My Costa Rican Adventure- Read From the Bottom
On my trip home from Costa Rica San Jose, CheapTickets, and American Airlines all conspired to hold me hostage. My original roundtrip ticket was purchased on Cheaptickets for a return of August 25th on Mexicana Airlines, but since they are going out of business and “rescheduling” their flights (read: canceling without further notice), Cheaptickets offered to refund and rebook the second leg of my trip on American. The snag? It had to be with a paper ticket and I was in Costa Rica…a place where it’s near impossible to get anything delivered.
Now I didn’t see a huge issue with this since I believed, having never dealt with a paper ticket before, that since I was on the airline’s passenger roster it would be no problem for them to issue a boarding pass absent of the physical piece of paper. And apparently I was wrong.
“I’m sorry; we can’t issue you a boarding pass without the physical ticket.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a paper ticket.” The ticketing agent had that “I’m the new guy” squint when he looked at the computer screen so I couldn’t tell if he really couldn’t help me or if he just didn’t know what he was doing.
“But I’m on the roster; you can clearly see me in the computer.”
“Yes, I can see here that you’re supposed to have a paper ticket.”
“Then why can’t you just check me in if your computer says that I purchased a ticket?”
“Because we can’t.” The attitude in his voice matched the hand on his hip. Fucking queen.
“But why?”
“Because we can’t! You have to call your travel agent.”
“Where’s your supervisor?”
Even before the Darth Vador music descended upon the scene I wanted to grab the words out of the air and put them back in my mouth.
“Excuse me, what’s the problem?” And there she was: evil reincarnate, spewing hate from every pore and as I started to explain the situation she cut me off, turning to the ticketing agent and engaging in rapid, almost angry Spanish.
“We can’t check you in without a physical ticket.” The disinterest in her voice matched her face.
“Ok, but why not?”
“You need to call Cheaptickets.” I was starting to regret my missing cell phone because I was completely unable to take control of the situation. Not only did I need access to Cheaptickets’ customer service, but Alan had a friend who was a director for American Airlines’ Latin America Division and I was pretty sure if a call was placed I would be on my flight. And the devil and her spawn might be out of a job.
“Ok, I don’t have a phone, do you have one I can use?”
“No. You need to get out of line so he can check other people in,” my jaw dropped, who the hell was this chick?
“Wait a second, I don’t have a phone or my physical ticket but there has to be something I or we can do?”
“Call your travel agent. Without your ticket I can’t check you in.”
“Well can you at least point me in the direction of a phone?”
“They’re everywhere! Now please get out of line.”
“Can you be slightly helpful and point in a direction? Any direction will do as long as there’s a phone in the vicinity.”
“Ugh, over there by the exit tax counter.”
It took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to rip princess a new asshole for his boyfriend to play with. Frustrated and unclear as to why American Airlines was taking such a hard line on the physical ticket issue, I dragged my very heavy luggage over to the pay-by-credit card phone and attempted to dial. No dice. No toll free numbers.
Crap. All of a sudden the overwhelming feeling that I wasn’t going to be able to leave washed over me like a tidal wave and I could feel the waterworks building. There had to be someone who would help me. My eyes landed on the young guy at the Copa Airlines counter and I decided to try my luck there.
“Hi, I need help,” and from there with very little prompting the tears started to flow. The very kind gentleman went to the back and got his personal cell phone, dialed the Cheaptickets’ toll free number and patiently went about his business while I argued and pleaded and argued some more with Customer Service. After about ten minutes of back and forth on the philosophical differences between an electronic and physical ticket, I finally got the guy on the other end of the line to call American Airlines on my behalf.
“You have to go to the counter and apply for a lost/replacement ticket, pay a $150 penalty fee, and then they should be able to reissue you the paper ticket.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me- I have to pay $100 for them to reprint the ticket?”
“Yea, that’s the policy.”
“But it’s just paper and ink.”
“Just go to the ticket counter and apply for a replacement ticket.”
Clearly logic had nothing to do with reality. I hung up the phone, thanked the Copa Airlines ticketing agent profusely and, feeling like I was being scammed, made my way back to Mr. Sunshine and his supervisor from hell. I waited in line patiently and practiced sending them love instead of the expletives mounting in my cerebral cortex, and when I got to the front I calmly explained to a new ticketing agent what I needed to do.
“Do you have your physical ticket?” Really? Is everyone employed by the airline industry a complete moron?
“I don’t have my ticket, that’s why I need a replacement. I never received it.”
