I’ve been seriously considering moving down to Costa Rica. Seems like every winter, when it starts getting cold around here, I find myself contemplating warm beaches near the equator. I’ve actually done quite a bit of research on various possibilities near our planet’s waistline, and Costa Rica sounds like my cup of tea.
First of all, the cost of property down there is a fraction of what it is here. So if we sell our home, we’d be able to buy a nice piece of land, and build a home even nicer than the one we’re in now, and still have enough left over for several years of luxury. I could continue to run my internet business from there, to keep the bank account from evaporating too fast, and I’m sure their national leaders would appreciate my contributions to their rum industry. A very symbiotic relationship!
I was making some idle conversation with the missus the other night, regarding the possibilities, and commented that I could finally realize my life-long dream. I could own a bar! Even better… a saloon!
I can see it now… me in my straw panama hat and white sport coat, sipping a piña colada, while an old, one-eyed, black guy with a raspy voice knocks out some killer jazz on the baby grand in the corner. Belt-driven casablanca fans stir up the air just enough to keep the flies at bay, and kids play joyfully in the dirt street out front. A couple of old hounds lounge in the shade under the bat-wing doors, and my trusted friend and accountant sits at a table in the back, counting my money for the day’s deposit. The two guys playing pool and swapping jokes suddenly laugh heartily and …
<poof> My loving wife points out that letting ME run a bar would be like letting the fox guard the chickens… I’d drink up all the profits! She has a knack for spoiling things keeping me grounded!
Anyway, it’s a thought! A guy ought to be able to dream, without being shot down in flames.
“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!”