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“But you’re alone,” I protested. “You don’t have any security that I can see. What if someone robs you? Or, like, kidnaps you?”
“Nobody is going to rob or kidnap me,” he said calmly, “because nobody around here knows who I am. And I’d like to keep it that way, if you don’t mind lowering your voice.”
I winced. “Sorry.”
“You might want to put that souvenir to use,” he added. “Your hair is too nice. You stick out like… well, like an American tourist.”
Pushing aside the urge to argue with him, I pulled my hair up into a ponytail and then put on the Costa Rica cap I had bought, threading my ponytail through the back.
“Much better,” Pierce said approvingly.
“Seriously though, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“I told you. Relaxing with some ceviche and a beer.”
“But why here? You’re…” I lowered my voice. “…incredibly wealthy. You have your own island and yacht. But you’re drinking dollar beers surrounded by locals.”
“You really want to know?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell you… after a round of chiliguaros.”
“Chili what?”
Pierce nodded to the waiter. “Dos chiliguaros, por favor.”
“What did you order?”
“You’ll find out in a minute,” Pierce replied.
I was annoyed by his presumption that I would drink whatever he ordered for me. I was tempted to walk away and figure out something to do by myself. But curiosity was eating a hole in my mind. And a drink sounded pretty good, even if it was an unknown kind.
The waiter returned with two shot glasses and a pitcher of reddish-orange liquid. Flecks of spices floated on the top of the pitcher, and poured out into our glasses as the waiter filled them. Rather than leave, the waiter stood by our side, waiting.
Pierce picked up his glass and held it up. “Pura vida.”
“Pura vida,” I repeated, then downed the shot. I tasted tomato juice, lime juice, and a hundred other complex flavors.
“Good, right?” Pierce said as he placed his glass back down.
“It’s like a happier bloody mary,” I replied, smacking my lips.
“Exactly.” Pierce nodded to the waiter, who refilled both glasses and then left. “It’s kind of the national drink of Costa Rica.”
“And pura vida? What’s that mean?”
“The direct translation is pure life,” Pierce explained while scooping up some ceviche with a cracker. “But it kind of encapsulates the vibe of the entire country. Costa Ricans are often called the happiest people on earth.”
I looked around. “I don’t know about that. San Jose seems… kind of poor.”
Pierce raised the second glass of chiliguaro. “There’s more to life than money.”
“Someone like you saying that is the height of irony,” I said while taking another shot with him.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Having too much money gives me a unique perspective on its importance.”
I tried to keep the bitterness from my laugh. “It’s funny. The people with money are always the ones who claim it doesn’t buy you happiness.”