Cue more Darth Vador music as the supervisor made her slow, dramatic walk towards us, and with a glare that froze my blood, began to engage in more rapid Spanish I vaguely understood.
“I’m sorry, you need the physical ticket.”
“Ok, that’s not true and you know it. I just spoke with American Airlines [read: above your head bitch] and they told me that I needed to come to the counter, which is where I am, and apply for a replacement ticket, which is what I’m doing. All I need is for you to give me the application and I’ll be out of your hair.”
A minor victory; the supervisor looked defeated…until she realized she still had the upper hand. She spent the next five minutes causally looking in random cubby holes at different stations, pulling out random pieces of paper and giving them a half interested once-over before replacing them and moving on. By the she approached the ticketing agent and me, I was so angry my head hurt. I glared at her while she turned, refusing to face me, and told the woman that I needed to go to the American Airlines business office in San Jose.
“What? No, no, no, I’m supposed to be able to do this here. I can’t go back into San Jose, I’ll miss my flight.”
“We weren’t going to board you today anyways.” Seriously? Did I sleep with your boyfriend?
“Right,” deep breaths, “Ok, so can you explain to me, from your perspective, what exactly I need to do?” And with that the supervisor gave a half shrug and walked away. More waterworks. I was blown away at not only the lack of help, but at the appearance the employees were actually working against me.
“Ok, ok, don’t cry. You can also purchase a new ticket for today but it will be very expensive,” there was a crack in the ticketing agent’s tough exterior.
“How expensive?”
“Well, let’s see,” typing, frowning, “$745.59.”
“I can’t pay that.”
“I know, it’s very expensive. Look, we don’t have the forms here. All you have to do is go to the business center, I’ll write down where it is, and apply for the replacement ticket there and then you can fly out on the same itinerary tomorrow. You can even take a bus there for a dollar.”
I was finally resigned to the fact I wasn’t going anywhere for the day so I removed myself from the facility, got a cab (since I was in no mood for the bus) and headed for the business center.
“A replacement ticket? I don’t understand.” I was about to lose it. Again. Why on earth would a company have a policy for which its employees were either unprepared or didn’t understand?
I went through the laborious process of explaining my predicament for the 7th time that morning and the associate, a wonderful woman named Jaqueline Barquero, spent the next 45 minutes getting me the cheapest new itinerary possible and convincing her supervisors to waive the $150 penalty fee. She and I also bonded over the ridiculously confusing affidavit I had to sign in order to get my ticket reissued.
“I have to tell you, I have worked here 12 years and this is the first time I’ve done this. Who issues paper tickets anymore?”
“Trust me, I know, I’m with you. But in my world, it’s fitting I would be your first.”
It appeared that my luck was turning and I stopped feeling like I was going to cry…until I saw my itinerary:
2:05pm- San Jose to Miami
8:05pm-Miami to Dallas Fort Worth
6:05am (next day)- Dallas Fort Worth to Denver
10:30am- Denver to San Diego
Right. It’ll be an adventure…or something.
As I stepped out of the business office I realized the important thing was that I was headed home and it had not cost me $745. My karma also seemed to be turning around as a guy appeared next to me on the curb and helped carry my luggage to the bus stop, load it on the bus and then he told the bus driver where I was going. And then once at the airport, the bus driver got off to help me unload. I was starting to feel pretty good until it was my turn for a third attempt at check-in and I was steered towards queeny’s smiling face.
“Wait; did you buy a new ticket in order to waive the penalty fee?” I did not appreciate the incredulity in his voice or his picking up the phone and dialing El Diablo.
“Oh no, no, no, you guys sent me to the business center to take care of this, I did, and now this is my itinerary and my paper ticket. The only thing you need to do is check me in.”
“Hang on.” There was rapid Spanish into the phone, an appraising of the tickets, forced deep breaths on my part, and finally, a look of defeat spread across his face.
“Are we good?”
No answer, just frowning and typing.
“Here are your boarding passes.”
“Don’t you need to check my bag?”
“I already did.” Yea, I didn’t catch that.
“Can you give me the stub?”
He yanked the boarding passes from my hand and slapped a sticker on it. I almost asked to see my bag again just to make sure it matched the tag but before I could open my mouth his back was turned and he was hurling my bag onto the conveyor belt. I made sure he saw me take down his name and then with a smile I walked away with the satisfaction that if my bag was lost Alan’s friend would make sure a nasty letter to customer service would be the least of this guy’s worries.
