In the morning, the maid made me breakfast (perks of cheap labor), and I walked off. My destination was San Jose, to check out of my hotel and get a car to go exploring. The City Club, where I had planned to call a cab, didn't open for another hour, but since I love walking in general, especially as a way to explore an area, I didn't mind too much. I headed off into the hills as a mild drizzle began. Eventually I found a bus which supposedly went to San Jose, and belching pollution the whole while, it performed as advertised.

The travel agent in my hotel was only too happy to help me rent a car and make hotel reservations near Quepos, a sportfishing town just north of Manual Antonio, one of Costa Rica's most famous national parks. With much wielding of my Amex card, I paid high but reasonable prices for the car/insurance (given the conditions of CR's roads and the insanity of its drivers) and crappy gringo prices for a room (a mistake I didn't make again). The brand-new SUV (400 miles) was ready in less than an hour, and I was on the road towards the pacific.

Left alone with my thoughts, I began seriously missing my girlfriend for the first time on the trip. Travelling unaccompanied is also very inefficient moneywise, and I wondered whether this extra week would be worth it. It was rainy and cloudy, which didn't help lift my spirits any. The roads, despite what I'd heard, were very good for most of the four hour trip (although they were often 2 lanes, with large trucks that slowed traffic), until about 20KM north of Quepos. Then they became iffier, patches of nasty rutted dirt, and one lane bridges with massively potholed approaches, all of which had larger bridges being constructed adjacently.

Thinking about the roaming lifestyles I'd encountered and read about, "Perpetual Tourism" and expatriation, I pondered about the nature of "home". In the states, it meant a place where I was close to a lot of people and a lot of things, where I spent a lot of time and had a lot of interaction and paid a lot for the privelege. Here, it would be a safe haven, a place I returned to for solitude and safety, a base of operations, a place for work that didn't involve physical interaction. Which was the right kind of home for me? Issues with the former include worry about government interference, high prices, pollution, and distraction. I worry about the latter being too lonely, not stimulating enough.

As the rain fell and I made my way through the deserted countryside, I thought about community as an antidote to loneliness. If I lived here, I would want to buy a large rural parcel of land, preferably with one or more houses. Rent out rooms by the month for libertarians and like-minded folk visiting from the states, working for projects like LFC, etc. Lease land to those who want to stay permanently. Have central community space (a cohousing type setup. "Liberty Ranch" (growing and exporting premium-quality freedom since 2002). Besides the human interaction, it would be much more efficient to share resources like a satellite net connection, landing strip, plane/helicopter/boat, etc.

To ensure stimulation, I considered the idea of high-efficiency interaction. Go to ISIL, BARGE, Burning Man, Pennsic, and other locations where a lot of interaction occurs over a short period of time. Combined with the internet and (hopefully) a reasonable flow of visitors, perhaps this would suffice. And it would leave worktime (writing and programming) relatively uninterrupted. Batch processing, in essence.

I saw Movimiento Libertario signs in a few places along the way. Woo-hoo!

The desk clerk in the hotel has trouble believing that I am 25 (as opposed to 18) and american (as opposed to latino). The first I am used to, the second I expect to be. I fall asleep at seven or eight pm, and wake up at midnight. I read the guidebook for an hour before falling back asleep. It rains incessantly for the rest of the night, and I worry that I'll have to stay in my hotel all day, but it breaks at about 8am and I am relieved.

In the morning (Tuesday), I check out of my hotel, and pay for the previous nights dinner. The desk clerk doesn't have exact change and gives me extra money - quite a contrast from the Ticos in San Jose (cabbies especially) who seem to often use lack of change to squeeze out a little more profit. I hit the road and head south to Manuel Antonio, one of CR's most famous destinations. The way is lined with hotels, obviously catering to foreigners and americans, and I stop at a deli to pick up lunch. The few views I catch of the pacific are lovely, and I toy with the idea of staying here for the rest of my trip. I park by the beach, which has a moderate contingent of surfers and tourists (although far less than the dry season, I'm sure).

I quickly spot a familiar face: Jose, the tour guide for all the poker tours. I hear my name called, and see an american couple, here for the poker tournament, who had mentioned staying a few extra days. The husband is going sportfishing tomorrow, and would love some company (his wife will be along but not fishing) and a partner to split the cost. This area is extremely famous for sportfishing, and a day on the ocean sounds like great fun, so I agree. Forget about Nicoya, I'll see it next time. We agree to meet at 7:15am the next morning in front of his hotel, and I head to the park entrance. I pay for a map and a ticket with approx. the right number of colones, and they insist on giving me exact change. I am offered a guide, but I demur, not wanting anyone to impinge upon my experience.

