short journeys. There is a 711 shop just up the road and I bought beer and coffee for my tea and had one of the pot noodles. Following day it rained continuously and I was in no hurry to get up. I thought I would try the local Baker as I remember having a very good French bread in Saigon, I bought myself a croissant and pan au raisin, but sadly they were only up to UK supermarket level. Later, I decided to brave the rain and go to the Temple of Literature, a Confucian ‘university’, and one of the oldest buildings in Hanoi. I took a car as it was a long distance and still raining. The temple was sent out Chinese style with three linked courtyards, the final one being the largest and which housed Confucian statues and a square for ceremonies. A beautiful and tranquil place despite the crowds. After returning to my room and taking a shower and picking up my laundry, I walked over to see the pagoda on the Westlake, it was closed but I got a beautiful view nevertheless. Later on, I made my second attempt to reach the restaurant I tried to get to the night before, and this time I took a car. The word restaurant in this case is a misnomer, it was a roadside stall with tiny nursery size plastic chairs and tables. The Pho however lived up to Linnie’s recommendation.
I returnedto my room, bought a can of beer and can of coffee from the 7-Eleven and drink the beer and smoke a cigarette, sitting on my doorstep. Interestingly the can of coffee was a brand called Mr Brown. Mr Brown comes from Taiwan, and you can visit the estates up in the hills. It was a place I was thinking of going to when I was planning this trip and has an interesting history although I forgotten almost everything about it now, but I did recognise the logo which is a picture of a smiling Mr Brown. While I was at the Temple of Lit I also tasted the deliciously sweet Vietnamese egg coffee!
It has rained all night and now at 8.45 on my last day in Hanoi I am writing this and wondering what I can do on this very rainy day.
An abditory is a secret place for concealing valuables. It was the name that made me choose this I decided to go to the four o’clock showing of the Hanoi Water Puppet Theatre and see the Ngok Son temple on a small lake island connected to the shore by an elegant red wooden bridge. One of Hanoi’s famous sites.
The puppet show was a series of short sketches based on watery folk tales and performed in a square tank in front of a red temple like proscenium arch. Somehow the puppets, people, dragons, boats and fish were manipulated using long rods beneath the water. On either side of the tank was a small orchestra. The whole show was delightful and extraordinary.
For my last meal in Hanoi I went to a special fish restaurant selling cha ca. the best is made with special carp but that is now rare so my fish were hermibagrus and snakehead cooked on the table with herbs and silk noodles. Earlier in the day I had tried the famous Vietnamese egg coffee; a sweet coffee flavoured egg custard. More of a pudding than a drink.
I left early the next day and am now stuck in KL airport waiting for my delayed connection to Padang. Over two hours late.
Patrick
I arrived at the Casa Azul in San Jose around midnight around several cancellations and delays to my flight. I’d chosen Casa Azul because it had very good reviews which never failed to say how helpful the owner Jeremy had been. I wanted a guesthouse where the host spoke English and could help me plan the rest of my trip through Costa Rica. Casa Azul lay down a track that ran alongside the railway in the centre of the city. It was one of a block of two storey concrete buildings guarded by high green metal fences and securely locked gates. I banged on the steel gate for a minute or two before Jeremy came to unlock it. He was a tall gaunt man with short grey hair and he spoke English with a distinct German accent. Before showing me to my room he made a point of telling me that if I had arrived just a minute later he would not have answered the door as he was about to lock up completely and go to bed. He took my passport and wrote down the details before showing me to my room. He did not speak except to give me necessary information. My name is Patrick. Follow me. May I have your passport? He did not ask me why I had arrived so late or how the journey was, I had to telling myself that the planes been delayed for over four hours. There was no offer of a cup of tea or coffee or anything to eat. When I asked if there were any restaurant still open nearby, he answered with a simple, no. I asked if he had any tea making equipment I could use. Again, the answer was no. Finally, I asked if the water from the tap was drinkable, and this time he replied, with a yes. If it had not been so late and I had not been so tired I would have moved to another hotel but for now all I could do was accept inhospitable welcome and hope the room was clean and cool. As he let me upstairs to show me the room, Patrick put a finger to his lips and whispered that we should be very quiet in case we disturbed the other guests at this late hour at night.