I made it through customs and the first two flights without incident and was able to get a few hours of shut-eye on an airline-provided cot under the halogen glow of the DFW airport. And then at about 1:30am central time, amid the sounds of vacuums, security segues and CNN, I grabbed a seat facing the window and powered up my computer to write and wait for dawn.
A Conscious Existence
Life in San Jose with Alan mirrors the loosely organized chaos that is Costa Rica as a country. We’re in a gated and guarded three bedroom apartment with two Swedish Mountain dogs, one of which is six months old and can be a complete and utter terror. He is also loving and charming, but won’t think twice about peeing all over the green area rug when you’re not looking. I think he thinks it’s grass.
Things I love: the pool, his family (especially his dad), the maid, the dogs (when they’re not knocking me down), his friends, running in El Parque della Sabana, the afternoon thunderstorms.
Things which took (and are still taking) getting used to: the maid, the dogs, the guards (they’re everywhere), the sketchiness of downtown, Alan’s crazy schedule.
Convenience is certainly an issue and I miss some of the comforts of the States like mail (you can’t get anything delivered here if it’s not to a P.O. Box…and even then, good luck), my face products, and super markets where you can find most of what you need in one spot. I miss being able to talk to my friends and family for less than $2.29/minute and I miss the ocean.
Things I don’t miss? The hair brushes that I forgot and have yet to replace, makeup, summer fog, my job (sorry NorthMarq).
San Jose is far from being a glamorous city. Downtown is congested during the day and dangerous at night, the architecture is mixed and planning muddled, and a car is essential to get anywhere of value. But there are some amazing neighborhoods like Amon with its colonial charm, museums and eclectic restaurants, the elegant Escazu where his brothers live, and the Multi Plaza neighborhood with its new construction and indoor mall that sparkles in its grandeur.
For the most part people are warm and relaxed, used to the untidy operations that come with most Latin American cities and the learning experiences they afford.
One such learning experience was gifted last Thursday night. Alan and I were leaving downtown around 1:30am after a delicious dinner at Café Mundo, a restaurant whose cozy rooms have the funky extravagance of a drag queen, and an impromptu party at a local bar. Alan was afraid he was over the legal limit so he asked me to drive and I was decidedly sober so I slid into the driver’s seat thinking nothing of it. Bad idea.
We turned around one dark and sketchy corner to find a police checkpoint and cars being pulled over at random.
“Do you think you’re ok? How much have you had to drink?”
“I’m totally fine, at least I think I’m fine, I don’t know- what’s the legal limit here?” It’s amazing how the promise of impending authority can cause you to doubt yourself.
“Honey, you have to pull over. Don’t talk, let me speak for you.”
So I pull over, roll down the window, get out my US drivers license and listen as Alan and the police officer engage in what becomes a heated debate in rapid Spanish, complete with hand gestures and hard looks directed my way. Having two people argue about you, in front of you, when you can’t understand a word they’re saying is the weirdest feeling in the world. It’s kind of like watching a movie of your life.
After some explosive comment from Alan the guard took both our driver’s licenses and went to confer with his buddy who was leaning up against the cop car, half asleep, drinking coffee and eating a sandwich.
“They want to breathalize you.”
“What?!”
“I thought you said you were ok?”
“I am. At least I think I am. I don’t know! I had a beer an hour ago- will they take me to jail??”
“Honey, I think you’re fine, but you have to calm down or else they’ll think something’s wrong. You’re supposed to have your passport with you or at least a copy of your passport and entry stamp, and your driver’s license.”
“So what happens if I don’t have it on me?”
“They can impound the car….or arrest you.”
“WHAT?”
“Shh, the other guy’s coming back.”
The lazy one sauntered up to my window, mouth half full and smelling like something died, and made his request in a very unconcerned tone.
“They want money.”
“How much money?”
More angry Spanish.
“Roll up the window; we have to go to the ATM.”
So in the cover of darkness I drove us through the one way streets lined with thugs, revelers, and the occasional prostitute, to find an open ATM so that we could withdraw 25,000 colons and not get arrested and/or have the car impounded. My stomach hurt.
We went back to the checkpoint and traded money for license, Alan passed the breath test and took over driving, and we sped through the inky blackness barely pausing at all subsequent stop signs. Apparently this is considered acceptable since stopping completely might as well be a neon blinking sign saying “Rob me!” Right. I’m never driving at night in Central America again. EVER.
