Bus, Ferry, Taxi and Airplane: The long journey back home

23 December 2010

Bus, Ferry, Taxi and Airplane: The long journey back home

I found the bus stop in a dusty lot on the edge of town. There were about forty people sitting on the ground and benches, waiting for the buses to arrive. There were Ticos and their families. There were tourists, many looking sunburned and wind swept. The hippies looked like their last bath had been in the ocean. There were those with backpacks and those with oversized rolling suitcases. It was a diverse bunch. Papa Gringo made one last appearance. He walked through the lot, picking up garbage and examining the items in the garbage can with that absent look in his eyes.

Finally two buses showed up. One was large and the other small. The large one looked familiar from the ride there at the beginning of my trip. I lined up with the many other tourists and waited to get on. When I got to the bus driver I asked for confirmation that this was, in fact, the bus to San Jose. He shook his head and pointed to the bus on the other side of the lot, the small one. There was one last seat on the sweaty little bus next to some British girls of college age.

About twenty minutes later we arrived again to the town of Cobano; the very same town where I’d spent an hour and a half waiting for the bus to Montezuma. The driver had us all get off the bus and wait at a stop. A few minutes later, the larger bus that I had almost boarded earlier in Montezuma pulled off on the curb down the street. The sign on the bus said “San Jose” so I started to approach it. A Tico man sitting on a bench nearby corrected me, telling me that the bus was not ready yet and I should go back to the stop and wait. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, the bus drove up the thirty feet to the bus stop and now it was ready to be boarded.

While I was standing there waiting for the bus, I met another traveler, Greg. (Interesting that I met both a Greg and a Christy while on my trip as these are the names of my parents…) He was obviously Canadian from his accent. He was a tall, brawny guy from British Columbia. He’d been in Costa Rica for three weeks where he’d created his own yoga and surf retreat. He agreed that Costa Rica had been a bit more touristy than he’d have liked and wondered if he should have gone to South East Asia instead. By the time Greg and I got on the bus, it turned out we were some of the last passengers on and there was only standing room left. The bus driver tried to alleviate the situation and told us that more seats would probably open up after we unloaded at the ferry. The ride would be about an hour and a half. The British girls sat down on the floor in the bus aisle. There wasn’t much room left on the floor and I was wearing a dress, so I decided to stand. Greg was ingenious enough notice that a couple sitting right near us had a small cooler at their feet. He asked the couple if he could borrow it to sit on.

It was a bumpy ride through the rough dirt roads and winding mountain switchbacks. I had to hold on to the sides of the chairs with a strong grip so I didn’t fall over. Not long into the ride, Greg chivalrously offered to share the cooler seat with me. We took shifts sitting there throughout the remainder of the ride. An hour and a half later we were in Paquera to board the ferry.

It was dusk as we all lined up for the next leg of our journey. I commented to Greg on how absurd the whole transportation situation was, the bus, ferry and bus ride. He said, “It’s all part of the experience.” Greg was right, sometimes the most memorable parts of traveling are in the mundane events like riding a bus.

Greg and I found a seat on a bench located on the upper deck of the ferry. It was comfortable pleasant tropical night. The sun was setting; the bay we were crossing was light up in purple and pinks as the sun set behind the mountains. We shared stories from our Costa Rica travels and talked about our favorite travels in the past; mine was Cambodia, his was Bolivia. I was grateful that Greg shared his plantain chips and Canadian beef jerky with me, as I was getting hungry and had run out of colones, the Costa Rican currency.

About an hour and a half later, the ferry started to approach the town of Puntarenas. Greg and I both said that there was no way we were standing for the upcoming two and a half hour bus ride to San Jose. I said that there must be some kind of karmic rule that one should not have to stand on the bus twice in one day. We planned our exit from the ferry and very fortunately ended up being some of the first people on the bus. There were a few unlucky passengers who had to stand the entire ride again.

Greg and I sat together on the bus and entertained each other over the ensuing hours. We actually had a lot in common. We talked about our displeasure with the state of health and food in North America these days. He also loved unpasteurized dairy products. Like me, he boycotted television. We both shared a mutual dream of living on a little self-sufficient farm some where in the Pacific Northwest. Greg would probably be more successful at this endeavor than me, the girl that can barely keep a houseplant alive. His parents were in the farming industry and he himself worked for the Canadian government in some kind of environmental planning or engineering. He wanted to save up some money to buy land in British Columbia and live off the grid, power the house with wind and solar, maybe even raise some goats. I always wanted goats! When the conversation changed to music, we swapped iPods and shared new music with each other. We both liked folksy mellow country-ish music. I told him about Prairie Home Companion, he shared a Canadian Broadcast radio show with me. I now had a whole list of new artists to explore when I get home.