Patrick insisted on demonstrating the toilet; it was one of those with a press and hold split button to flush. He seemed a little irritated at my lack of interest. You hold it like this. Are you looking? The room and shower were clean, though very basic, just a small bar of soap and place for you to hang your clothes. There was no air-conditioning and the cord on the fan above the bed was broken. which meant you had to stand on the bed to start the fan. But I didn’t care all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
I only got about four hours of sleep until I was woken up by what I thought was the noise outside on the track or railway. It was the voice of a woman half singing half chanting, A sobbing monotonous mewl yet still solemn and at root a supplication for something desperately needed. I had difficulty telling if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. A man chanting in a high pitched wail or a woman with a low contralto voice like Kathleen Ferrier singing Che Faro Senza Euridice. There was also in the chanting something of the desperate yearning which that aria captures so well. I listened a while and decided it was a man’s voice anthem got out of bed and went to the window. Outside, everything was still and empty. Under the light of a bright tropical moon I clearly see the track and the railway lines. Nothing moved. There was nobody on the track or the small platform next to the railway. Not even a dog trotted by or a rat skuttled past. The sound was coming from inside the guest house. I speak a little Spanish and tried to see if I could pick out any words but the chanting seemed to be in no language I recognised. After Jeremy’s admonition about not making any noise that might disturb the guests I became untypically angry and was about to get dressed and go to find and confront him when the chanting stopped. It was replace with a kind metallic grating screech; there the sound a metal cabinet might make if dragging across a marble floor. The grating sound stoped and was was another moment’s silence followed by a damp slapping sound like that of a fish being slapped down on a slab before it is decapitated and degutted. Then an explosion of high pitched laugher. Laughter so obscene and terrifying that I shuddered and sat down heavily on the bed. The laughter seemed to go on and on but in fact probably lasted less that thirty seconds. Then there was silence. All thoughts of going to search for Jeremy had vanished. I strained my ears on the chance of hearing the slightest sound; there was none, either from inside or outside the building. Everything was still and quiet. Not even a breath of wind stirred the hibiscus outside my window. Despite the fan the heat in my room was stifling, yet I sat on my bed and shivered. After I lay down I got few fitful hours sleep before being wakened by the bright sunlight that streamed into the room.
My booking included breakfast but I was determined to get out as soon as I could after paying my bill. I would find a nearby cafe or panaderia: most of all I needed plenty of strong coffee. But when I went down stairs I was greeted by Jeremy who immediately led me into an adjoining room furnished with four small tables covered with green plastic table cloths. I started to say something about paying my bill but Jeremy cut in and said, ‘Not now. After breakfast. Sit down I’ll get you a coffee.’ I seemed to have no other choice, so I sat down.
Jeremy returned carrying a tray with a jug of coffee and two cups. He sat down opposite me and poured the coffee.
‘Breakfast will be along soon,’ he said, ‘How was your room?’
‘My room was fine.’ I replied ‘But I was woken up at about four am by some strange noises.’
‘Oh really? That will have been the drunks who sometimes sleep on the railway platform opposite. We’ve asked them several times to make less noise or move on but it makes no difference. There’s nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry they disturbed your sleep.’ It was clear from the nervous movements of his hands and the way he avoided my gaze that he was lying.
I had become intrigued, this Jeremy seemed very different to the morose laconic man of last night. In fact I sensed he was eager to talk.
‘How long have you had Casa Azul,’ I asked.
‘Over eight years now. I come from the town of Templin in Germany. You won’t of heard of it. It’s a little place north of Berlin. I came to Costa Rica when I was twenty eight years old. It was so totally different everything you can think about Germany and I fell in love with it. I kept coming back every year when I took my annual holiday. I worked in a bank and hated it. I met a Costa Rican girl and we got married. I didn’t want to take her back to Germany. I don’t think we would have been happy with it, so we decided to open a guest house for tourists. Tourism was becoming big in Costa Rica. My parents had left me a little money and I had some saved, it was enough to set up this place.’
