I opened my eyes to an unreal and dreaded scene. My mind was saying no, this is not happening. It is happening. Damn it – this is real. My husband was halfway across the room, machete in hand. My dog was perched at my feet, muscles pumped and barking ferociously.
A drug addicted young man, probably illegal, had opened our door and was coming into our house. A crime of opportunity. The door had been left unlocked.
He ran. But he didn’t get far.
Living in Costa Rica is a game of life. A gamble. Different. Either you can adapt or you can’t. Either you live scared or you don’t.
We’re fortunate he didn’t have a gun. He was a desperate, high, kid – someone that three weeks ago, my husband had bought food for. He had been in front of the grocery store; begging. And now he was helping himself to our space. Our home.
Since this “shitty blog” is my journal, I feel the need to document. I also feel the need to write more. But I also have to clean my burlap ceiling.
Come on down to Costa Rica….catch a fish…catch a burglar.
The boat could sink – you could get hurt.
I have to go. I have to clean my ceiling.
Fish Eye Farm 