MAKING A RACQUET
I I looked forward to playing tennis at our new condominium in Costa Rica. The sales literature we relied upon showed two courts nestled amidst tropical landscaping. The selling realtor, a fabulously successful Californian named Brett, assured us these courts were of the highest quality and had lights for evening play when desired. Upon our arrival, however, we realized the only thing he failed to a mention is that the courts did not yet exist. Perhaps, after two or twenty-two or seventy-two more condominium units are sold (everyone has a different story) the two courts in our community will be constructed.
“Pura vida,” said Brett, when asked in person about the courts, using the local fits-all expression to convey ‘no worries.’
“But you told us there are courts,” I said. “I believed that our place has tennis courts.”
“It’s just a matter of time,” said Brett, unruffled. “There’s a court at the Coco Bay Club. You can play there.”
“How far is that?” I asked.
“Five minutes, tops,” said Brett.
Allowing for Brett’s tendencies, I took that to mean ten-fifteen minutes. Not as optimal as the one minute walk I’d expected, but workable.
“Is there anyone to play with?” I asked.
“There are a ton of people at Coco Bay, and a pool and a spa and a five star restaurant. You’ll love it.”
“Five stars?” I asked, my skepticism rising.
“Well, maybe four stars. Plus, it might not be open this time of year.”
Brett’s nickname could well be “grain of salt.” As another example, he told me that Magic Jack, a computer attachment for low-cost phoning, is free for three years, even with the advertisement in front of both of us stating “Six months free.” One tolerates Brett’s “reality” due to his legendary effectiveness. Someday, if we choose to sell, he’ll convince the next owner that our unit is, somehow, worth more than rational analysis indicates.
“Alan from my office is a member there,” Brett continued. “I’ll have him call you tonight. He’s a great tennis player.”
“Wonderful,” I said.
Not surprisingly, I didn’t hear from Alan that evening. The next morning, I walked over to the real estate office to see when Alan might be in and ran into him at the entrance. He was identifiable by his appearance in tennis whites. In the dusty hubbub of downtown Coco, that stands out. Fortunately for me, Alan’s opponent had just canceled, and he was pleased to have a replacement. Alan is a about forty, a Quebecois who headed off to warmer, Spanish-speaking climes decades earlier.
“Were you going to play at Coco Bay?” I asked.
“Yes, my buddy is a member there, and I was going to be his guest,” said Alan.
“Oh,” I said. “Brett said you were a member.”
“Well, not really,” Alan said. “But I have an idea. We’ll drive over there and tell them you are a potential member and I’m your realtor. I’m sure they’ll let us in. They’re desperate for new members.”
“Hunh? Brett said the place is humming with activity,” I said.
“Well…” said Alan.
“Anyway, the realtor idea should work,” I said, thinking that the story plausible and increasingly willing to embrace quasi-reality .
“I just hope I can give you a good game,” said Alan. “I’m a beginner.”
“Brett said you were ‘great,’” I said.
“Well…” he halted again, both of us contemplating Brett’s relationship with truth.
Alan drove me back to my place to change into tennis clothes and pick up my racquet. Though disappointed at Alan’s “beginner” status, I tried to remember that playing “for fun,” not blood, is appropriate on vacation.
I settled into the passenger seat of Alan’s SUV for the drive to Coco Bay. It involved navigating a local neighborhood. There were few cars on the road, but tons of pedestrians and bicycles, people on their way to work and school. Women with assorted bags walked among fruit stalls and small bodegas to complete their daily shopping.
Driving in small-town Costa Rica is a double-edged experience. There are chaotic traffic patterns due to a lack of shoulders, curbs or painted lines and ever-present potholes. Also, a single bicycle can be loaded with as many as three adults or four children. On the positive side, one admires the vibrant hubbub of the community. Children walk in groups to school, instead of being bused or carpooled as they would be in much of America. They chatter and laugh as though they had not a care in the world. And, though they live in homes we would consider hovels, most are dressed and groomed like fashion models.
“Do you mind if I leave off the car for a wash?” asked Alan. “It’s just a few hundred yards from the club.”
“No problem,” I said.