Greg was getting off the bus near the airport for an early morning flight to another part of Costa Rica before he headed home on Christmas day. He asked why I didn’t just stay in the area where he was going. It would have been a lovely idea, if only my backpack weren’t still at the downtown San Jose hostel. All of a sudden Greg’s stop arrived and there was the usual scramble to get off the bus. We said goodbye. I thanked him for entertaining me over the last four hours or more. It had been great meeting a like-minded person. By the time he was off the bus, it occurred to me that I hadn’t even gotten his contact information. With all that we’d had in common, it would have been fun to stay in touch. I wanted to know how his quest for self-sustainability ended up. Greg, if you are out there somewhere in cyberspace, email me! I still want to come deliver goat babies on the farm.

It was at least another thirty minutes after Greg left until I reached the Coca Cola bus depot and my final destination. The temperature in San Jose was much cooler when I stepped off the bus. I wrapped by scarf around my shoulders and looked for a cab driver take me back to my downtown hostel. I found a short and stout driver named David who brought me over to his red taxi along with a very amorous French couple who’d also just gotten off the bus. Luckily my Spanish is decent enough to understand the gist of a conversation. David explained that there was some sort of Navidad celebration going on in downtown San Jose and therefore he would have to take me on a roundabout drive to get to the hostel and would drop the French couple off on the way.

As we drove, he let us know that there would be a road closure starting tonight at 11pm and continuing until 11am tomorrow. There was some kind of bridge in the process of collapsing over a highway that led to the airport and therefore the road would be closed for repairs. David said that this closure would result in a big detour of an additional 20km in distance and double the time and cab fare. This was a big concern for me as I had a 7am flight back to New Jersey which I’d hate to miss given the fact that it would be Christmas Eve.

After David dropped the French couple off at their apartment, I told him in the best Spanish I could muster, that I thought I’d like to ditch my hostel in downtown San Jose and find a place close to the airport tonight so I could avoid the whole mess. David assured me that this would not be a problem; he would drive me there, and knew of plenty of clean, safe hotels 5 minutes drive from the airport in the same neighborhood that Greg had mentioned he’d be staying. He went on a whole rampage about how much it irritated him that these downtown hotels wouldn’t let the tourists know about road closures and inconveniences that would affect their travels; he clearly believed they were only interested in making money.

I knew my hostel wouldn’t be pleased with the fact that I was ditching the reservation at 10:30 at night, but what choice did I have? Luckily the man at the front desk spoke English well and I explained the situation. He informed me that the road closures would not start until the night of December 26th, not December 23rd. He said the driver didn’t know what he was talking about and he probably just wanted to get my additional cab fare. He insisted that I could get a quick and cheap ride to the airport in the morning. He also told me that the owner of the hostel would not be happy that I wasn’t keeping my reservation there and he wants to have 24 hour notice for cancellations. He shrugged his shoulders and said that I could do whatever I wanted, he didn’t care, but the roads were not closed.

I didn’t know who to believe! Was I being taken advantage of? I went back outside to David in his taxi and tried to explain to him what the hostel worker had told me. David seemed frustrated; he insisted that he had heard over the police radio that the road was closed tonight. He said he was just trying to help me out, that I could do whatever I wanted as well, it made no difference for him.

I went back inside the hostel and asked the man to get my big backpack out of the storage while I thought for a moment. While I stood in the lobby with my big backpack, a Taiwanese couple I’d noticed earlier in the week walked in with their two young kids. When the woman saw me with my backpack she light up. “Oooh! You are backpacker, yes?” I confirmed that it was true; I was technically a backpacker. She responded, “How many countries you visiting on your journey?” Clearly she thought that all backpackers were on some epic journey around the world. I felt bad disappointing her when I told her that Costa Rica was the only stop on my voyage this time around.

A moment later, David walked up to the hostel to discuss the situation with the hostel man. They had a heated discussion in Spanish where both insisted that they were right about the dates of the road closure. The hostel man insisted that David just wanted my cab fare. David insisted that the hotel owners downtown were taking advantage of tourists. Both reiterated that they didn’t care what I did, it was all the same to them. David left the building, and I followed him. I apologized to the man at the hostel but said that I’d rather err on the safe side than have a disaster tomorrow morning on the way to the airport and miss my flight home.

