The Laughing Falcon Read Online Free
feeling quite exuberant as she made her way up the aisle to the aircraft door. A whole new country awaited her.
Within minutes, she was proudly examining her first passport stamp. An energetic young woman at the Instituto de Turismo counter helped her change money and make a room reservation – at an inn half-heartedly recommended by her guidebook: “fair value for a short stay.”
Outside, it was like a night in July at home on this high plateau of the Central Valley. But Maggie was disappointed by what she saw during her long taxi ride into the city. San José, even at night, seemed bedraggled, bereft of interesting style or architecture. Where were the strolling musicians, the red-tile roofs, the colonial arcades?
Pensión Paraíso was an unassuming three-storey hostelry above a noisy bar. Upstairs, no one was at the desk to check her in, so she made her way into a sitting room, where five older men were watching television, their eyes glazed with boredom.
“If you’re looking for Louie,” one of them said, “he’s down getting beer.”
Louie finally came huffing up the stairs, laden with several cases of beer; Maggie followed him to a refrigerator down the hall. “You wanted one with a bath? Number twelve, it’s in the back. Beer’s a buck or three hundred colones, you gotta keep track of what you owe.”
“May I see the room?”
He turned to study her. “Oh, you’re a lady.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” It was the short hair.
The room was dreary, but it offered a small table at which she could scribble notes after her intended walk. A quick look revealed no cockroaches, and the linen was fresh. She could hear the thrum of music from below: the Lone Star Bar.
Eleven o’clock did not seem too late for a walkabout; San José was open for business on a Saturday night, and so were the women she had seen patrolling the street below. Maggie had not thought prostitution would be so overt. She threw her bags on the bed, and washed and touched her face up.
Once on the street, she paused to look in at the Western-style bar, full of middle-aged men exercising their elbows. These gringos did not seem typical tourists. Maybe there was a convention in town: the American Association of Mattress Vendors.
Next to the Lone Star was a noisy, smoky bistro also filled with men, but locals: Latins, rather short. The women, she assumed, were home with the children. She’d read they were called Ticos and Ticas, which made them sound like munchkins.
“Change dollars?” She avoided the sharp-eyed man who was riffling a fistful of notes at her.
Ungainly at the best of times, Maggie found the sidewalk an obstacle course, its unevenness camouflaged by litter. A diesel bus grunted past, spewing a toxic cloud. So this was Costa Rica, the fabled eco-tourist paradise — maybe her mother was right, maybe coming here was a mistake.
A soft rain had begun to fall. She returned to her hotel, and tried to write but felt stalled; Fiona’s quest seemed petty in comparison to …
What they don’t want you to know about the lost civilizations
… The vanished city of the Mayans? Dr. Fiona Wardell, the noted archaeologist, has come upon an ancient map of an unexplored vastness. There, bedecked in tangles of lianas, lay the lost pyramids of Itzmixtouan.
She mulled over the concept, but was distracted by grunts and squeaking bedsprings coming from the next room.
–3–
In the morning, Maggie found her way to the Eco-Rico offices. Taped to a locked glass door was a typed notice: “The orientation talk for Sunday, December 14, at two p.m., has been cancelled. Costa Rica Eco-Rico Tours S.A. regrets any inconvenience.”
“Oh, fart,” she said under her breath. If they had closed for the weekend, how was she to find her way to their wilderness camp tomorrow? She had vouchers; she had paid a thousand dollars for them.
She saw someone moving within, a secretary. She rapped on the door, and the woman, a young Tica, unlocked
Within minutes, she was proudly examining her first passport stamp. An energetic young woman at the Instituto de Turismo counter helped her change money and make a room reservation – at an inn half-heartedly recommended by her guidebook: “fair value for a short stay.”
Outside, it was like a night in July at home on this high plateau of the Central Valley. But Maggie was disappointed by what she saw during her long taxi ride into the city. San José, even at night, seemed bedraggled, bereft of interesting style or architecture. Where were the strolling musicians, the red-tile roofs, the colonial arcades?
Pensión Paraíso was an unassuming three-storey hostelry above a noisy bar. Upstairs, no one was at the desk to check her in, so she made her way into a sitting room, where five older men were watching television, their eyes glazed with boredom.
“If you’re looking for Louie,” one of them said, “he’s down getting beer.”
Louie finally came huffing up the stairs, laden with several cases of beer; Maggie followed him to a refrigerator down the hall. “You wanted one with a bath? Number twelve, it’s in the back. Beer’s a buck or three hundred colones, you gotta keep track of what you owe.”
“May I see the room?”
He turned to study her. “Oh, you’re a lady.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” It was the short hair.
The room was dreary, but it offered a small table at which she could scribble notes after her intended walk. A quick look revealed no cockroaches, and the linen was fresh. She could hear the thrum of music from below: the Lone Star Bar.
Eleven o’clock did not seem too late for a walkabout; San José was open for business on a Saturday night, and so were the women she had seen patrolling the street below. Maggie had not thought prostitution would be so overt. She threw her bags on the bed, and washed and touched her face up.
Once on the street, she paused to look in at the Western-style bar, full of middle-aged men exercising their elbows. These gringos did not seem typical tourists. Maybe there was a convention in town: the American Association of Mattress Vendors.
Next to the Lone Star was a noisy, smoky bistro also filled with men, but locals: Latins, rather short. The women, she assumed, were home with the children. She’d read they were called Ticos and Ticas, which made them sound like munchkins.
“Change dollars?” She avoided the sharp-eyed man who was riffling a fistful of notes at her.
Ungainly at the best of times, Maggie found the sidewalk an obstacle course, its unevenness camouflaged by litter. A diesel bus grunted past, spewing a toxic cloud. So this was Costa Rica, the fabled eco-tourist paradise — maybe her mother was right, maybe coming here was a mistake.
A soft rain had begun to fall. She returned to her hotel, and tried to write but felt stalled; Fiona’s quest seemed petty in comparison to …
What they don’t want you to know about the lost civilizations
… The vanished city of the Mayans? Dr. Fiona Wardell, the noted archaeologist, has come upon an ancient map of an unexplored vastness. There, bedecked in tangles of lianas, lay the lost pyramids of Itzmixtouan.
She mulled over the concept, but was distracted by grunts and squeaking bedsprings coming from the next room.
–3–
In the morning, Maggie found her way to the Eco-Rico offices. Taped to a locked glass door was a typed notice: “The orientation talk for Sunday, December 14, at two p.m., has been cancelled. Costa Rica Eco-Rico Tours S.A. regrets any inconvenience.”
“Oh, fart,” she said under her breath. If they had closed for the weekend, how was she to find her way to their wilderness camp tomorrow? She had vouchers; she had paid a thousand dollars for them.
She saw someone moving within, a secretary. She rapped on the door, and the woman, a young Tica, unlocked
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