It reminded me, in a way, of Oak Bluffs. We stayed at Hotel El Jardin, and this was essentially the view from our bungalow. Totally stunning. We both logged quite a bit of time in the hammocks.

There are several hotels/hostels/campsites but only two proper bars in Montezuma. Which meant that at night, we were destined to run into the same folks, all of whom were lovely and/or specially crazy. (MOTL, as Kingsley Amis said.) We met some really lovely Brits who tolerated our dour Election Day-enhanced moods; kind, laid-back locals; and a Texan who introduced herself by appending the epithet "Hurricane" to her Christian name. "My boyfriend," she sneered drunkenly, "refuses to give me more than 20,000 colones to live on every week. Lemme ashk you something," she said, leaning in, narrowing her eyes. "You"--finger drunkenly indicating me and N and presumably our doubles--"are from New York. Let's say someone owned a house on West 71 Street. Would that person be...rich?"

I told her that yes, most definitely, that person would be rich. I regretted it immediately, as it set her off on an hour-long tirade. "Y'all hear that?!?" she exclaimed to anyone within earshot. "My boyfriend owns a HOUSE in New York City and all he can give me is 20,000 colones!"

Anyhow. Montezuma was a lot of fun. One of its more charming aspects is the plethora of sorta-strays running around all the time. All the restaurants and bars are open-air, so it was not uncommon for us to spend a couple hours surrounded by sleeping mutts. A Tico who runs a horseback-riding service told me that once a month a veterinarian comes to town, captures the dogs (and cats), and fixes 'em.

Another charming, if slightly unnerving, fixture in Montezuma is the roving bands of pizotes. They're like raccoons. And they have no fear of humans. When you encounter them first thing in the morning, all blinking, black eyes and long snouts, you begin to wonder if there isn't some truth to the idea that UFOs frequent the area.

So in between drinking ourselves to an early death (particularly on Election Night), we did various touristy-athletic things. We hiked down the beach one day, climbing all over the rocky outcroppings and peeking into tide pools. We found a shell beach. We went swimming in water that was strong enough to knock us down, repeatedly. You get this funny peaceful feeling as you find yourself looking around under the murky water, not certain which way is up, but knowing that, on the bright side, at least you're drowning in a country that is not helmed by GW Bush.

One morning we hiked up to the waterfalls just south of town. It wasn't terribly difficult, but it did involve me relenting and getting my sneakers wet. On the way there, after you cross the stream, you have to grab onto a vine and swing (preferably howling) around a large rock. Once you reach the top, though, it's pretty much Blue Lagoon-style paradise with cold, deep, bluish-green water.

The hike back was a lot easier, even in squishy sneakers, though at one point I found myself sharing the same small, slippery rock with some Italians and some Germans. Having three languages--and not a single shared one--among us, I ended up using the one that none of us (including myself) understood: Spanish.

"Ah, con permiso? Te desole? Gracias?" I should be glad a pre-Columbian hellmouth didn't open and swallow me up for my wholesale mangling of the language.

On our way out of the park we bought beers and talked politics with a Tico. Costa Ricans seemed to be completely pro-Kerry. After the election, many even offered their condolences. We told them that we were sorry too.

We never made it to Cabo Blanco Park unfortunately, though we did a sea kayaking/snorkeling expedition to Isla Cabuya. It was Dia de los Muertos, which I'm certain was created with the intention of allowing tourists to mill around graveyards in wet swimsuits. A wee bit disrespectful, I suppose. The snorkeling was great fun.

We started drinking every night around 5. I found myself ordering ridiculously fruity drinks only because no one I knew could see me. With Coco Mango* in hand, a techno remix of Manfred Mann's "Blinded by the Light" thrumming in the background, and various doggies milling around our table, we watched the sun set every night.

*Well, sometimes it was an Imperial, one of the three beers brewed in Costa Rica. The taste was nothing compared to the awesomely sinister label.