Without searching my brain for a witty opening, I'll just admit that I am fat on the inside. I don't fuck around with food. Whether it's an oreo cheesecake for breakfast or a pan of cheesy and magnificent mac and cheese all to myself, I play no games when it comes to filling my stomach. I've consumed some gloriously gluttonous treats over the years, and, being a good person, always try to share my backsliding with the world. So, for your food porn pleasure, here are a few of my favorite fat indulgences from my high calorie past.

Episode one: Mofongo's.

I'd planned Costa Rica to leave on Saturday via the Tica Bus, and make that long trip to Panamá. Silly me, I thought I could arrive a few hours early and book a seat. NOPE.

"NO VENTA. NO HAY ESPACIO."

Turned around and fled to the hostel, where, luckily, they still had beds available. This mean three additional nights in Costa Rica. No biggie.

Returning to the hostel, I grabbed groceries and whipped up breakfast. Fresh bread, scrambled eggs, sausage and Costa Rican coffee. Free coffee, it's worth mentioning, is a staple of most hostels in this region. Some include some sort of food (pancake breakfast and bananas, for example), but I definitely took full advantage of the stocked kitchen here at Casa de Parque. While sipping and stuffing my face, the other Black guy staying there asked if I played sports.

"Do you play football or do a sport?" Remy asked.

Mistaking me for an athlete was a plus. But football!?!? Was he calling me FAT?

I revealed that I danced. "Here in part to continue training in ballet and hopefully teach something to kids."

He revealed that he was a b-boy. "Call me 'B-Boy Remy." Alright. Fine. B-Boy Remy is from Portugal. Twenty-nine and doesn't believe in deodorant but that's besides the point. Loves to dance and is a jumper, meaning he's into Parkour.

an example:

I respect this. But no.

The first stop my my journey out of Los Angeles was San Jose, Costa Rica. Booking my ticket back in January, fights into San Jose International Airport were about $150 cheaper than landing in Panamá City. And so it was decided. The plan was to stay in a hostel for a few days, wander around the city, and continue on to Panamá. I'd also make sure to eat as much as possible. For cultural immersion purposes, mind you.

My residence for five nights was Casa del Parque Hostel, located beside el Parque Nacional.

I'd never previously stayed in a hostel, but have heard from countless other friends and travelers that it was certainly the way to go. Knowing that I was traveling on a budget, the $10/night charge fit perfectly in my price range. A hostel is essentially dorm living. Accommodations range from unapologetically basic to mildly luxurious (relatively speaking, mind you) and, if you can live with the bare necessities, you'll be more than fine. For my first two nights, I stayed downstairs in this room. My bed was to the left of the bed in the lower corner of the picture.

The downstairs room had about six bed. Far from what I'm used to, but it certainly served its purpose. This particular hostel is one of the top-rated on HostelWorld.com in Costa Rica, which made it an easy choice for me. The most common reviews praised its cleanliness and the fact that it wasn't a "party hostel" like many others you will experience.

entrance.

I worked out, did yoga, and stretched in the mornings here in the garden.

All of the residents were friendly and surprisingly forthcoming with information, help, suggestions, and warnings. I got food recommendations, sights to see, and every other kind of trivial info I could want. Within hours, I was The lack of color is something I'll just have to get used to while crashing in hostels. Otherwise, my time here was great. Sonia, the cleaning lady, keeps Casa del Parque sparking. Like in all hostels, bed linen is changed daily. Wi-fi, coffee, cable tv, and parking are all included in a night's stay. The kitchen was fully equipped, with enough room for each resident to store food. Laundry service is provided for a fee. I felt completely comfortable and, if I was staying longer, would absolutely stay there.

On my first day, I wandered the area surrounding the park. Avenida Central is home to many shops, stores, markets, and vendors. I spent hours walking in and out of a few different places.


The American influence was unavoidable.

Más x Menos: a supermarket chain owned by.....WalMart.

My first Costa Rican meal.

My time in Costa Rica was meant to last two nights, with my departure being on Saturday. That didn't exactly happen as planned. Check back tomorrow for part two.


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This is my obligatory mushy post. So deal with it.

day one: los angeles

I moved to Los Angeles sight unseen on July 1, 2009. I had purchased a one-way ticket and was in search of a new life. Then, I was a dancer. A dancer! I had plans to continue my professional training and eventually land a gig dancing beside a marginally talented pop star. I was even down to hump a choreographer or two either for kicks or a gig. Whichever. You know, sacrifices.

I was skinny, eager, taking between 12 and 15 classes a week, and ready to do whatever was necessary to make it.

Or so I thought.

