Manuel Antonio

It was raining, or nearly so, when we arrived at one of the world's famous beaches.

Hotels were mostly foreign owned, their private gardens fenced off in the colonial style.

Nearby, we found several Americanized seafood restaurants. One night, at a place called The Pirates Cove or The Barbary Pirates or something like that, I tried fresh lobster tails at a price that would have been absurd in any country. I think they were much leaner than is typical in New England, but they tasted like the sea. They were drowned in butter to make them addictive.

Our hotel had a view of the cliff dwellings over the ocean.

We could could hear a solitary howler monkey rumble in the evenings, like a dog's growl in a bass voice.

Despite its reputation as a luxurious place, a ramshackle frontier quality lingers in Manuel Antonio. A single road was carved through the jungle between Quepos and the ocean when there was no development other than an airport. Lines of jeeps and buses now swing around its dramatic curves at all hours, and there is no sidewalk for the long trek from the hotels to the beach. Power outages are common. There is nevertheless a lively expatriate community: We loved a restaurant called Latin Lounge (but I think American-owned) where the waiters are given to dry humor and intelligent conversation, and you can order a cake made with star fruit.

It is also one of the biggest gay destinations in Central America, but this could change as it blends into the mainstream. Gay men used to come for a secluded beach, still listed in the guidebooks but now crowded in by a new hotel. High tides form a moat around it that stops people from entering or leaving for several hours.

We met people who came from the ends of the earth, like a German man I'll call Jürgen (not his name) who runs locomotives near Munich. He traveled through London, then Miami, then San Jose, then overland to Manuel Antonio. Then there was the guy we met next to our pool, middle-aged but toned, with short hair that fit his uncomplicated life as a professional man of leisure. I'll call him BOQ. (The acronym I have in mind might or might not be obvious; I am not, however, referring to the wealthy munchkin in The Wizard of Oz, whom I don't remember at all, even though in certain generic respects, attitudinal if not physical, our acquiantance did resemble a wealthy munchkin.) He retired at 45. We would not believe, he said in an unadulterated Maine accent, what it was like on the beach in the 90s; so inexpensive, so relaxed and nobody would bother you. He would stay there for two months and hardly notice any time had passed. One time he even met someone he wanted to bring back to America, an arrangement that went well for all concerned until he discovered the friend in the company of his gardener. "And then I fired the gardener," he said.