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For Michael, Costa Rica was a dream come true. Five years before on Valentine’s Day, we had visited a town called Samara located on the Nicoya Peninsula, an infamous blue zone, on the Pacific Ocean. Samara was stunning – horses galloped down the beach, running free, eluding their captors who pursued them on motorcycles. Herds of cows took over the streets. The beach was quite lovely. Michael was ready to move there right there and then. I did not agree since I had seen an area that for me was a truer paradise and wished to find something with a clearer ocean.

A few years before our trip to Samara, Michael had sent me on a retirement tour of San Jose; we did not have enough money for both of us to go and so I was convinced to go alone. I was the only woman with four other men, men who were primarily interested in gambling, prostitution and offshore investments. Definitely not my bag and as a note, San Jose is one of the ugliest capital cities in the world. I am not an urban creature and my companions did not help bolster its beauty.  To say the least I was definitely not thrilled with Costa Rica especially in contrast to a place like Paris.

However, fortunately, there was one day allotted to select our own personal  tours. One of them was a catamaran trip through the inlet to Tortugas island. There I had seen a true paradise, and Samara’s ocean did not come close. The water was not that clear due to the fine sand. There was also a reef that made the waves small and choppy.  I had been trying to get us close to Tortugas Island so that Michael could see the clarity of the waters I had experienced. Seemingly the maps designated the road’s ending at Samara, the closest destination to Tortugas Island.  As it turned out, I was way off course.

Anyway, I was still intent on Provence as my retirement destination and we made another trip to Europe.  On our return, Michael was insistent on returning to Costa Rica.  I did some more research and found Montezuma with its waterfalls. Surely it seemed to be a great destination for a vacation. And so we went.

During the three months of our second vacation, Michael became more intent on living in Costa Rica so we had a meeting with the owners of the property.  It seemed ideal for us since we still had to make money and the property had two darling bungalows to rent to tourists.  Since we had lived in the bungalows for three months over two years, and on the property for four months, we were familiar with its attributes. They named their price reducing it $100k since we were not using a realtor.  Still, it was major, over half a million dollars. I told Michael that I thought if we sold our house in Venice, we could buy it. The owners wanted $50k to hold it while we mulled the situation over.  We went home to think or rather so I could think. The $50k deposit went unpaid….

I think I need to qualify my philosophical frame – I believe in allowing the universe to open and close doors for me while I keep moving. And so I didn’t worry about the answer, but rather kept my hands on the reins loosely, calmly. I knew i needed to stay grounded in a present tense to be fully awake and aware. Truly, I did not think we were going anywhere. I was way too happy in Venice.  And besides, our president back in 2014 was Barack Obama.  Additionally, we lived in a very blue state.  More importantly, I lived in Venice, so beloved to me, I set my book series in the city beginning in 1918 to 1970. (I have to say that the more I knew about the city and its history, the more I loved Venice.)

But then some things began happening that really shook me up. The first occurrences I noticed was the churlishness of the people around me.  One time coming out of a parking lot, Michael had the rear end of our car slightly in an adjacent lane. I rolled down the window to ask if he could get past me.  He yelled that I was a c*nt and to shut up.  He was so violently angry, I rolled up my window. Another time,  I politely asked a man with a shopping cart blocking the exit of my car from a parking space in the extremely crowded Costco parking lot, if he could move it a smidge and instead he shoved it into my car. When I tried to talk to a  woman on the beach letting her dog chase the shore birds about the birds’ inability to get food except low tide, I was chased with mace.  Where was the civility; where was the ‘do unto others’.  Venice was gentrifying quickly, forcing out residents and lawyers had descended upon the Coastal Commission, causing the beach closings at dusk, etc.  I remembered the gentleness of the Costa Ricans and longed for the sweetness, the civility and their desire to help.  One time the tire on our trailer blew out and Michael had to be very close to Highway 1.  Cars almost nonchalantly mowed over his head; there was no desire to assist or to even stop.  I knew this would not happen in Costa Rica, that people would tow us with a rope to safety and then call a mechanic to help us.  Even if we were white expats.  I told Michael that if anything was going to move me out of the country, this the gradual desensitization by the inhabitants in the US would do it.

But most importantly, the Department of Building and Safety had found our paradise in Venice.  Our house had been built in 1910; the machine shop behind our house spanned three properties and had been built before any of the houses in the neighborhood.  Building and Safety was determined to demolish it.  The structure was the main reason we had bought the house since Michael is a painter, and he had converted it into a studio for himself.

I decided to fight DBS and said we would not do it. The particular investigator was a determined bully and told us that we would have to completely regrade the property to comply with current permitting.  This was on a property that had been there for over 100 years. It also meant we would have to tear down not only the studio but now the house.  NO matter that we had lived there for over 20 years  There was no grandfathering for this.  The war had begun years before and still continued – the terms escalating.  Michael had been an electrical contractor, with a lot of experience with LA and its machinations.  He was convinced we would not win this.  I decided I would continue to fight for my beautiful property.

Simultaneously, Waze had designated our small street in Venice as an official cut through street for the traffic going from the south in the morning and north to Santa Monica in the evening.  We had tried to protect our street years before when Costco was moving into the neighborhood, but to no avail, even with funding from Costco.  The resolution was speed bumps rather than traffic deterrence.  Now with the onslaught of cars, our pets were being run down, there was damage to our cars parked on our own street.  A street too narrow for resident cars with traffic going in two directions, had become a freeway and not just at rush hour.  Once discovered, the traffic flowed on our street all day contrasting with when we moved there, we were welcomed with homemade lemonade and cookies from what was then a true neighborhood with neighbors.  As I watched car after car after car go past our house, Michael was trying to get out of the car on the street, and got honked and yelled at, then almost run over.

Three strikes and you’re out.  I decided we would talk to a realtor.

She was sure that she could sell it and named the amount she would seek.  I still had not made up my mind, but decided I would see what would happen.  A few days later we had an offer over selling price but from a developer.  I declined the offer hoping to get a buyer.  However with the gauntlet upon the property by Building and Safety, it did not seem fair to put another person into their gunsights.  Eventually after many heated discussions, I capitulated and the selling process began.

Now we had to send the $50K as well as get rid of all of our possessions, a painful process, especially for those dearly beloved possessions, but the interesting thing is that I don’t miss them a bit. The hardest was my beloved vintage O’Keefe and Merritt stove as well as a fantastic classic Mercedes I called the Ivory Queen. Ironically, they were the last items to be bought.

We packed our books, Michael’s paintings, research books to continue my work on the book series I was writing called Destiny’s Consent. We gave away a ton of things to Habitat for Humanity, thrift stores, the Salvation Army, sold things and packed 90 boxes.  Having been in Costa Rica, I knew I had to pack dishes, placemats, and tchotchkes dear to me.  There would be nothing like them unless I went to San Jose, and the au courant fashion was neon green, not at all to my liking.

We hired a shipper and paid a lot of money, but I didn’t care since the price tag of replacing the cherished items would be very much more.  Many people believe Costa Rica is an inexpensive alternative to the US, which is not true; in fact, many items are more expensive.  For example, automobiles, imports taxed by the government for income, are double.  Actually all gringo ‘necessities’ are.

TO BE CONTINUED

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