Having long and glorious hair is great in a more pedestrian, "regular-person" lifestyle. A writer or television personality with dopetastic hair would be super cool. But dance is about blending in. Looking like the other 5-9 male dancers on the stage beside you, as far as the commercial dance world is concerned. Not taking too much attention from the star, etc. There are probably less than 5 working male dancers with dreads. By "working," I mean "booking tours." My brother is an established dancer who had danced for a handful of music acts, been on tour a half dozen times, and even he was asked to consider chopping his fro for a Christina Aguilera video...with no guarantee of future work.

So, while the little dancer boys loved my hair (whew) and physique, It wasn't enough to get me to the next level.

"If you were really ready to work professionally, you would seriously consider cutting your hair," a favorite choreographer/teacher told me.

There wasn't really a question. So, that was the beginning of the end of that for me.

No: my hair did not kill my love of dance. It just opened my eyes to the fact that maybe I wasn't ready to put in the necessary work to reach the "professional" level.

Then, I saw much of the dance world first-hand, and didn't adore all that I saw. Still growing out of my introversion, much of the socializing and dick-riding (figurative: no, literal: maybe, if the mood was right) required to make it and align myself with big names was beyond me. I just couldn't. Add to that the fact that I stilled lived and performed comfortably inside of a shell, dance-wise...and yeah, not much room for growth. I was average at best, apparently. "You're, like, ALMOST there," I'd hear repeatedly.

After three years in New York, I still had no "dance clique" to speak of, as much as I tried (shoutout to Jamie J & Co.) and though I had associates in the LA dance world, very few crossed the line from nonsexual acquaintance to FRIEND. Just never happened. But, I did honestly try. Landing there, I was still socially awkward and introverted, and making friends was still a challenge. If nothing else resulted from my first months there, I became really good at being a loner.

and he fahn.

Enter Michael Arceneaux, the Houston-bred writer behind The Cynical Ones and endless source of inspiration. We crossed paths in the kitchen of a heauxmeaux house party, and connected over a private hoodrat dance moment at a gathering where the rest of the fancy geighs where too fly to drop it low. Sure, I pretended to be versed in all he latest cool kid dance moves, but in the cramped kitchen of the fancy gay shindig, sipping heavy-handed cocktails, we were the only people who actually danced. It worked. We clicked. I fell in love with him and his gang of bitches (Shani, Candy, and Jayde, the only nondumpy vaginas at said party) and have loved him ever since.

He has kept me sane, seen me at my worst and most emotionally vulnerable, not judged my low moments and fat kid indulgences, and helped me through tough spots along the way. As a writer for AOL, The Grio, and a host of other online publications, Michael makes me want to be a better writer. His voice is clear, polished, confident. He pulls the reader in with ease, and, despite how he feels about his work, I love everything that he writes. That, and he is (also) a master of the insult. So pay homage.

us in the kitchen at the party. not really. but almost.

I wasn't expecting to connect with anyone the way I latched onto Michael. In that insane plastic ass city, a genuine, honest person who'll lovingly put you in your place is needed and appreciated. I couldn't have survived in Los Angeles without someone like him. Those first six months were hell; every day I asked myself, "Why did I move here?" As he drove me to the airport to leave LA, I confessed that if I hadn't met him, I wouldn't have stayed there as long as I did. It got pretty in the beginning. When I pulled back from the dance world, many of the social connections I'd relied on until that moment melted instantly. That in itself speaks to the strength of those "bonds." Michael eased that transition from DANCER to normal person. In him, I found one of the smartest, most hilarious, real men in the entire city. While most geighs and cool kids in Los Angeles chased status and coasted through "adulthood" in a cocaine-coated bubble of pretentious, emotionally unavailable stupidity, Michael was the West coast version of the decade-long trusted friendships I'd cherished in New York. All in less than two years.

So, I say all of that to say:

Thank you, Michael. We promised each other we wouldn't get mushy and shit in person, but we didn't mention the internet.

I love you and shit.

-----------------
Check Michael out. He's hilarious. And sane. I promise.

Gone were the bright and shiny sprawl of the Mexico City airport. No corporate-sponsored, grand illuminated displays. No designer glass walls, multilevel dining wings and Samsung charging stations. The super modern and overly accommodating facility with its overwhelming sensory appeal from hours prior was replaced by corridors under construction and a muted, industrial feel. Functionality and minimalism reign here.

I had arrived in Costa Rica.

Even while physically exhausted, landing near midnight has its perks. I breezed through baggage claim and customs without the expected throngs of tourists and kids. Exiting the airport was an adventure in itself. I exchanged my cash for enough Costa Rican Colones (or so I thought) and rolled my gang of baggage through the sliding glass door. Cigarettes and exhaust fumes. Mmmm. A dozen or so cab drivers swarmed anyone with a bag in hand.