Back in the cab, David vented about the hostel guy. He said that these guys just stayed inside their hotels all day and they didn’t know what was going on in the streets like he did. I still didn’t know what to think, but I my gut told me that heading to the airport tonight was just a smarter idea. I informed David, though, that if I was to be able to pay the cab fare, we’d need to stop at an ATM. We took a detour to a bank which involved David driving backwards in the wrong direction down a one-way street. He apologized before he did this, explaining that it was much easier this way.

We had a broken conversation on the way about my travels and the Costa Rican Christmas traditions. About twenty minutes later, we got off the highway into a quiet city neighborhood and pulled up next to a hotel. The front was made of glass and fortressed with iron bars. We had to ring a bell to be let inside. David carried my heavy pack on his back while I checked in to this very basic hotel. David said the price was usually $40 but I was getting it for $30 since he knew the guy. I am sure that was all a load of bullshit, but at this point I was tired and didn’t care. Once I was assigned a room, David delivered my bags to the door. He then shook my hand and said goodbye.

The hotel was one of the sketchier places in which I’d stayed. To get to my room I walked through an open area that was probably used for a driveway. There were clothes hanging out to dry in the open area adjacent to the driveway, and if looked like someone might live in a shack back there. My room had a single and double bed inside of it and even a TV. The guy at the front desk had handed me a plastic bag, which had towels, soap, and a TV remote inside of it. After I dropped my bags on the bed, I noticed that someone already inhabited the room; it was a hefty sized cockroach. This probably would have fazed me in the past, but I was used to these palmetto bugs from living in subtropical Houston. I halfheartedly tried to kill it with my shoe, but my tired reflexes were too slow for the highly evolved creature. He ran under my bed. I just hoped he wouldn’t crawl over me in my sleep.

It was after 11pm by now and I hadn’t had a proper meal since the tacos back in Montezuma at around 1pm. I had noticed a restaurant next door to the hotel and decided I’d check it out. It was the only place in the area open besides a KFC down the road. This corner restaurant was the Costa Rica equivalent of a 24 hour dinner. There were only two other men, both sitting alone at tables, eating big plates of food. A friendly couple was running the place. I was impressed the menu was bilingual and I inquired about a rice dish to the woman. She excitedly proclaimed it was “muy, muy, muy bueno!” How could I say no to that?

I took advantage of free wifi while I sat there. Ten minutes later, the man brought me a huge plate of steaming out fried rice. I had literally ordered the Costa Rican equivalent of Chinese fried rice. There were bits of chicken, ham, egg and vegetables in the rice. It was greasy and delicious. I could have eaten the entire plate, in fact I wanted to, but I stopped myself two thirds of the way through. I’d surely already consumed a day’s worth of calories in this dish. I did not linger long, anxious to get off to bed. I paid them about $4 for the meal and returned to my hotel.

Back in the room, I took a look around at my sketchy little room. There was no lock to secure the door from inside. I hoped that I didn’t wake up in the morning to realize I had a kidney missing or find out in nine months that I was carrying a Costa Rican child. There was something resembling a bed bug or body mite crawling on the comforter. I contemplated a shower, but opted for sleep instead. I’d clean up back in the comfort of home. I would be a bit smelly but my family would love me anyway. Despite the surroundings, I had no trouble falling asleep for the next four hours until it was time to catch my flight.

The next morning I realized I had survived the night unscathed and complete with all of my organs. There were no obvious bug bites on my skin either. I quickly gathered my bags and went out front the desk. I had to wake up the guy who was working there as he had laid down in his adjacent bedroom since I’d last seen him. The taxi arrived minutes after he called it and it truly was only a five-minute ride to the airport.

I swiftly moved through check-in and security in the airport. This was clearly a much easier holiday traveling experience in Costa Rica than it would have been in any American airport. I have never seen a plane be boarded so fast and when I got on board, I realized why. At most, the plane was about one third full. Most of the rows in the back of the airplane were completely empty. It was hard to imagine that the airline even made money off that flight.

As the plane sped down the runway, I reflected on my time in Costa Rica. I had met so many people who seemed to be in search of change, self-betterment and clarity on life. I had shared some of their personal quests and so I figured it was only fair to consider my own. As 2010 draws to an end, I look back and feel great satisfaction my personal growth this year. At this very same time in 2009, I was working hard as a first year resident in Connecticut, still struggling with my lifestyle as a resident and grappling with the life decision I’d made that led to me living in Connecticut instead of Southern California. It was at the changing of the New Year one year ago, that I made the decision to leave my residency program and transfer to another. Transferring was not the simplest endeavor, and I certainly hadn’t taken the path of least resistance, but I couldn’t have been happier today with my decision.