’And you’ve never regretted your decision?’
He started to answer, but changed his mind, and instead refilled our coffee cups before replying.
‘No, I have never regretted my decision.’
Once again, everything about his body language, and his tone of voice suggested to me that he was lying. I decided to probe a little.
‘And has business been good? It must’ve been rather hard during the Covid pandemic.’
‘Yet, those were difficult years. Very difficult. But we found ways to survive and end the business goes on. The tourists have started to come back and we get business travellers and students too. Yes, business is very good.’
The breakfast room was completely empty and I had not seen a sign of another guest since I woke up that morning. There was nothing about the place to suggest the business was good, quite the opposite. I realised that Patrick was attempting to dispel the fact that Casa Azul had failed. His dream had ended in nothing but disappointment and debt, but by talking to me and telling me of his success he was able recapture for a minute some of the feelings of optimism and ambition he and his wife had when they first opened the guest house.’
‘We have plans to open another place up in Montiverde. That’s becoming very popular right now.’
Plans he might have, but I suspected that that’s all they were, just plans. I heard a door open and the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor. A woman entered the breakfast room carrying a tray. Behind her trotted a dog. A large white poodle it’s fur clipped in pom-poms. It wore a pink faux diamond collar and its topknot of white fur was tied with a pink bow. It was not a young dog, its eyes were filled with rheum and it walked unsteadily. Something about the dog disgusted me. It reminded me of those grotesque adults who continue to dress as the children they were in their teens right into their old age.
The woman seemed a little older than Patrick. Her hair was tightly tied back and flecked with grey. Her skin was creased around her deep set eyes. Beneath heavy lids was the glint of obsidian. Her nose was elegantly curved and followed the line of her forehead down to her closed lips.
As she placed the tray on the table I thought I caught just the slightest trace of a smile. She said nothing. Not even an acknowledgement. Ola or Buenos Dias.
She placed the tray on the table and left, followed by the dog.
As soon as he had heard the approaching footsteps Patrick had stiffened; I noticed his fingers gripping the arm of his chair. After the woman had left, Patrick pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘I must go now. Can you pay in cash please. Our card machine is not working.’
He picked up his cup. His hand shook and it rattled on the saucer.
’ i’ll see you later,’ he said, and left me to eat my breakfast.
The breakfast was a few slices of pineapple, melon and mango and a plain omelette. Inside, the omelette was a small piece of pinkish meat. I left the meat and ate the rest
Later, when I packed and came to pay my bill, Patrick seemed more composed, and more like the morose Patrick I encountered when I first arrived. The taxi, I’d ordered, pulled up outside and sounded its horn.
I picked up my bags and said goodbye.
‘Goodbye,’ said Patrick without looking up from the ledger where he was entering my
Two years later, I returned to San Jose. And this time I stayed in the modern characterless Central Hotel. Out of curiosity, I went back to Casa Azul. It was not difficult to find the dirt track and the railway line, the high green fences.and locked metal gate, but there was no sign and nothing to suggest it was still a guesthouse. I peered through a grating in the the gate. I could not see much, but everything I could see, suggested the place was empty. The few plants in the yard were shrivelled and dead in their pots. The front door had been left partially open and the glass in the upstairs windows was broken.
Among the rubbish lying in the yard, was a pink sparkling dog collar.