"Taxi, bro?"
"No, thanks."
"OK, but where you going?"
"San Jose, but..."
"Come. I take you."
"No, thanks," looking and walking away.
Another pounced into action.
"I take you anywhere. Very cheap."
"No, gracias."
"Adónde vas? from another.

A gangly, scruffy string bean of a man in jean capris thrust a sign in my direction. My name was scribbled on it in thick, sloppy black letters.

"Alex..." he checked the sign."...Harrrdeee...?"
"Sí."

The hostel where I'm staying had arranged a cab driver to pick me up from the airport.

"Ok, un momento. Hay otros pasajeros. Gotta find them. OK?"

I waited on the cold, metal bench. Gangly man produced sign after sign from his jacket bearing the names of arriving travelers. Like eager hookers the night before rent is due, taxi drivers hustled and questioned and harassed and (if lucky) corralled waiting potential patrons.

"Come. This way." A few of us waited  together in silence, keeping watchful eyes on our bags, making sure not to appear too friendly. Then: dreads! A five- or six-year old boy with shoulder length locs offered me a piece of gum.

"Femi, no!" from his mother.

Black people!  A family of four, traveling from Houston, I had gathered. Gorgeous kids. Handsome father. Dumpy mom. Can't win them all.

A nondescript white van appears. Instructions and jokes are exchanged. Money is passed.

"OK mi friend. Hop in," Carlito The Cab Wrangler beamed. Bags in the back as I hopped up front.

Who's playing on the radio in Costa Rica at 1 AM?

Fucking Katy Perry.

Off we went. Entering the highway was less of a production than anticipated. No billboards announcing my arrival. No band singing WELCOME TO COSTA RICA ALEX, YOU'RE GONNA LOVE THE FUCK OUT OF IT over a bustling reggaeton beat. None of that. Leaving the airport was like turning onto any other minor road. "Buckle up," the driver spat from behind his dangling cigarette.

The number of internationally recognized brands along the way surprised me: Subway, Crowne Plaza Hotel, Texaco, a casino/Best Western/Denny's combo. Hooray for pervasive American capitalism.

On the radio now: Rihanna's "What's My Name?"

Though the driver's style of navigation was not exactly the welcome I'd foreseen (texting while flying through turns, crossing into oncoming traffic to go around slower vehicles, obeying red lights as he wished) the drive was gorgeous. Since the highway was closed after a few miles, the back roads gave me an up close view of the town.

After about 20 minutes of zipping through the streets connecting Alajuela with San Jose, I arrived at my home for the next few days, Casa del Parque Hostel, next to the Parque Nacional. Was I nervous about staying in a hostel with strange foreigners with differing hygienic practices? Absolutely. But I wasn't about to let my anxiety affect my experiences. More on the varying hygienic situations later.

The Casa del Parque Hostel is the top-rated hostel on HostelWorld.com. There are dozens to chose from, but my time here has been more than awesome. To be surrounded by generally friendly, open-minded people who are more than willing to share their experiences and knowledge is incredibly rewarding already. Upon arriving, I dropped my bags and collapsed into a waiting bed. To even consider the world of hostel living one must suspend any affinities for grandeur, luxury, and excess. It's basic living for an affordable rate. Only the necessities. And, if you're lucky, your privileged American ass may learn something important about yourself and/or the world. It's a win-win situation.

I've been here three days so far. What was supposed to be a day and a half in San Jose has turned into me staying here until Tuesday. Then, I depart for Panama via the Tica Bus. How long is the trip, you ask? 16 hours. Landing in Costa Rica as opposed to Panama City saved me almost $200 in airfare. Is the inevitable discomfort that is to come worth it? Absolutely. Being on the strongest budget ever, I've already accepted that I wont be traveling in style, hopscotching between cities on private jets and the like. And that is okay. This is a journey chock full of new experiences. Every single thing I do I will be doing for the first time. Meeting family for the first time. Being devoured by Costa Rican mosquitoes for the first time. Lusting after burly Costa Rican taxi drivers for the first time. Why not soak it all the fuck up and make the most of each moment?

Many of you have sent encouraging emails and inspiring Facebook messages drenched with exclamation marks asking how I am feeling. Being away from Los Angeles for only three days, I could already talk for hours on end about my experiences and realizations thus far. In time, each of you will get an earful. Without pouring out every detail, I'll just say that this is easily the best thing I've ever done for myself...well...aside from not dying from Lupus. That would be number one. This: number two, hands down.

Thank you to everyone who has said, "I'm happy for you" as opposed to "OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO MISS YOU DON'T GO I NEED YOU HERE WITH ME I WILL FEEL HORRIBLE AND MIGHT DIE IF YOU GO, HEAR MY CRY PLEASE."

Thank you for knowing that this isn't about you.

Stay tuned as I attempt to put my perpetual awe into words.

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