Sarah at the Arenal Observatory Lodge in her obvious “I am a tourist shirt.” In the background is Lake Arenal. The shirt was actually an excellent conversation starter, as almost everyone was a tourist anyways.

A lizard and the first thing in Costa Rica that was not screamed at by Sarah.

Me and a tree with banana impersonators.

Charlie is the pet wild boar at the Santa Elena Reserve. We have another picture of Charlie and me together, but it was raining and my hair was wet which showed off a retreating hairline, so that one will not be shown.

Sarah and me in front of Lake Arenal. The volcano is not behind us in this picture, but it was so cloudy that day that you wouldn’t have been able to see it anyways.

After eating dinner last night, I carried my glass of wine into the family room to relax on the couch. I expected Greg to join me after clearing the table. A moment later, I heard running water.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Oh, that has got to be a crime.”

“What has got to be a crime?” Greg asked.

“Washing dishes while drinking a glass of wine,” I replied.

“Why is that a crime?” Greg asked.

“How could you possibly enjoy a glass of wine while you’re doing dishes?” I asked, astonished.

“How could I possibly enjoy doing dishes without a glass of wine?” Greg asked.

Point taken.

When Greg and I ordered lunch one day in Santa Elena, Greg told the waiter he wanted a blackberry juice. They have many types of juice in Costa Rica, and the blackberry is especially good. Greg pointed at the menu to be sure the waiter — who spoke some English — understood what he wanted. A few minutes later, the waiter delivered our food to the table, along with a big mug of yellow liquid for Greg. “Umm, blackberry juice?” Greg asked the waiter, indicating the yellow liquid.

“Si!” the waiter said.

The waiter walked away, and Greg sipped his juice.

“This is beer,” Greg said.

“Yes, it looks like beer,” I said. “Why did the waiter say it was blackberry juice? Greg, you should call him back over here. You ordered blackberry juice.”

Greg isn’t much of a beer drinker, and his brew of choice is usually Guinness or some other stout, certainly nothing bright yellow. I desperately wanted to correct the waiter. He needed to know that this drink was not blackberry juice. How could he possibly work as a waiter if he couldn’t see the difference between blackberry juice and beer?

I walked to the front counter, grabbed a menu, and confronted the waiter.

“Blackberry juice?” I asked, pointing to the menu and then to Greg’s drink. The waiter couldn’t see what I was pointing at. We walked back to the table.

“Blackberry juice?” I asked again, louder, as if that would help.

“No!” the waiter said, looking at me as if I were crazy. “Imperial!” (Imperial is the most popular beer in Costa Rica.) The waiter clearly thought I was a cuckoo American. How could I confuse juice with beer?

After a few more crazy looks from the waiter, we dug into our meals. We were in Costa Rica, where things are a little more laid back, where blackberry juice and beer might be considered about the same thing. They’re both liquids, right? Greg drank the “blackberry juice.”