Every day is a new adventure- last week we had to change a flat tire in the middle of rush hour- and I guess you could say I also miss safety, the kind you don’t have to think about.
It’s not that I feel endangered on a daily basis, but existence here for the obviously foreign female is conscious and deliberate. Every action is planned and word considered, boundaries are clear and respected, and acting on impulse is not acceptable. Having been a rather impulsive and trusting woman with a loosely edited inner monologue, these are good lessons for me to learn.
I’m also picking up conversational Spanish and can usually get the gist of what people are saying (as long as they’re speaking at a reasonable pace), and have experienced the delights of meso-therapy (homeopathic fat melting) on my stomach and a laser facial meant to reverse sun damage. Given the ridiculously low prices of such beauty treatments I would be surprised if medical tourism didn’t take off here in coming years.
Bottom line, I’m having fun and have really gotten a feel for what it’s like to live here, which is all you can ask of a sabbatical spent abroad.
Taking a Different View
Our trip out of the jungle was a little more harrowing than the trip in- we had thankfully offered to drive Berto, one of the staff members, into Puerto Jimenez (the nearest big town and airport), and he was able to help us cross the rushing muddy rivers that had risen significantly due to all of the rain. At one point it felt like we were going to be taken down stream. I think our driving conditions scared him because on the one occassion I looked back, his face did not denote the greatest level of confidence in our arriving safely.
But arrive safely we did, dropped him on his specified street corner and headed on up the coast to our final stop- Dominical. This tourist-trap, backpacker surf-town is rife with Americans (almost every sign is in English) and is not a place on the “must-see” list. If Encinitas had less infrastructure, more tourists and was piled into a one mile strip of beach, this is what you would get. People come here to party or because they want to be able let their kids go and not have to worry about them, and I was happy to only be here one night. We stayed at Dominiloco, a small brightly colored hotel a minute walk from the beach. It was the most affordable place in which we stayed and seemed to cater to families (there was a little play structure out front). Mike, the owner, couldn't have been more welcoming and boasted the attached restaurant had the best food in Southern Costa Rica, but after a light dinner we decided that wasn’t saying much.
Saturday Claire dropped me off at Alan’s car and headed to the airport; I dropped it off at his parent’s place (after remembering how to get there in a moment of clarity) and checked into a cheap hotel in a quiet neighborhood just off San Jose’s city center. La Pension de la Cuesta was nothing much to write home about- it was the former house of Tico artist Otto Apuy with small funky smelling rooms and a bathroom down the hall. But it was only $22 a night (including breakfast), had free wifi and was close to a bunch of museums.
Late Saturday afternoon I was writing in the lounge (which looked like a walled-in back patio adorned with overstuffed armchairs and a fake Christmas tree) and in walked Charlie from the Luna Lodge. After having taken each meal together (when there are only four guests it's awkward to eat alone), it felt like seeing an old friend. He was staying there as a pit stop before heading to the east coast so we decided to get out and explore some of the city’s dinner options.
After blowing off some of the nicer, more expensive places, we settled on a bustling local chicken rotisserie joint. As we walked into this 500 square foot sauna packed with tables and booths, a juke box and kitchen, there were no tables available but we were waived over by two Nicaraguans who said we could join them. The brothers, Artero and Carlos, spent the next hour or two trying to teach us Spanish and learn English, writing phrases on paper napkins and asking me for the translations. Laughter was common as they made fun of us at just about every turn. Charlie is a little eccentric and incredibly goofy so I think they had the most fun with him.
After the brothers left we meandered through the Saturday revelry, the choking smog and abrasiveness of daily traffic had been exchanged for the hypnotic hum of a street fair and I might dare say the city center was almost pleasant. We picked up some dessert at one of the late night bakeries, Charlie verbally jousted with a bouncer he swore was a pimp, and we made our way back to our quiet neighborhood.
Sunday I went on a long run en el Parque della Sabana and happened upon a large group of Ticos of all shapes and sizes, in workout gear, facing a stage blaring what can only be described as “jazzercise” music. There were blue Powerade banners everywhere and a ropey guy in short shorts and a Brittney Spears headphone getting ready to “march it out”. I felt compelled to join.
So for the next hour or so I, and about a hundred others, was led in a combination kickboxing-step class in the park that was surprisingly challenging. When the Simons-like character had finished the cool down and we were all drenched in sweat and lining up for the free water and Powerade, I couldn’t help but think: what a great idea. If you’re a city or country whose residents have a collective weight problem (ahem, America), why not get Powerade to sponsor workouts in outdoor areas? You make it a social thing, it’s free, and everyone leaves a little healthier and happier. There were even kids in the mix! It's brilliant.
