Look to your left at the National Theater, a formidable Neoclassical palace defined by its pastel stonework, the elegant columned portico, and the three allegorical statues-Dance, Fame, and Music-silhouetted against the sky on the roof.
This isn't just a theater; it is a declaration of identity carved in stone and marble. When construction began in eighteen ninety-one, San José was a small town of barely twenty thousand people. Yet, the ruling class-the wealthy coffee barons often called the Liberal Oligarchy-decided they needed an opera house that could rival the grandest stages of Paris or Milan. They wanted to prove that Costa Rica was civilized, wealthy, and decidedly European.
But there is a twist in how this bill was paid.
Initially, the government decreed a tax on coffee exports to fund the project. It seemed fair; the coffee growers wanted the theater, so they would pay for it. But that arrangement didn't last. Just fifteen months later, the government realized the money was running out. So, they quietly switched the tax. Instead of taxing the rich exporters, they placed a tax on general imports. That meant every regular person buying fabric, tools, or medicine helped pay for this palace. In the end, the wealthy coffee elite contributed less than five percent of the cost. The general public paid for over ninety-five percent.
Despite that inequality, the result is undeniably spectacular. They spared no expense. They brought in gold, French glass, and precious woods from the province of Alajuela. The engineering was a mix of European expertise and local ingenuity.
There is a wonderful story about the famous ceiling mural inside, painted by Aleardo Villa. It is called the Allegory of Coffee and Bananas. Villa painted it in Italy without ever stepping foot in Costa Rica. He painted coffee growing on a beach-which is impossible, as coffee needs high altitude-and he painted the bananas hanging upside down! But the locals loved it so much it eventually ended up printed on the five-colón bill.
Now, I want you to imagine the floor inside.
Beneath the auditorium seating lies a mechanical marvel designed by the Italian engineer Cesare Saldini. It is a screw-jack system, a rarity in the world of theater. To work it, twelve men have to go into the basement and push heavy levers for thirty minutes. This mechanism lifts the entire floor of the seating area until it is perfectly level with the stage. Why go to all that trouble? So the Liberal Oligarchy could transform the theater into a massive, flat ballroom for their exclusive parties.
For decades, this building enforced a strict social hierarchy. While the elite walked through this grand portico you are looking at, the working class had to use a separate side entrance to reach the upper gallery, known as the "gallinero," or chicken coop. They were physically and symbolically separated.
But buildings evolve. In nineteen sixty-three, this site hosted a summit for the Presidents of Central America, attended by John F. Kennedy. The city practically shut down as thousands gathered to see him. And today, the theater is guarded not just by security, but by legend. Staff members talk about a "ghost actress," a spirit who sits in a specific seat in the gallery, watching over the stage to ensure the arts survive.
We have seen how the elite built their monuments. Now, we are going to walk just three minutes to the Maroy Building. We need to see a place that reveals what happened when the grip of that oligarchy began to slip, and political unrest turned into actual fire. Follow me.
