The National Theater in San ]ose, Costa Rica, was built,rnJ 897 through a voluntary tax.rnAnother thing the tour host told us wasrnthat when John Kennedy eame to CostarnRica, one of its famous volcanoes erupted.rnThe Costa Ricans told him the volcanornwas saying hello. That’s what the’rnthought it was saving. It was actuallyrncommenting on the Kennedv women —rnMarilyn Monroe and Sam Giancanna’srnmistress on loan to the Wliitc House.rnWe toured what some call the prettiestrnbuilding in San Jose, the National Theater,rnbuilt in 1897. The capital city is saidrnto be built on coffee, and the rich coffeernplanters and nrerchants volunteered for arntax (what?!) on coffee that paid for thisrnbarocjue opera house (which also hostsrnJnlio Iglesias and Jethro lull). Belgianrnarchitects drew up the plans, and thernmetal superstructure was made in Belgium,rnbut what struck me the most wasrnhow dominant Italian artists were. Somernpainters and decorators were brought tornCosta Rica: Serra, Andreoli, Ferrario,rnand Fontana. Others, like Bulgarelli andrnFroli, did the sculpture for the facade,rnand inside tiiere are statues by (vcnovesernartist Pietro Capurro. Our guide pointedrnto a scene on the ceiling and remarkedrnthat the buxom lasses did not look at allrnlike Costa Rican women. The Italianrnartist had simply painted the Italian womenrnhe knew.rnThe best of the tour for me was the NationalrnMuseum, housed in what hadrnbeen an army barracks that was part ofrnthe fighting during the civil war of 1948,rnthe pockmarks of firing in evidence. Afterrnthe war, the army was dissolved.rn(That’s one way to do it.) Inside therncourtyard were huge stone balls, so big 1rnthought no cannon could fire thcin.rnLater, I found outrnthat no one knowsrnwith certainty whatrnthey are . . . justrnthat they are notrncannonballs. Somernthink they are simplyrnproducts of geologicalrnforces, butrnothers think theyrnmight have been pre-rnColumbian boundaryrnmarkers. Thoughrnnot primarilv a natirnural history museum,rnE the ])laee did containrnF some stuffed animalsrnand birds, and thernprettiest vulture Irnhave ever seen—wishrnours were that handsomernwhile not in flight.rnBeing an aficionado of archaeology, Irnwas attracted to the pre-Columbian pottery,rnthe early workings in gold, and especiallyrnthe stone carvings. The averagernmetate for grinding corn is can-ed on simple,rnfunctional lines; the metate in thernmuseum clearK served other purposes.rnMuseunr notes said they were found onrngraves. The time and energy needed torncraft such artifacts set one to ponderingrnthe relationship between beauty andrndeath, beauty and rebirth. Carved duringrna time when most of one’s effort wasrndirected to elemental survival, the metaternpuzzle us about their intent. Lookingrnbackward, the carver could hae done itrnout of gratitude for his own life, whichrnstood on the shoulders of the deceased;rnlooking forward, perhaps also from respectrnand gratitude, be was offering therndead a metate for the corn he would needrnto grind in the underworld, the worldrnfrom which corn surely eame. In anyrnease, an cleg)’ in stone.rnNext morning, I was winging it acrossrndie mountains tornthe east and thenrnover the emeraldrnjungle. We maderna landing at Tortugerornon therncoast, dien headedrnnortir to BarrarnColorado. Bothrnlandings on thernshort strips madernme hope, for thernsake of my wife,rnthat I had put allrnmy financial affairsrnin order. Four or five fishermenrnwere waiting to board the return flight tornSan Jose, and I asked one of themrnwhether he’d had any luck. After a couplernof expleties, he said, “My wholerngroin is black and blue from fightingrnfish.” Oddly, for a fisherman, this wasrngood news.rnA local man who was to be my guiderntook me to the river, and we boarded a litdernskiff upriver to Casa Mar. The landing-rnstrip side of the river was a little morernupscale than the other side, but there wasrnthe same laid-back, lediargic world of thernCaribbean. Houses thrown together,rnroofed with odd pieces of tin, people lyingrnon the porch or in hammocks inside.rnIt was still earlv in the morning. Soon,rnonly the bush lined the side of the riverrnand familiar egrets waded or flew over.rnBill Barnes has owned the fishingrncamp, Casa Mar, for 32 years. Born inrnMaryland, he grew up in the South,rnsettling in Homestead, Florida. Afterrncoaching and teaching biology, he tookrnup his real love, fishing. I do not know ifrnBill holds other records, but I know hernheld the IGFA record for snook on 15-lb.rnfippet, 26 lbs., back in 1980. He has createdrnthe kind of place other men dreamrnabout as thev look out the windows ofrntheir offices back stateside. No discos orrnspas, no haute cuisine, just a fishingrncamp with good American-Caribbeanrnhome cooking. The grounds of CasarnMar are carefulh’ tended, the grass keptrnshort to help keep out the fer-de-lance,rnthe bushmaster, and the boa constrictor.rnFrom my cabin, I always passed beautifulrnsmall orchids on the way to the open-airrndining room or the adjacent bar.rnI no sooner dropped my bags, changedrnclothes, and wolfed down a breakfast ofrnbacon and eggs with fresh pineapple andrnguava on tire side flian I got aboard myrnskiff and we were away. We retraced ourrnway to Barra, flien on a mile or so, wherernThree young Costa Rican boatmen.rn40/CHRONICLESrnrnrn