When the jungle is inside your head, as well as under your feet.

The Mass is in full swing inside the cathedral; those of us outside in the park can hear the murmurs of the worshipers, the tings and zings of the organ. The cathedral’s doors, like most doors in Costa Rica, stand wide open to the sky, waiting for random breezes. Or maybe hoping Jesus will escape his golden cups and harps, and come running outside to play in el parque with us.

Not that I go to Mass anymore, or even think of myself as a Christian. But the familiar Catholic rituals, the rhythm and the flow of the liturgy, the sudden burst of joy at the end that always catches me unaware — these little things soothe me when I’m far from home, and I seek them out when I’m unsettled.

It’s almost lunchtime, and I watch the vendors arrive in the plaza. They unload their carts, tie up their aprons, and pile up their onions to chop, their plantains to grill. The tables must be set up, the chairs tilted just so. They twist and turn round each other as they work, hands and feet and braids flying, like an intricate line dance. Then Manuel — he is in charge, I think — turns on the music. They do not work without it.

Now I rock back against my bench, bracing myself for what’s coming. The songs are slow at first, and fiery hot. The voices are all male, singing long, emotional ballads, singing power and despair. The strings and keys and drums burn through the heat, wrenching me loose from the ground, like men cutting the sugar cane with short, swift blows. I can’t grasp all the words in Spanish, but the heavy beats roll through my veins, and suddenly I am running.

Run! I am running, fast and far. A sliver of a path through the jungle, the silky green fronds and the massive purple flowers strike my lips, my throat. I am running past my dead — the kids from my old block, my son forever 15, my mother, holding small white blossoms, her tears silent and full. Run! I am running through craters and caves, through dark years and empty skies, over blue oceans and green mountains.

The men sing. I beg them to stop, I beg them, but they sing and sing.

Run! Over the waterfall, into a lake made of words, up to the ridge where the sugar cane grows.

Now I am trapped — trapped in the sun, easy prey for a jaguar. I am skinned and bleeding, and I fall. I am weak and sick and trembling but no one sees. I want to tear out the throats of the singing men and scream in their faces I’m dying I’m dying I’m dying. But I cannot move. The jaguar holds me tight. No one hears my heart beating. And still the workers dance.

I have come to the plaza every day for three days. I do not move from my bench. I am very tired.

I had arrived in Costa Rica a day ahead of schedule, and my guesthouse had no empty beds. My host, a young, whiskered man with German-accented Spanish, sheepishly offered me the small settee in the foyer to sleep on. Mañana, he promised me. Tomorrow we will have your room for you. His pale, grey eyes slid away from mine.

The foyer — no more eight feet wide — faced the front door and the loud, congested street. Even at midnight, cars were screeching and women yelling. My brain was mushy from flying all day, but I quickly calculated the cost and aggravation of heading back out in an Uber to find a hotel in the middle of the night, and I dropped my backpack, sat down, and dozed off.

The screaming jerked me awake. The first time, I leaped from my tiny bed and flung open the door. But the foyer was empty, as were the streets. Two more times I woke up to screams in the night, and then I couldn’t sleep at all. I scrolled through my phone, searching for new lodging. At first light, I’d be gone.

My host brought me coffee at sunrise, and chuckled at my panic. “Los pájaros,” he said. It is only the birds.

He gave me my promised room, and I unpacked my things and tried to rest. I thought the birds had killed ... something. I was very tired.

In the plaza, a woman claims the other side of my park bench. She’s a bit older than me, I think, with short golden-red hair, and dressed simply in a black skirt, and a loose, pale pink blouse. Her earrings catch the sun with every turn of her head — cut pink stones set in delicate silver.

Eyes closed, she sits quietly, singing to herself. She is not sliced open by the music. She is not afraid of the drumbeats and voices, singing their songs to the jaguar.

She looks at me now, soft and knowing. “¿Cómo te va con tu corazón?” she asks.

How is it with your heart?

This question seems important, and I think hard how to answer. My heart is here, close by, I am sure. I may have left it nestled in the cane fields, or hidden in the cloudforest. I may have dug a hole for it in the jungle, and covered it with white petals and supple green leaves. I will fetch it soon. It is almost time.

The woman pats my hand before she stands and walks away on smooth, bare legs. In a moment, she is lost in the crowd.

It is quiet. It is time to open the booths for the tourists, and the music swells and dips and dies. Now they will play light Latin pop songs, or retro American hits. I will hear more Tupac and Aretha than I have in years. ¡Pura Vida!

At my guesthouse, the host arranges a ride for me. “You should leave the city,” he says gently. “Go to the rainforest.” His pale gray eyes slide away from mine. Perhaps you will find what you seek.

I climb into the car and lean back. The shadows swallow me up.

I am so very tired.