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| Puerto Viejo |
I was spoiled at a young age with the vision of Costa Rica, the beaches of shells and steamy tropical roads perfect for one-speed bicycles. It was sublime, in Mary Shelley's sense. I started to report peering out the bus window, hopping out as naturally as anyone and talking about this enormous, crushing trade agreement that my president, George Bush wanted. The politics floated in the perfect air amid the wealth of fruit and shade and good coffee beans satisfying everything my 19-year-old heart wanted.
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