In the past six months that I’d lived in Texas, I was happier than I’d ever been. I was putting in long hours at the hospital, but felt really satisfied with the work I was doing and the memorable patients from all over the world that I’d been able to help. Having been in the suburbs of CT last year, I loved living in Houston and exploring all that a big city had to offer. I was at home in the friendly and hospitable Southwestern US. I didn’t miss the harsh winter or cold personalities of the Northeast. I loved wearing my cowboy boots and listening to country music. I was back into running and in the best physical shape of my life. I’d made diverse, fun and wonderful new friends in Texas, most notably, a new best friend, Jason. More importantly, I felt like I had regained my independence and identity by making a leap into a big life change. I felt like I was sending out positive vibes and getting it back in return. I was living life more as an extrovert than an introvert

As happy as I felt, I realize there is always room for growth and betterment. Some of my goals for the New Year are simple: start taking pottery classes again, pay my bills on time, join a cycling group, get more sleep, and begin my resident research project. Others aspirations are more elusive: stop collecting so many material possessions, be optimistic, expand my circle of friends, live in the present moment, and find the best in all people and situations. Life is always a work in progress so I plan to take 2011 one day at a time because after all, we have no choice but to do just that. Happy New Year.

Greckles and Mariana: Last Day in Montezuma

23 December 2010

Greckles and Mariana: Last Day in Montezuma

I actually felt well rested when my alarm went off at 5:45 that morning. The sun was not quite up yet, but it was still light enough and the air was cool and clammy. I threw on my smelly and damp running gear, ate some energy Gu, and was on my way for a 14km run to the town of Cabuya and back. As I got to the stretch of the road that hugged the coastline, I had an amazing view of the sun rising over the horizon of the ocean. It was a fiery orange orb hovering just midway between ocean and sky. The air was still and colorful. It was starting to get hot though.

It was a challenging run along the dirt road. There were steep hills and it felt that even the flatter areas were a steady incline. The humid was palpable even early in the day and my skin was beginning to chafe as I went on. I saw a tree sloth on the side of the road; he didn’t pay me much attention. Most of the surrounding area was rural with farms and emaciated cows chomping away on grass. The locals were beginning to wake up and heading off to work. Hotel owners stood on the side of the road and watered the dirt road in front of their place. I am not quite sure of the purpose of this act, perhaps to counteract dust clouds later in the day, but it seemed like a waste of water to me.

The town of Cabuya was not much more than a few colorful buildings at a crossroad intersection. The road I’d taken ended in a nature preserve that was supposed to be one of the most pristine in Costa Rica that hadn’t even been open to tourists until recent years. It was time to head back to Montezuma though, before it became unbearably hot. Two other runners passed by me as I tiredly made my way down the road, they barely seemed to be sweating. How was that possible??

I was actually looking forward to the cold shower back at the hostel after the hot run. I met my new neighbors when I returned. They were a couple from Lake Placid with their teenaged daughter and her friend, who were practicing yoga on the landing outside our rooms. They seemed like mature and mellow teenaged girls and they couldn’t believe it was only 7am when they asked me for the time. They were sure it was already 11am in the morning.

I looked for Christy before I headed to breakfast but she was not around. Perhaps her night with Brad had been eventful. I ate at a small café painted bright yellow and serving typical Costa Rican food. I ordered one last gallo pinto for breakfast and enjoyed it with coffee while reading a book. There was an American couple eating next to me and struggling at communicating with the waiter. The woman clearly needed to spend a good few months unwinding in Costa Rica as she was a nervous wreck. She was stressing out to her husband about ordering a vegetarian meal, of which there were many on the bilingual menu. Even after ordering her meal, and repeatedly saying “vegetarian” to the waiter, she still complained to her husband. “God, its just so difficult for these people to communicate!” they fussed. I chuckled at her terrible American accent; when she said “por favor” it sounded like “pour fay-vour.”

I was walking down towards the beach when I saw Christy at the same café where we’d eaten together the day before. She was eating breakfast with three people she’d met on her snorkel trip the prior day. There was a young married couple traveling with another male friend. They were all originally from Arizona but lived in Humboldt, California now. I was admiring the wedding rings that the couple wore because they were very unique. I think people have gotten ridiculous these days with the exorbitantly priced wedding and engagement rings. It seems like the focus of engagements now is almost more on the “ring” than the act or the commitment. They were wearing gold rings with greenish turquoise rocks set in them; the turquoise was significant in that it had come from Arizona where they’d grown up together.

Christy was going to hitch a ride to Santa Teresa with them later that day, but first they had plans to hike up to the waterfall with Brad. I said goodbye to Christy and wished her luck on her journey. I told her that I thought that what she was doing was really brave. So many people stay complacently in a relationship where they aren’t happy or in love because they are too fearful of change. I hoped she could make peace with her decision.

