The Great Costa Rica Celery War

After a couple of weeks of missing out, I decided it was time to up my game. No more sauntering in mid-morning like a tourist on vacation. Oh no. I would be there right at 8:00 a.m., ready to snag that celery before anyone else could so much as sniff its chlorophyll-filled splendour. And it worked. I triumphantly secured our week’s supply, every last bunch, and sauntered back home along the beach, crossing the little rivers that cut across the sand—rivers that, rumour had it, occasionally hosted crocodiles, which in retrospect, added a bit of adventure to my grocery run.

The next Tuesday, I repeated the operation, and the next. It became a routine: Scott versus the rest of Sámara in the Great Celery Scramble. On one of those victorious mornings, just as I was leaving Sámara Organics with my leafy bounty, an elderly woman blocked my path. She was short but formidable, with a heavy Italian accent and a look that could wither even the freshest of vegetables. She pointed at my overflowing cardboard box of celery and launched into a rapid-fire reprimand in Italian. I didn’t catch all of it, but I gathered that I was not a hero in her story.

With a shrug and a nervous smile, I mumbled something about “first come, first serve,” and made my escape, feeling her glare burn into my back. It wasn’t until I reached the safety of the beach that I dared to glance back, half expecting her to be in hot pursuit, arms flailing.

The following week, the pattern repeated. I swooped in, scooped up the celery, and, just as I reached the cash register, there she was again—Italian Nona, her expression a mix of indignation and desperation. It was like being caught in a weird hybrid of a travel documentary and a Fellini film. There was some wild gesticulation, a few more Italian phrases that I’m almost certain were curses, and I, feeling thoroughly chastened, sheepishly put two bunches back on the rack.

The look she gave me as she snatched them up could only be described as…triumphant. It was as if she had just conquered Everest—or at least its celery-covered foothills. I slunk out of the store, clutching the remainder of my purchase and my pride, both somewhat bruised.

The next Tuesday, I considered donning a disguise—perhaps a pair of oversized sunglasses and a floppy hat, or at the very least, a wig and fake eyebrows. But I quickly realized that not only would it make me look like a confused spy at a beach party, it would also slow down my river-crossing speed, giving the crocodiles an unfair edge. So, I took a deep breath, steeled myself for the inevitable showdown, and marched determinedly back to Sámara Organics.