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chasing color and cracks in puerto san jose – a street artist’s notebook

@Oscar Finch3/12/2026blog

i arrived in puerto san jose with a half-empty spray can and a sketchbook that’s seen better days, the kind of place where the ocean whispers through cracked concrete and the sun hangs low like a tired musician after a long set. the weather today is a soft 23.8 degrees, feels like a warm breath against your neck, hope you enjoy that kind of lazy heat. i set up near the malecón, where fishermen mend their nets and kids chase stray cats, and the walls start talking as soon as the first line hits the plaster.

someone at the corner tienda whispered that the old bakery’s wall used to be a canvas for a traveling graffiti crew from guatemala city, and if you look closely you can still see the faded outline of a quetzal peeking through the layers of paint. i spent the afternoon mixing my own colors - a mix of rust, sea‑foam, and a dash of neon pink that i stole from a vendor’s stall - and let the rhythm of the waves dictate my strokes. the locals call this stretch *el bordo*, a nickname that sticks like salt on skin, and every evening the light turns the sea into molten copper. if the streets start to feel too familiar, a quick ride east drops you in the sleepy village of santa lucía, where the pace slows even more and the air smells of ripe mangoes and diesel. i heard from a wandering guitarist that the little café on the plaza serves the best café de olla, strong enough to wake a sleeping mural, and that the owner will trade you a story for a spare can of paint. later, as the sun dipped, i wandered toward the fish market where the stalls glitter with ice and the scent of salt hangs heavy. a woman selling ceviche leaned over and said, “someone told me that the mural behind the old fish market hides a secret signature from a visiting brazilian crew.” i laughed, but the idea stuck, and i added a tiny fish silhouette near the base of my piece, a nod to the rumor. i took a few snapshots to remember the light, and you can see them below:

before calling it a night, i checked TripAdvisor for any hidden spots and found a tip about a secret viewpoint behind the lighthouse -- though the link might be sketchy, it led me to a narrow stairway that opened onto a panoramic view of the bay, perfect for a final tag. i also glanced at Yelp for the late‑night taco stand that everyone raves about -- and sure enough, the al pastor was smoky, the pineapple sweet, and the salsa had a kick that made my eyes water in the best way. i also browsed the local art board for upcoming workshops -- and saw a call for collaborators on a mural project near the train tracks. after a long day, i crashed at a friendly hostel -- where the rooftop offered a quiet spot to sip horchata. the next morning i woke early to the sound of roosters and distant surf, grabbed my notebook, and headed toward the inland market where vendors stack piles of ripe papayas, baskets of dried chilies, and hand‑woven hammocks that sway like lazy pendulums. i struck up a conversation with an elderly woman selling embroidered blouses; she told me, in a voice cracked like old leather, that the town’s fiesta used to spill onto the streets every february, turning the whole place into a living canvas of papel picado and fireworks. i didn’t have time to wait for the celebration, but i sketched a quick study of her stall, letting the bold reds and yellows of her fabrics bleed into the background of my next piece. while i was there, a teenager on a battered skateboard rolled by and shouted, “hey, if you’re looking for a wall that won’t get painted over, try the abandoned warehouse near the train tracks - nobody bothers it anymore, and the concrete there drinks up spray like a sponge.” i followed his advice, found the hulking structure half‑covered in ivy, and spent hours layering stencils of geometric shapes over a base of deep indigo. the place felt like a forgotten stage, and each spray hiss echoed like applause from an empty audience. later, i met a traveling photographer who was chasing the same light i’d been after. she warned me, “don’t trust the guidebooks that say the best sunset is from the pier; the real magic happens when the clouds catch the last rays over the sugarcane fields to the west.” we shared a bottle of agua de jamaica, and she showed me a few shots on her camera - raw, gritty, full of contrast - that made me rethink how i approach shadows in my own work. as the day waned, i returned to the malecón to add a final touch: a thin line of gold leaf that catches the moonlight and turns the wall into a faint halo when the tide rolls in. i packed up, left my empty cans beside the bench for the next wanderer, and walked back to my hostel, where the ceiling fan hummed a lazy lullaby and the walls were already whispering about tomorrow’s adventure.

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About the author: Oscar Finch

Optimist by choice, realist by necessity.

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