Volver

Yes, we have come back to Playa Langosta, Tamarindo, Costa Rica. I am using my sketchy Spanish when I can y estoy aprendiendo poco a poco. (Volver means to return or come back. It's also the title of my favorite Carlos Gardel song but we're in Costa Rica, not Argentina, so let's move along.) 

We got to Dave Selden and Julie Pace's gorgeous condo just before sunset. Mrs. C and I both have terrible colds (really had to stifle ourselves at immigration) and we wanted to just fall onto something soft. There was no way I was going to miss this, though.

We have no plans whatever for the week. First, we have to try to get better. Then we'll see.

The bottom picture makes me think of a rather close-up view of Jupiter.                                 

Enjoy

You might as well. You'll have a better quality of life. What constitutes art, though, is always subject to discussion.

The figure-ground in the top picture is hard at first glance. The shot is straight down on a yellow-painted curb, which usually means no parking. Sections of sidewalk are at the bottom and the pavement of Cherokee Street at the top. That's a little piece of smashed electronics at the top right, maybe part of the artist's statement. When I zoomed in on it I saw "Micro USB" printed on the side.

And where are we going? Costa Rica, again. Thanks, Dave.                          

Pinball Wizard

 

'How do you think he does it?
I don't know!
What makes him so good?'
Ain't got no distractions
Can't hear no buzzers and bells,
Don't see no lights a-flashin'
Plays by sense of smell.
Always gets a replay,
Never seen him fall. That deaf, dumb and blind kid

Sure plays a mean pinball.

 

 Ah, pinball. Many a youthful hour was spent refining my eye-hand coordination at these devices. I met Mrs. C over a pinball machine in a bar on St. Patrick's Day. I was almost late for my last final exam in law school because my best friend and I had 23 free games racked up on our favorite table while drilling one another on the exceptions to the hearsay rule.

It's been a long time since I played. This bar on Cherokee Street has some tables. I love the beautiful simplicity of the neon sign, a ball, a flipper and a single word. Nothing else needed.

 

Weirdly, back to Charlotte, North Carolina today. Overnight there and then onward for some time off. Mañana por la noche vamos a hablar español. Fotografías de Domingo.

Nelson's Fleet

A wall portrait of Nelson Mandela that's been on Cherokee Street for a couple of years. A Ford Focus is parked next to it. I liked the non-sequitur the two make, the colors and the strong feeling of perspective.                     

I Scream

One of those new businesses on Cherokee Street. If you are Anglo rather than Latino, the scene is definitely hipster. This store wouldn't draw me in, though, with the horror movie logo. Does the staff wear hockey goalie masks? Is there something crawling inside the cakes?  

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON UPDATE:  Mrs. C has just sent me this link, highly relevant to the topic.                       

Ropa Vaquera

I'm brushing up my Spanish for reasons that will become apparent on Sunday. These days, when I try to think of a word in Spanish, French comes into my head. When we were in France last summer, I would often remember the Spanish term for something. It's fortunate that I'm not planning a trip to Italy.

We have a small Latino population by US standards but what we have is centered around Cherokee Street. There are a few Mexican clothing and beauty supply shops. You can buy outrageously ornate cowboy boots. (Ropa vaquera means cowboy clothing.) At one shop they have on offer, in descending order, exotic boots (as above); Texanas, which is just the feminine form of Texan, so go figure; cowboy clothing; work shoes; and exotic jewelry from New York. Use your imagination.

You can also review upcoming Mexican musical events. Here's a video from the band headlining the show, which, for reasons that completely escape me, is set in Brooklyn.                          

A Walk Down Cherokee Street

The corner of Jefferson and Cherokee in south St. Louis. To the west lies the funkiest commercial strip in the city. It was once a busy neighborhood shopping street. Then our vast suburban sprawl drained the city proper. Cherokee Street went vacant and desolate. STL's modest Hispanic population is centered around the area and eventually a couple of Latino groceries and taquerias opened. Rent was cheap; artists' workspaces and galleries followed. Then some odd-ball retail, more Mexican and Central American eateries, and one new bar and eclectic restaurant after another. There is even a small batch whiskey distillery.

The strip starts with a joint serving every beverage you need. The crude statue on the corner is supposed to be a Native American of the Cherokee tribe. There is no explanation of the tablet he holds but I zoomed in on it and did a little research. It is written in the Cherokee language, whose syllabary was devised by the tribe member Sequoyah in the early 19th Century. I wish there was a translation.