After a shower and brief orientation to the area, I took lunch at a divey soda where the same men had been sitting on the same stools for the last two decades surrounded by the same sepia photos of the "old city". I had a typical Costa Rican meal, what felt like my 107th Imperial (probably won't need to see another one after I leave), and then made my way to the Costa Rican National History Museum.
It was a walking exhibit that takes visitors from the first evidence of humans to modern day politics and was incredibly educational. It talked about the development of coffee and bananas as exports, how blacks and indigenous peoples served as slaves, and how the United Fruit Company almost ruined the country. The sociology of development was discussed (with a strong nationalistic tone), and displayed their self-view as one of the underdog, the one that must fight to achieve anything of value. It was a stark juxtaposition to the entitlement so prevalent in American culture.
I then visited a market catering to tourists selling woven bags and cheesy “Pura Vida” signs, had an espresso at an outdoor café and read my book, walked a little further into city center for an early dinner, and then back to the hotel to catch up on the news, write my blog, and fall into bed.
Yesterday I was let back into Alan's house and I must say I've never been more grateful for a clean bathroom, comfortable bed, and clean clothes.
Nicoya, Osa and Beyond
Upon leaving San Jose on the 5th, our journey wound north through the tourist traps along the Arenal Volcano where we whitewater rafted with an entertaining couple from Louisiana; sat in the many natural thermal hot springs at the overrated Tabacon Resort, and managed to dine in the one American-owned restaurant in town- the Lava Lounge.
While I’m glad we saw the area, the best part of those two days was chatting with our guide, who also happens to be an organic farmer amongst other things, about the history and development of the area and how it has affected the environment. Jose was born of the land and had an intimate understanding of its ecosystem, a veritably encyclopedic knowledge of the local flora and fauna, and a palpable sensitivity to its mood swings. When he spoke of the recent trends in building and farming and how trees that take hundreds of years to grow were being cut to provide wood for large estates and resorts, the respect and pain he possessed for the land was awe-inspiring. Plus he had that witty yet subtle sense of humor I always appreciate.
From there I drove the exhilarating six hours southwest to Santa Teresa at the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula. I accelerated and swung around the aforementioned narrow and unpaved roads littered with potholes, gravel and pooled rainwater, and got an odd sense of competition when I was passed by more experienced drivers in Defenders. Our first night was spent in a beachfront bungalow constructed entirely of wood and rock with wax-colored linen bedcovers and soothing candles. Our porch had a hammock and was five steps from the open-air restaurant, the yoga platform with a 270 degree ocean view, and the spa.
In the morning we dragged ourselves from delicious sleep to practice an hour of Hatha yoga to the soundtrack of crashing waves and the gentle patter of rain, and after being served breakfast in the restaurant by the most charming of waiters and a darling chef, we were on our way to the Blue Surf Sanctuary and what would be five days of waves, cuts, bruises, frustration and triumph.
The Blue Surf Sanctuary is a collection of four white bungalows each adorned with their own shaded and suspended bed beneath a covered tile porch, comfortable beds and beautifully detailed bathrooms. The small compound has a swimming pool and lounge area and an open-air kitchen and dining room where breakfast is served and where guests can prepare and store their own food. It was heaven.
We had a lesson each morning with either Toro or Pia and either surfed on our own or ran on the beach in the afternoons. I had two of my best meals since coming to Costa Rica at the Brisas del Mar, checked out a regional surf contest, sampled the nightlife and met a few interesting characters.
My favorite was Alex. He was an American from Tahoe who spends half his time in Santa Teresa; he owns land that has a half-built bathroom, running water, and electricity, but only one wall. He had beautiful, thick, long blonde hair, a nicely trimmed goatee, watery blue eyes and a philosophical surfer drawl that was at once profound and yet a little “Spicoli”. He vacillated between acceptance and rage at the workings of the Costa Rican government and the wealthy and their stringent hold on commerce, all while keeping a brotherly eye on the American girls at the bar. He has been one of my favorite jewels thus far.
Santa Teresa was one of my favorite places on earth- a coastal town with dirt roads and an eclectic mix of cultures; it subsists on the balance of acceptance and resistance to progress and fosters an environment of well-being. I have never met people so happy and content and I didn’t want to leave. Pia, one of our surf instructors and the social chair of Blue Surf (who I secretly think is the town mayor), is on the lookout for a cheap place for me to either rent or housesit so I can write in natural bliss as opposed to the stress and smog of San Jose.