I arrived at the Casa Azul in San Jose around midnight around several cancellations and delays to my flight. I’d chosen Casa Azul because it had very good reviews which never failed to say how helpful the owner Jeremy had been. I wanted a guesthouse where the host spoke English and could help me plan the rest of my trip through Costa Rica. Casa Azul lay down a track that ran alongside the railway in the centre of the city. It was one of a block of two storey concrete buildings guarded by high green metal fences and securely locked gates. I banged on the steel gate for a minute or two before Jeremy came to unlock it. He was a tall gaunt man with short grey hair and he spoke English with a distinct German accent. Before showing me to my room he made a point of telling me that if I had arrived just a minute later he would not have answered the door as he was about to lock up completely and go to bed. He took my passport and wrote down the details before showing me to my room. He did not speak except to give me necessary information. My name is Patrick. Follow me. May I have your passport? He did not ask me why I had arrived so late or how the journey was, I had to telling myself that the planes been delayed for over four hours. There was no offer of a cup of tea or coffee or anything to eat. When I asked if there were any restaurant still open nearby, he answered with a simple, no. I asked if he had any tea making equipment I could use. Again, the answer was no. Finally, I asked if the water from the tap was drinkable, and this time he replied, with a yes. If it had not been so late and I had not been so tired I would have moved to another hotel but for now all I could do was accept inhospitable welcome and hope the room was clean and cool. As he let me upstairs to show me the room, Patrick put a finger to his lips and whispered that we should be very quiet in case we disturbed the other guests at this late hour at night.
Patrick insisted on demonstrating the toilet; it was one of those with a press and hold split button to flush. He seemed a little irritated at my lack of interest. You hold it like this. Are you looking? The room and shower were clean, though very basic, just a small bar of soap and place for you to hang your clothes. There was no air-conditioning and the cord on the fan above the bed was broken. which meant you had to stand on the bed to start the fan. But I didn’t care all I wanted to do was go to sleep.
I only got about four hours of sleep until I was woken up by what I thought was the noise outside on the track or railway. It was the voice of a woman half singing half chanting, A sobbing monotonous mewl yet still solemn and at root a supplication for something desperately needed. I had difficulty telling if the voice belonged to a man or a woman. A man chanting in a high pitched wail or a woman with a low contralto voice like Kathleen Ferrier singing Che Faro Senza Euridice. There was also in the chanting something of the desperate yearning which that aria captures so well. I listened a while and decided it was a man’s voice anthem got out of bed and went to the window. Outside, everything was still and empty. Under the light of a bright tropical moon I clearly see the track and the railway lines. Nothing moved. There was nobody on the track or the small platform next to the railway. Not even a dog trotted by or a rat skuttled past. The sound was coming from inside the guest house. I speak a little Spanish and tried to see if I could pick out any words but the chanting seemed to be in no language I recognised. After Jeremy’s admonition about not making any noise that might disturb the guests I became untypically angry and was about to get dressed and go to find and confront him when the chanting stopped. It was replace with a kind metallic grating screech; there the sound a metal cabinet might make if dragging across a marble floor. The grating sound stoped and was was another moment’s silence followed by a damp slapping sound like that of a fish being slapped down on a slab before it is decapitated and degutted. Then an explosion of high pitched laugher. Laughter so obscene and terrifying that I shuddered and sat down heavily on the bed. The laughter seemed to go on and on but in fact probably lasted less that thirty seconds. Then there was silence. All thoughts of going to search for Jeremy had vanished. I strained my ears on the chance of hearing the slightest sound; there was none, either from inside or outside the building. Everything was still and quiet. Not even a breath of wind stirred the hibiscus outside my window. Despite the fan the heat in my room was stifling, yet I sat on my bed and shivered. After I lay down I got few fitful hours sleep before being wakened by the bright sunlight that streamed into the room.
My booking included breakfast but I was determined to get out as soon as I could after paying my bill. I would find a nearby cafe or panaderia: most of all I needed plenty of strong coffee. But when I went down stairs I was greeted by Jeremy who immediately led me into an adjoining room furnished with four small tables covered with green plastic table cloths. I started to say something about paying my bill but Jeremy cut in and said, ‘Not now. After breakfast. Sit down I’ll get you a coffee.’ I seemed to have no other choice, so I sat down.
Jeremy returned carrying a tray with a jug of coffee and two cups. He sat down opposite me and poured the coffee.
‘Breakfast will be along soon,’ he said, ‘How was your room?’
‘My room was fine.’ I replied ‘But I was woken up at about four am by some strange noises.’
‘Oh really? That will have been the drunks who sometimes sleep on the railway platform opposite. We’ve asked them several times to make less noise or move on but it makes no difference. There’s nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry they disturbed your sleep.’ It was clear from the nervous movements of his hands and the way he avoided my gaze that he was lying.
