Miguel Antonio was his name.
"Puedo sentarme allí?" I managed to bumble as I threaded my way to the back of the bus from Cartago to Turrialba.
"Sí!" He motioned to the open seat next to him, commenting on his good fortune of having me sit next to him, but checking my seat number just to make sure (I was in the wrong seat, but someone had taken my seat, so we shrugged and I sat next to him).
The words of my Spanish profesora started on repeat: "Practique! Necesita practicar mucho." So I decided to strike up a conversation in my feeble Spanish.
"Usted son de Turrialba?"
No, he said; he wasn't from Turrialba. He was on his way back from San Jose to a small "pueblito" on the way to Turrialba - Cervantes.
The usual small talk ensued - family, work, travel - all limited by my small vocabulary, but augmented by animated body language and smiles. He, with three grown daughters; I, with four sisters.
He did most of the talking. I smiled and said "sí" a lot, repeating phrases I didn't know and leaning my ear closer when the bus was too loud to understand what he said.
The conversation continued in spurts as he would think of something to say, his eyes crinkling with mirth beneath his salt-and-pepper grey eyebrows and close-cropped hair.
He asked me if my sisters were as pretty as I. Yes, I answered, but much more so. He told me to find a good husband, and to work hard at marriage. "Es un trabajo", I suggested. "Exactamente," he replied, agreeing that it is a job, but worthwhile. He noted that he believed my character was good, not proud - my eyes told him so (hey, who am I to doubt a anciano costarricense?).
And so the conversation ebbed and flowed through the nieble y nubos for the 45 minutes from Cartago to Cervantes, where he told me he is a sentimental fellow and was sad to part ways. I agreed.
"Un gusto a conocerlo" - a pleasure to meet you, I said.
His response: "Siempre recuerdo este momento."
I, too, will always remember this moment, señor.
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