The day we bid adieu to the wonders of Santa Teresa we felt like two kids whose perfect treehouse fantasy existence had just been obliterated by the call for dinner. Our feeling of despair only deepened upon arriving in San Jose for what was supposed to be a car exchange and laundry pit-stop, to realize I didn’t have the key to my buddy’s apartment. Bummer. We dragged our sorry sack of bones to a hotel by the airport, ordered room service and a movie and were asleep before 10pm.
The next day was supposed to be briefly administrative and then we were to head south to the Osa Peninsula. What is it they say about the best laid plans? The first half of our tasks went smoothly- we rented a car with little trouble and found a carwash to restore Alan’s to mint condition. But when we went to drop off the car at his parent’s place, I realized that since I had driven from there at 11pm while a tad disoriented and tired from traveling, I was a little fuzzy on how exactly to get there. After getting lost in Sabana Norte and Escazu for about an hour, we decided the best course of action was to deal with the car when we got back.
So now all we had to do was head south on the Pan-American Highway, simple right? Sure. In keeping with Costa Rica’s minimalist theme when it comes to street signs and the cluster that are all avenues and highways running into and around the capital, for another harrowing hour it felt as though the city was trying to hold us captive.
“I think all we have to do is go south on the Pan-American Highway, can you find it on the map?”
“Sure, it’s in red, right before it disappears into the city and mysteriously pops out the other side around Cartago.”
“Well, can you see how to get to it with the blown up map?” My sarcasm was clearly not helping Claire navigate the maze of serpentine streets.
“Oh look, a sign for Cartago! Let’s just follow the signs.”
Five minutes later…
“Where did the signs go?” We were at a T in the road, right or left?
“Uh, traffic is heading right, so…right?” My shaky conviction was clearly showing.
We wound through residential and business streets like blind men searching for the light switch and eventually found ourselves pointed south on Highway 2. The farthest we made it that night was the Ballena National Park and decided to stay at the Cristal Ballena, a funky Grecian castle set high on a hill with a view of the ocean and surrounding forest. Our room was beautiful, equipped with two queen beds and a patio large enough for a four person yoga class overlooking manicured greens and the park. Upon opening the welcome packet I was floored at the number activities they offered: everything from archery to a boat ride and hike into the Corcovado National Park, and they had their own 3 mile rainforest hike onsite. You could spend 10 days here and never get board.
The next morning we were given free admission to Ballena and ran along one of the most pristine and untouched beaches I’ve ever seen. The park is a wide expanse of forest that hugs the coastline and tumbles onto the sand offering bountiful opportunities to view wildlife and to feel utterly alone. At one rock outcropping I climbed to where the porous stones were wet with the receding tide and took a moment to sit and reflect on my current path. I watched the swirling tide and traced my gaze along the shoreline in utter wonderment at my fortune. I quelled the urge to ask, “Why me?” and instead asked myself, “What are you going to do with it?” I only had one answer: something.
Our final destination was the Luna Lodge, the last stop at the end of the last road through the last town on the southern tip of the Osa Peninsula as it abuts the Corcovado National Park. It seemed the perfect place for reflecting. As we crossed the imaginary line into this playground of healing energies we drove past sprawling emerald pastures dotted with brown and white and black, under a canopy of trees and flowers whose branches looped and dove over one another, intertwining like lover’s fingers, past schools and soccer fields and brightly painted homes and could only sit silent with awe. This was where the cacophony of color was created.
The stunning vistas were punctuated by the continued rocking of the car through the pockmarked road and the further we traveled from the highway, the more we felt like Indiana Jones. Once through Carate (the last town) we were led along a wide pathway paved with dirt and rocks and broken in places by several flowing rivers through which we had to ford. During one such expedition we were amazed as we watched an early model Honda coup with a dragging muffler cross the rushing water with the confidence of a Defender.
The lodge had conspicuously placed signs like bread crumbs urging us to continue down the road, confirming that were still in fact headed in the right direction, and after a steep and almost unconquerable hill, that the worst was over. As we crested the last of the mud and gravel mountains in the early dusk we were greeted by a collection of huts made of expertly thatched roofs and whittled wood, shrouded in the most luscious greens, reds, pinks and orange the rainforest had to offer.
