Last night, in anticipation of dinner and without receiving a reply from the "Pizza" restaurant, Tom says,"Let's go down on the bike and find out what what's happening. I cant get an answer over the phone." "Ok," I agree. We journey down to the bottom of the small grade and determine that they are not doing pizza... So, we turn a sharp corner and plunk down, overturned until we upright the bike and assess the damages -- they're all to ourselves. Tom's knee's cut open, I can't feel anything damaged, and we both upright the bike. He rides it home. (I'll not ride it again!) My sandal's ripped in another place... I try to limp home, but Tom comes riding down in the Tracker and we go to the SuperMarchado where he buys food that he wants for Spaghetti and I cook it. (You've got to understand that some people who think of Italian food do not have the slightest evidence of what Italian food is; in reality, we ate Costa Rican spaghetti.)
This morning, Monday, we both woke up in pain. I thought it might be my liver but when I touched my ribs, I could feel the tenderness and looked at the baseball-sized black-and-blue mark on my arm... Hurts! I'm hoping Tom is not hurt worse.
We drive down to town and I find a pair of thongs at the SuperMarchado... We also purchase tickets to take a boat down the Sierpe River tomorrow night and view the crocodiles...
