FEBRUARY hide from the cold

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Vestigial Year is monthly literature, photography, poetry, and art. In February, we bunker down against the chill.

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non. South of the Border

It’s a cold winter evening and the wind-chill makes your nose do that thing where you feel like it’s moving in slow motion as you scrunch it up because it’s below freezing. You walk back to wherever it is you call sanctuary and nestle in a bed to binge watch whatever it is you’d rather watch than do your schoolwork. We’ve all been down this road and around this block, whether you want to admit it or not. But what makes you feel so alive in the dead of winter is not the warmth of your bed or the smell of hot chocolate resonating throughout your cramped college dorm room; no, instead what warms you is the intoxication of spring and how it’s sure to be sprung soon. Or, if you’re me, it’s going to Costa Rica for five days while your friends fight frostbite.

During my freshman year of college, Presidents’ Day became one of my favorite holidays when I discovered that we had not only that Monday off, but Tuesday as well. The past two years just consisted of binge drinking and questionable moral decisions involving the opposite sex, but this year there was something more to it; a little town called Tamarindo in a country called Costa Rica.

For starters, Costa Rica is any Sean Paul/Pitbull fan’s wildest dream. Both artists seemed to be on constant repeat at clubs, beaches, and convenience stores throughout my tenure there. But what really captured the essence of Costa Rica was the sheer positivity that seemed to unanimously resonate with every passing citizen. Through all the stresses and deadlines and hair-pulling that Americans seem to endure every day, it seems like Costa Rica doesn’t have these worries. Everyone worried about whether or not his or her beer would go from cold to lukewarm in the 90-degree weather. To me, Costa Rica was a party and everywhere was the VIP room. Reality seemed to be put on hold for a hot minute as I woke up every morning, forgetful of all the endeavors and stresses that ruled my life less than a week before. Like the undomesticated dogs that seemed to casually roam the streets, I too would wander and perk my nose to smells of meats and nature as they greeted my nostrils with a sense of poignant solace.

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Reed Peraner

When asked about my experience south of the border, I compare it to my trip last year across the pond to Israel. To me, Israel was an obligation that I had to fulfill for myself and myself alone. I felt a sense of accomplishment and pride that I fulfilled not only a lifelong goal, but also an existential moment. But with Costa Rica - Hell, that was just the most fun week of my life. I’m not entirely sure if I will ever be given the opportunity to zip line, ATV, catamaran, snorkel, face death, get offered recreational drugs, salsa, AND jet ski all in the same general location for the rest of my life. And to be completely honest, I’m pretty fine with that.

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fic. The Note on the Café Table

The man left the piece of paper folded neatly beneath a cup of coffee – milk and three sugars, just the way she had always liked it – and walked away, never looking back.

The note read, “For all of the things I used to forget – sorry I couldn’t stay.”

To an onlooker, the scene would have been meaningless and odd; a man purchases a coffee only to leave it on the table where they had once sat, to serve as a paper-weight for the note that in a few simple lines summed up his regrets.

To a stranger it was meaningless and odd, but to the woman that ap-proached the table, carefully unfolded it, sighed, and took a sip of the perfectly sweetened coffee, it was just what she had needed.

Melanie Rainone

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Vestigial YearFebruary

DesignEditPg 1Pg 2Pg 3Pg 4Pg 5Pg 6Pg 7Pg 8

James FitzgeraldDavid Yurman

“TITLE”Ryan Yero

South of the BorderReed Peraner

The Note on the Café Table

“A Weekend at Home”David Yurman

Melanie Rainone

The feature of this issue is Twitter blue for Justine Sacco.