The rock pathways and stairs wound their way up the steep mountainside past bungalows and haciendas, the expansive open-air yoga platform and finally up to the platform tents perched on the top of the world. The only other guest, a wiry 5th grade school teacher named Charlie, was staying several hundred yards below so we had the mountaintop to ourselves. The tent was simple, equipped with an attached bathroom and running water, electricity and a covered porch, and provided audible immersion with surrounding wildlife making our utter remoteness complete. I had never felt so at peace.
It had begun to rain and the soothing patter of the drops and the ethereal mist that thread its fingers through the tree tops seemed fragile in its perfection, as if to warn against disturbing the delicate balance we observed.
My mind turned to yoga and I practically skipped down to the platform for an afternoon session. As I moved through the asanas I could feel the vitality of the forest start to work its way into my bones with the intelligence of water, worming into the cracks and fissures formed by a life of stress and disconnection.
The second day there was more rain and the open-air dining room provided the perfect vantage point from where to outwardly and inwardly observe. Words flowed from my head to the keys in the early morning mist and a feeling of calm washed over me. I paused for a moment to take notice and realized that although my road was being revealed as needed and my visibility was low, and despite the fact that I had no mortgage or lease or kitchen table to which to anchor, I felt settled and at home inside my person. And that was worth more than all the obligations in the world.
While at the Luna Lodge I practiced yoga each day, received reiki and a deep tissue massage, hiked to waterfalls, and took a dip in the aqua tiled pool. I ate well, met wonderful people, and left feeling comfortable and centered with my chaos. Not a bad start if you ask me…..
A Word on Driving
Since leaving San Jose Claire and I have been making our way around the country in a borrowed 4x4 SUV figuring out the rules of the road as we go. In this cartoonish video game the driver must avoid parents, children and suicidal street dogs (although we were told that none have the right of way and we should not swerve), take caution of errant motorcycle and large truck drivers barreling wide around corners, and try their best not to hit the multiple holes in the road…all through intermittent rain storms.
And the art of passing is another skill to be acquired. The two lane roads leave few options when stuck behind a truck or bus sluggishly dragging its large caboose through the countryside, so unless he or she wants to take three days to get to each destination, they will be forced to draw on any and all of the physics and geometry retained from high school and engage in sporadic games of chicken. After a few narrow misses I was able to calibrate my visuospatial capacity and time the pass so as not to cause my passenger heartburn.
The roads through the middle of the country, despite winding into and out of tight coils riddled with large distribution trucks traveling at high (and sometimes at excruciatingly slow) speeds, was at least smoothly paved. But about ten kilometers after we drove off the ferry at Pacuare we were faced with dirt roads that were in a perpetual state of disrepair. The afternoon rain rushed over the surface, taking chunks with it as it wound its way through the lush landscape and left a bumpy ride in its wake. Having never ‘froded (as we called it in high school), I started making up for lost time…and there might be some detailing action that occurs prior to our handing over the car to its owner.
Despite the fact that an unpaved road can add as much as two to four hours to a trip depending on how far you’re traveling, it only adds to the adventure and at the end of the day…I don’t really have anywhere I need to be.
My Arrival
So my trip thus far has been a little ridiculous since my Spanish is pretty terrible and I'm operating on a little more than half-information.
My flight from LAX was delayed about an hour and a half- the length of my layover in Mexico City, but luckily they were holding the plane because I was flying the same airline and about half of the people headed to San Jose were on my flight. Upon exiting I thought it would be a good idea to find out my connecting gate number prior to going through customs, so I broke away from the herd and showed my boarding pass to an airport employee escorting a small, elderly couple from our flight. Apparently no one had told him they were holding the plane.
He became incredibly flustered and hurried me into the elevator with these poor people while shouting instructions in aggravated Spanish and, from the look of terror on the old man's face, giving him a mild heart attack.
Then once we hit the ground level we were ordered to jog, allowed to pause only when the man began to clutch his heart (which happened quite often), and during one of these brief punctuations the airport employee demanded I get my customs pass ready. Startled, I fumbled around in my purse but he was clearly ready to move again so he snatched my boarding pass from my hand and as the evening cardio workout continued, he filled out a new form for me.
He bypassed the line at customs and ushered us through like visiting dignitaries...or imbeciles...and when the commotion was over, I was ordered to wait to the side...for like fifteen minutes...for the rest of the people from my flight who had to go through customs the normal way. Right. I received a few a disgruntled side glances when our pack was finally led towards the gate.
