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looking, looking…but she would always awaken just before she discovered what it was she was searching for. After waking, the mystery disturbed her otherwise tranquil sleep.
    Though she never reappeared in her dreams, Marcela found her thoughts returning again and again to the strange woman who’d sold her the silver pendant.
    Peace, my child. Relax and come to me. Come to Semma.
    Semma? Was that the name of a village in Costa Rica? The woman’s name? Marcela had no way of knowing, nor should she care, but she couldn’t seem to shake the woman’s image or her soothing words from her head.
    Come to me.
    Without pausing long enough to let the rational side of her personality talk her out of what was surely a crazy, impulsive idea, Marcela found herself on the phone, credit card in hand, booking herself on the next available flight to San Jose, the vibrant and beautiful capital city of Costa Rica. Not sure if she was about to do something stupid or not, she fiddled nervously with the silver pendant around her neck. The perfectly round ball felt remarkably warm to the touch.
     
    ***
     
    The Republic of Costa Rica was a small yet glorious place: a diverse, thriving country that had tropical beaches, eco-rainforests, and rugged mountain ranges in equal measure. In the center of this paradise, nestled between two of the higher mountain ranges and therefore protected from the balmy Caribbean and the often merciless Pacific winds, lay a postcard perfect valley, the Meseta Central, where two-thirds of Costa Rica’s population lived. San Jose, the vibrant capital city, was home to 300,000 friendly, hard working people. Most were urban dwellers, passionately in love with their city. They wore stylish clothes, were hip to all the latest fashion trends and proudly referred to themselves as Ticos . Most lived and worked inside the city limits, happy to leave the fishing industry, or the growing Coffee, Sugar, Banana, or Pineapple plantations to the country farmers. Ticos or farmers, Marcela wasn’t here to meet any of them. She was only here to find one person.
    And she worked for herself selling trinkets and necklaces to the tourists.
    Marcela wasn’t at all sure she would be able to track down the strange woman of her dreams in this busy, often chaotic city, but some awakening voice inside of her was adamant that she try. Spanish being her native tongue, Marcela had little difficulty communicating, although even within this small nation there were numerous different dialects spoken, some similar, some vastly different from the language she had grown up speaking in Santo Domingo.
    Just steps outside of Juan Santamaría International Airport–located ten miles outside of the city–Marcela hopped on a bus and was soon standing in downtown San Jose. It was mid-afternoon and the city was alive and kicking: people scurrying everywhere, cars and buses honking and jostling for position, and street vendors on bicycles selling fruits and cold beverages out of wicker basket on wheels pulled behind them. It was far busier than Marcela remembered from her last trip here, but at least it would be easy to find someone to help her find the woman she was searching for. As it turned out, she didn’t even have to move. A man selling lottery tickets spotted her and rushed to her side before any of his competition beat him to the punch. He was tall, rake thin, very dark skinned and wearing a comically large hat woven from palm leaves that served the duel purpose of shading his bald head from the sun and also attracting customers. He had bad teeth but his smile was genuine so Marcela purchased two tickets and let him keep the change.
    “Quizás puede usted ayuda mí, Señor? Trato de localizar alguien,” she asked. Perhaps you can help me, Sir? I’m trying to locate someone.
    The street vendor was more than happy to help, if he could. Marcela told him how she’d been to San Jose last summer with a friend and how she’d purchased a necklace