I can’t stop thinking about them. María and Arancha.
Arancha and María.
They were murdered in a country I love. They were women, doing things I’ve done dozens of times. They were foreigners, as I am, marveling at this tiny country’s lush green variety that unfurls before you, fold after fold. Mountain, valley, river.
They were brutally attacked on the beaches of Costa Rica – beaches that, as I’ve realized this week, I view as hallowed ground. Those miles and miles