Getting out of the San Jose airport was easy, my bags made it, and I had printed the directions to Allan's parent's house (where I had to pick up the car and keys) so when I butchered them, I could just show the taxi driver. Easy right? Well....
The way they give directions here is not with exact addresses, they say it's about 250 meters from the old president's house with a huge white gate around the garage on the right. This is problematic if there are several white gates around garages and the taxi driver is only a little fuzzy on which exact corner the old president lives. Plus it was 11 at night and there was NO ONE on the road, so it felt a little sketchy. There are guards at every house and gates and such, but still....I wasn't super comfortable.
After a couple of tours around the neighborhood the driver and I became a team- since Allan's parents live in a very nice area of San Jose he either thought I was "important" or that I was involved in the drug trade, and he was invested in getting me to where I needed to be.
"Soooo are you here for vacation?"
"Uh huh."
"How long are you here for?"
"Two months."
"Oh. So you're here for work."
"Well, yea, kind of, I guess you could say that," how do you explain that you're here to write, and that's your "work"?
"But you came from Mexico?" His voice was starting to get to a little high.
"Yes, but-"
"And you're going to be staying at this place the whole two months?" Now he's nervous.
"Well, it will be my home base but I'm going to be traveling around a bit." I didn't feel the need to tell him where I was actually staying.
[Awkward silence as he tries to digest the information].
"Soooo, what's your favorite part of Costa Rica?"
Eventually I convinced him to let me get out and ask the guard at what turned out to be Allan's parent's house, if he could tell me where the Weisleder's lived. Unfortunately the guard did not speak a word of English so after I paid the taxi driver there was a brief round of broken Spanish charades while we did the exchange of keys and he handed me a cell phone from a plastic bag and a map; all but cementing the drug trafficking theory.
So I was all set, I had signed out the car, put my luggage in the back and the guard was opening the gate... and then I couldn't figure out how to start it.
Allan had said I didn't need to actually put the key in the ignition because the car would start if the key was in the car, but I couldn't find the "on" button. I fumbled around for about five minutes until the guard started to look anxious (it's clearly not a good idea to have the gate open for too long) and then I started to panic a little because the thought that I might have to spend the night in the car crossed my mind- I couldn't spend the night in his parents' house, I didn't know where I'd find a cab at this hour without getting maimed in some way, and the gated garage with a guard out front was probably my safest option. The guard was clearly feeling sorry for me so he closed the gate and another game of charades commenced until we finally figured out that all I have to do is turn the ignition key-well and presto! The car starts. Right. I'm ridiculous.
So I'm off and running, well, more like crawling because all I had is a crude map drawn by Allan and it was dark out, but I found his apartment complex relatively easily. The guard let me in unannounced, which made me feel a little nervous but I told myself he just recognized Alan's car, and I drove on through. But as I traveled deeper into the underground garage, I realized I had no idea where his parking spot was. So I turned around and through another round of broken Spanish charades (I was getting pretty efficient at this point), the guard realized who I was and called over a relief so he could show me where to go. I parked, I checked three times to make sure the car is locked, I lugged my bags up the two flights of stairs to ground level, and all I wanted to do is shower and go to bed.
But as I stared up at the four ten-story buildings of which this complex is comprised, I realized that not only was I unsure of whether his apartment was on the first floor of the fourth building or the fourth floor of the first building, I didn't know where the numbering started- was the structure in front of me one or four? I resisted the urge to drop my bags in the middle of the walkway and dragged them to the closest door, prepared to try all of the keys on the key ring at every building till I found the magic one. Oh, but there was no key hole, only an electronic box to the right of the door that was clearly controlled by a guard...who also didn't speak English. Finally, another guy came out, I explain: soy la amiga de Allan Weisleder, me llamo Lauren, necessito su apartamento. I imagine I sounded a little like a Russian immigrant at Ellis Island, and with a good natured smirk he let me into the building.
For some reason I assumed Allan's apartment would be on the fourth floor so I got in the elevator without even trying to listen to what the guard was saying and of course when I went to apartment "C", the key didn't work. Thankfully the residents didn't wake up and storm out brandishing a concealed weapon because they thought someone was trying to break into their apartment. Frustrated, I dropped my bags and sank to the floor to try to get online and find Allan's email giving me directions, and then elevator doors opened, angels started singing and the guard who had let me in the building stepped out, picked me up off the floor, took my bags and led me to Allan's apartment on the first floor. I'm pretty sure he and the other guards had a good laugh at my expense for the rest of the night, but after a shower I couldn't have cared less.