The car wash consisted of a lean-two where two tattooed guys had a hose, a bucket and rags. At home, one would no more hand over keys to them than to panhandlers on the street. Yet, Alan chatted with them in Spanish and bade them good-bye: “Regresamos en dos horas, mas o menos,” he said. (“We’ll be back in two hours, more or less.”)
We walked across the main avenue and proceeded down a side street overhung with tropical trees. The pavement became a pitted dirt road; we exchanged amiable nods and greetings with several people as we passed. A pack of napping dogs barely raised their heads to note the two Gringos walking with tennis equipment. Finally, we came to a guardhouse and gate beneath a faded sign: “Coco Beach Club, Luxury Residences and Lots, Completion Spring 2009.”
“Hola,” said Alan, to arouse a sleepy guard in an ill-fitting uniform, who bore a striking resemblance to Larry of ‘The Three Stooges.’
He seemed surprised by our arrival but waved us in. Beyond the gate, elaborately designed paving stones conveyed the aspirations of a high-end community, the effect diminished by grass growing up between them.
“This place doesn’t look very successful,” I said.
“They got killed in the downturn,” said Alan. “But they might revive with the economy.” He shrugged, to convey: “Who knows?”
“Does anyone live here?” I asked.
“They sold about ten percent of the lots,” Alan replied. “Fortunately, they completed the roads and clubhouse before everything died, and the tennis court.”
We arrived at a massive stone clubhouse, where the hopes of pre-2008 bust was reduced to humidity-swollen doors, cracked tiles, and a shuttered restaurant. The “spa,” visible through a condensation-ruined glass wall, consisted of a selection of forlorn exercise machines, many with hand-written signs indicating “no funcionar.” No one was in the “office” to speak with us.
“We’ll play first,” said Alan. “The court is just past the pool,” he continued, upbeat. In spite of his good cheer, I envisioned a tennis court with cracks and grass growing in the middle. “Stop it,” I scolded myself, fighting to prevent cloudy thoughts from darkening the sunny day. We walked out the back door of the clubhouse and arrived, at last, at a glistening swimming pool, surrounded by palm trees and flowers. Several other guests lolled in the water and made the Club seem alive, however 
tenuously. Insects buzzed around foliage in a riot of color. A large iguana lounged at poolside like a tourist.
“There’s the court,” said Alan, pointing to a metal gate at the end of a walkway.
I could only see the entrance as we approached, since thick shrubbery surrounded the rest. When we entered, I was relieved to see a bright green surface and a sturdy net, a perfectly respectable tennis court, with absolute privacy. Or so I thought.
Tennis is played in a variety of circumstances and in front of a variety of on-lookers. At Coco Bay, however, I played for the first time before spectators who hooted and hollered after every shot. In fact, they screamed between points and during water breaks. The noise began with our first warm-up shot and continued. We played not before rabid fans in 
Chile or Kazakhstan but rather, a troupe of howler monkeys, who’d taken seats in a massive fig tree adjacent to the court. They found our game entertaining. Or, they found it irritating, or amusing, or disgusting. Hard to say.
Whenever there was a lull in the monkey symphony, we heard roosters from somewhere beyond the fence and, to top it off, cows mooed to provide the bass. On percussion, a flock of parrots chattered as they darted between surrounding trees.
“Is it always like this?” I asked Alan, astonished.
“Not always this loud,” he said. “There’s a hawk or something scaring 
the parrots.” He motioned skyward where a massive bird I thought resembled a pterodactyl circled.
“Let me take this all in,” I said, pausing to look around. “This is incredible.”
“Hey, there’s a reason they shot ‘Jurassic Park’ in Costa Rica,” said Alan, smiling.
Alan and I hit for an hour. For a beginner, he wasn’t bad. After we finished, I paid a piddling sum at the office to become a “visiting member” of the Club and walked back with Alan to retrieve his clean car.
The next morning, I saw Brett.
“Alan said you enjoyed the tennis scene yesterday,” he said.
“That’s a good way to put it,” I said. “The actual tennis was okay. But I will definitely remember the setting forever.”
“Listen,” he said, “there’s a few lots in there you might be interested in buying. They can’t miss!”
“Hasta la vista, Brett,” I said, retreating. “You’ve already helped enough!”
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