The park is a lush jungle, and I see spider monkeys dancing around in the trees. The foliage is too thick to see the ocean, but the surf pounds audibly in the distance as I scan the trees for movement. I stop briefly at the park's beaches, but as I suspect that there would be objections to my swimming naked, I stay on shore. I am willing to tolerate clothes much of the time, but swimming is not one of them. I later see a (young, attractive) topless girl, but as human culture tends to view breasts and penises quite differently, I don't take this as evidence that my suspicion was incorrect. I miss california.

As I wander through the park, I decide its rather ironic that I am exploring a natural area being protected from development, when my goals are to create havens of civilization and infrastructure. While I enjoy the natural setting, I am more interested in studying the electricity, telephone, internet, water, and road systems in the area than the monkeys, sloths, and lizards that live there.

I head up to Cathedral Point, a small landmass which used to be an island, but due to the deposit of sediment has built a larger and larger land bridge, becoming a peninsula. The path is steep, and part of it has turned into a waterfall, but its worth it for a view of the pacific at the top, where there is a small platform with a bench. The phrase "The Importance of User Interface" pops into my head as I sit down, knowing that I will write about this view rather than the others (some better) I passed on the trail because they didn't have anyplace to sit.

There is a couple up there smoking cigarettes, and thinking of the computer in my bag I ponder how humanity brings their addictions everywhere, even to paradise. The small islands in the distance bring me again to the issues of sovereignty, inependence, and loneliness with which I've been wrestling. Ever since I began yearning for a libertarian Zion, islands have held special meaning for me. Despite political realities to the country, it feels like every island is deeply independent, standing alone, with a dramatically explicit boundary between it and the world.

My favorite present from Katy, my artistic girlfriend, is a small model island, complete with palm tree, which floats in a glass of water above my desk. To me, the glass emphasises the loneliness of independence. Is it possible to be free from the pernicious influence of governments without being cut off from the world? Security and convenience, strength and loneliness, friendship and entanglements, every coin has two faces. I have experimented with one strategy, surrounding myself by people and by civilization, paying taxes to a government I detest, worrying about having my assets seized by the policy or a frivolous lawsuit. It seems like a good time to try an alternative strategy, but I worry about being too deprived of human interaction.

Community and high-intensity interactions are my proposed solutions to the problem of loneliness. Being here alone and watching the endless parade of couples reminds me how much of a difference my girlfriend's support makes. In a simplistic model, two people provide infinitely more interaction than one. And if I can convince others to join me, if there is a market for a rural libertarian community in Costa Rica (or wherever I end up) then I will not be isolated.

As these thoughts pass through my mind, I pull out my laptop and begin to type, while the pacific glitters in the sun and the endless parade of waves, agents of entropy, hammer at the rocks below.

After the park, I find a hotel on the beach and get a room for two nights. I arrange for them to knock on my door at 6:45am, since I have no alarm (even on my computer). I take a delightful shower, make a rare change of clothes (I packed light), and head on a search for internet access. There are a lot more surf bums hanging around, and a football game has sprung up on the beach. The Pan and Net serves seafood and has a modem connection to a single computer. I wait in line, and spend half an hour online, getting the details of my flight back, arranging for a ride, emailing Adam about friday, and making a very businesslike proposal of marriage to my girlfriend with frequent mention of the word "citizenship".

I head back to my hotel, which is a long, lonely, romantic walk down the beach alone. The landmark to mark my turnoff is a bent tree which leans way out over the beach, so I climb it and sit and think while the rain drizzles and the surf pounds. The walk turned my thoughts back to the omnipresent subject of loneliness and the conflict between my gregariousness and independence. How bad would it be, and how much is worth it? I think about my semester in Budapest. My lack of language isolated me from the locals, but I had 35 other american math students to interact with, and I visited my girlfriend in england every month, and together those were enough.

The islands which glint in the moonlight remind me of my ultimate objective, and I feel positive that I would be willing to suffer a great deal of loneliness for that. The thought of living alone, on an island that is completely mine, quietly building infrastructure and waiting for others to choose to join me, is a serene one. True freedom would be worth long periods of isolation, if the eventual result was a free country. But how much loneliness can I accept for this little step towards freedom, this slight disentanglement from government?

Still wondering, I clamber down and go to sleep.

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