BOOKS

The sound of early birds plus the bright sunlight through the window woke me up. I turned on my side and felt my back cool and damp. I slept on a wet patch, again. Raised my eyes to the thatch ceiling, trying in vain to figure out where the leak is.

I got up and searched for a mirror. Finding it, I understood that a shave was needed so off I went to have one. As it was very early (5:48am) walked up to the river and noticing no one around, I undress completely and jumped in the emerald waters. Skin dipping. Lathered up and, with the help of a sharp Mach 3 razor and a small mirror, I removed all the fuzz off my face. Glanced at the mirror again and felt a couple years younger. Vanity.

I went to the reception area and looked up the reservations book:

2, 6, 9, 16, 25, 36.

Wow.

36 people expected. Full house today as there’s a reservation for a big group of Italians. Panic.

During the busy morning, I checked-out some guests and bid my adieu to them.

…

I’ve just reread the first lines of this blog post and smiled. Funny. It feels like the beginning of a paperback novel.

I guess that’s what happens when you only read the opening chapter of many books that have been left behind by past guests.

Some of the volumes found in the shelves of Finca’s small library are here by mistake; people forgot to take them on their trip. I know this because only the first pages are worn out.

I picture their owners in some bumpy bus ride, searching in their backpacks for that New York Times novel, the one that they’ve just finally figured the plot and were able to recognize most of the characters.

I picture their owners cursing themselves when they finally remember where they left their book: Sitting on the bedside table, or next to the toilet paper in the loo, or even sitting on the pier bench.

Other volumes are here via Book Exchange. Some guests leave the ones they’ve finished reading and grab a new one; other guests didn’t even finish their book, they got bored after only a few pages in, so they will swap it with a new one, hopping that it will be a better read than the previous one.

Either way, I love these books. Not for the contents but,

• for the places that they’ve been. Exotic beaches, high volcanoes, party hostels, boat rides, under bus shelters, etc.
• for the amount of hands that have turned their pages.
• for the things their previous owners used to bookmark them. I’ve found postcards, normal paper bookmarks, scraps of paper with notes to loved ones, email addresses, phone numbers, butterflies and dried leaves, even money, dollars of course.

In a way, is like having my own library of recommended books.

More often than not, I find myself resting on a hammock, holding a random book, turning its pages, searching for clues that can somehow reveal their last owner’s habits. O how I rejoice when I read a dedicatory note on the back of the front page, when I recognize a faint hint of some eau de toilet, when I notice a dirty fingerprint on the side of the page, or even when I spot underlined sentences with handwritten notes.

As we’re right at the midst of a jungle, a wetland, a swamp, all the elements get together and as if by magic, turn all books into old, smelly, brown and worn out things, even brand new paperbacks. It feels like they’ve been here for an eternity like when you walk through the aisles of the oldest library in town.

I’m passionate about this place. And, although, I’ll be leaving this place soon, I’ve already left my mark. If you ever stay at Finca, search inside the novels. You will find little notes, random secrets and treasure hunt maps written by me.

Gaby is just standing behind me and, looking over my shoulder, trying to read what I’m typing on the Word processor. She whispers on my ear: “That’s all very nice and philosophical Paulo, but don’t you think you should be patching the leak on the ceiling of your room? Do you want to sleep on a wet patch again?”

Ciao 4 now

~ Paulo ~