Postcard | Wanderings in San José

(San José, Costa Rica) Rarely can you appreciate the ambient smell of gasoline as much as when you visit a big city in Central America.

Jean-Francois Teotonio
The Press

Because yes, I have the happiness and the privilege of being the special envoy of The Press in Costa Rica. Why ? Because Canada could qualify for the Soccer World Cup on Thursday night in San José, the capital. A first since 1986.

And it is by deeply inhaling the air filled with these sweet aromas, synonymous for me with travel and exploration, that I set foot among the Ticos.

Full of enthusiasm, I strike up a conversation with my taxi driver, Luis, on leaving the airport. I tell him about my very approximate Spanish. He replies that he doesn’t really speak English anymore. “Somos iguales,” he says, looking at me with a smile in his rearview mirror. We are equal.

I explain to Luis the reason for my short stay in San José. And you, are you a “futbol aficionado”? I asked him. “Clarro! “, he replied with aplomb.

Having cleaned up the most international topic of discussion in my repertoire, the race is quietly over.

I arrive in the middle of the afternoon at my hotel near the city center. I deposit my assets and I come out as quickly as possible. I look forward to treading the streets of San José, whose metropolitan agglomeration is estimated at more than 2 million inhabitants. The weather is nice and warm, but a cool wind prevents perspiration.

I visit the Parque Braulio Carrillo Colina, a picturesque little area in front of a charming church. Young lovers stroll there. There is shouting – but I mean shouting – a new kind of pastor. Screaming into his microphone, he gives the impression that he is garlanding passers-by rather than convincing them of their lucky stars.

I continue my journey through the busy streets of San José towards the Mercado central. Here, the title of this postcard takes on its full meaning. I lose myself pleasantly in this downtown market. The tourist trap shops are quickly giving way to the sale of bulk spices. We turn left and we come across butchers and fishmongers. On the right, they sell vegetables, including peppers and tomatillos. We take a new left: here are small stands of local restaurants.

And that’s when I realize that the meal – not at all up to par – from Miami airport is starting to get distant. I let myself be tempted by one of the many counters offering the casado, a traditional Costa Rican meal combining rice, black beans, tortillas, salad and a source of protein. Obviously, I choose the one with the most wobbly look and where the seats are the busiest. “Salsa y pollito? asks the lady. Willingly, I replied with certainly less grace than in these lines.

I end up leaving the market. I take a right stepping outside. I don’t really know where I’m going. I come across a store where they seem to be selling clothes bearing the image of sports teams. Well. Smelling the good anecdote, I enter the confines of this modest bazaar where underpants, dresses and shirts of the Costa Rican team mingle. They don’t look very high quality.

Whoever I consider to be the owner of the establishment comes to see me. His name is Rodrigo. Once again, I enthusiastically explain to him the reason for my visit. He is jovial, speaks English to me, he also has American citizenship, lived in Los Angeles, is a fan of the Galaxy. He travels a lot, he tells me. In Mexico, in Panama, in particular. To “buy things” there, for his shop. Everything is explained.

But he doesn’t believe in the chances of his Sele (short for selection) Costa Rica against Canada. Even if, with a victory, she would certainly get back into the race for top 4.

I am making a fist bump to Rodrigo leaving his establishment. I go back through the park where the passions of messengers of God are unleashed. I would like to let myself be convinced… but it is time to return to the bedroom to write this postcard.