I had become intrigued, this Jeremy seemed very different to the morose laconic man of last night. In fact I sensed he was eager to talk.
‘How long have you had Casa Azul,’ I asked.
‘Over eight years now. I come from the town of Templin in Germany. You won’t of heard of it. It’s a little place north of Berlin. I came to Costa Rica when I was twenty eight years old. It was so totally different everything you can think about Germany and I fell in love with it. I kept coming back every year when I took my annual holiday. I worked in a bank and hated it. I met a Costa Rican girl and we got married. I didn’t want to take her back to Germany. I don’t think we would have been happy with it, so we decided to open a guest house for tourists. Tourism was becoming big in Costa Rica. My parents had left me a little money and I had some saved, it was enough to set up this place.’
’And you’ve never regretted your decision?’
He started to answer, but changed his mind, and instead refilled our coffee cups before replying.
‘No, I have never regretted my decision.’
Once again, everything about his body language, and his tone of voice suggested to me that he was lying. I decided to probe a little.
‘And has business been good? It must’ve been rather hard during the Covid pandemic.’
‘Yet, those were difficult years. Very difficult. But we found ways to survive and end the business goes on. The tourists have started to come back and we get business travellers and students too. Yes, business is very good.’
The breakfast room was completely empty and I had not seen a sign of another guest since I woke up that morning. There was nothing about the place to suggest the business was good, quite the opposite. I realised that Patrick was attempting to dispel the fact that Casa Azul had failed. His dream had ended in nothing but disappointment and debt, but by talking to me and telling me of his success he was able recapture for a minute some of the feelings of optimism and ambition he and his wife had when they first opened the guest house.’
‘We have plans to open another place up in Montiverde. That’s becoming very popular right now.’
Plans he might have, but I suspected that that’s all they were, just plans. I heard a door open and the sound of footsteps on the tiled floor. A woman entered the breakfast room carrying a tray. Behind her trotted a dog. A large white poodle it’s fur clipped in pom-poms. It wore a pink faux diamond collar and its topknot of white fur was tied with a pink bow. It was not a young dog, its eyes were filled with rheum and it walked unsteadily. Something about the dog disgusted me. It reminded me of those grotesque adults who continue to dress as the children they were in their teens right into their old age.
The woman seemed a little older than Patrick. Her hair was tightly tied back and flecked with grey. Her skin was creased around her deep set eyes. Beneath heavy lids was the glint of obsidian. Her nose was elegantly curved and followed the line of her forehead down to her closed lips.
As she placed the tray on the table I thought I caught just the slightest trace of a smile. She said nothing. Not even an acknowledgement. Ola or Buenos Dias.
She placed the tray on the table and left, followed by the dog.
As soon as he had heard the approaching footsteps Patrick had stiffened; I noticed his fingers gripping the arm of his chair. After the woman had left, Patrick pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘I must go now. Can you pay in cash please. Our card machine is not working.’
He picked up his cup. His hand shook and it rattled on the saucer.
’ i’ll see you later,’ he said, and left me to eat my breakfast.
The breakfast was a few slices of pineapple, melon and mango and a plain omelette. Inside, the omelette was a small piece of pinkish meat. I left the meat and ate the rest
Later, when I packed and came to pay my bill, Patrick seemed more composed, and more like the morose Patrick I encountered when I first arrived. The taxi, I’d ordered, pulled up outside and sounded its horn.
I picked up my bags and said goodbye.
‘Goodbye,’ said Patrick without looking up from the ledger where he was entering my
Two years later, I returned to San Jose. And this time I stayed in the modern characterless Central Hotel. Out of curiosity, I went back to Casa Azul. It was not difficult to find the dirt track and the railway line, the high green fences.and locked metal gate, but there was no sign and nothing to suggest it was still a guesthouse. I peered through a grating in the the gate. I could not see much, but everything I could see, suggested the place was empty. The few plants in the yard were shrivelled and dead in their pots. The front door had been left partially open and the glass in the upstairs windows was broken.
Among the rubbish lying in the yard, was a pink sparkling dog collar.