I found a piece of driftwood down the beach that was in the shade of a tree. I sat there and read my book with my toes in the sand. It couldn’t have been a more relaxing way to spend my last morning in Montezuma. I checked out the jewelry stands on the way back from the beach. The Rastafarian guys were out there selling their jewelry like every other morning. They smoked weed while working on more pieces. Most were made from semiprecious stones and woven threads. Some were made from hemp and natural items that can be found on the beach. One guy was selling some interesting jewelry he made with silver and stones. I bought a ring.

Every Saturday in Montezuma there is an artisan market. This week they were holding it on a Thursday because of the upcoming Christmas holidays. I found the market located in the middle of a park that had a jungle feeling to it. It wasn’t a big gathering, but there was a decent crowd of local expats and tourists. I was starting to feel like I knew everyone in town as I continually bumped into the same people everywhere I went.

I saw the Scottish woman, she was selling calendars she’d made with her photos of the Nicoya peninsula. I saw Papa Gringo using a machete to crack open coconuts. I met a woman who was originally from New Hampshire but had been living in Costa Rica for at least half a decade. She was openly breastfeeding her two month old half Costa Rican daughter while she talked to me. She explained that stand was a “hands on” experience and that I should try her coconut oil based toiletries. There were other people selling tie-dyed clothing, colorful handbags, more woven jewelry, and artwork. There was also a small farmers market with fresh fruits and vegetables.

Just as I was finishing my circuit through the market, I ran into Sebastian. He was chatting with a guy from Eugene, Oregon who was a drummer by profession, but grew medical marijuana legally at home. It was endearing to hear how Sebastian pronounced marijuana; it sounded like “Mariana,” it made the drug sound so classy. Sebastian and this guy from Oregon were going to play a gig later that night at one of the bars in town.

When the Oregonian walked away, Sebastian and I had an interesting conversation comparing the puritanical sexuality of Americans with the looser values of the Europeans. He told me a story about an American girl he’d been with in Germany. She was originally from a small, conservative town in Texas. Sebastian said she’d only had one sexual partner her entire life up until the age of 25. At that time, she traveled to Berlin to visit an American friend living there. That is where she met Sebastian, who was friends with her pal from home. Sebastian said he could tell how rigid and uptight she was from her Christian upbringing. But all of a sudden, he said, it was like something switched on. She started doing research, watching pornography, reading about sex. She finally approached Sebastian; she was ready to experiment. He was happy to oblige. For the next week, they were holed up in his apartment. He said there was a party on her last night in Germany, but early into the night she tapped him on the shoulder, pointed to her watch and said, “We have six hours until my flight back home and still a long list of things to try, let’s go.”

I looked at my watch and realized it was thirty minutes past time to check out of my hostel. I told Sebastian I had to run. He said he couldn’t believe I was leaving for the US so soon. We decided to meet for lunch in an hour before my bus ride back to San Jose. I went back to Hotel Luna Llena and reluctantly packed up my belongings. Up in the lobby area, I set up my laptop and checked into my flight back home. The view behind the computer screen was of the hibiscus flowers and ocean below. I contemplated whether or not I really wanted to go through with this flight back to the cold of New Jersey, but my family was waiting there. It was Christmas, after all.

I carried my bags back to the town square of Montezuma and found Sebastian at Dorado’s Tacos, eating yucca fries while he waited for me. Dorado’s is owned by a guy from Boston who also took the plunge to leave normal life and live in paradise. I ordered some fish tacos and fueled up for the long ride back to San Jose. Sebastian said that the sun had really made my “grackles” come out. “You mean freckles?” I said.

I heard more about Sebastian’s travels. He had lived in Ohio for a year while in high school as part of an exchanged. He said that he wasn’t very cool until the football coach approached him and asked him to be the kicker on the team. Popularity ensued thereafter. In Germany, he said, sports were not the epicenter of coolness as they are in American high schools. He enjoyed his experience in the US though and as a result, has flawless English. Sebastian had also gotten to live in Portugal for a time, the called him Sebastiao there. He’d been lucky to actually make a career out of playing the saxophone and had traveled through Europe and Asia thanks to his band. I told him that when he decided to do his American tour, he’d better stop in Texas. We exchanged emails and said, who knows, maybe we’d cross paths again in Berlin or Texas.

As I walked through Montezuma town one last time, I happened to bump into Christy. She was getting ready to pile into a beat up looking SUV with the Humboldt California group. They were on their way to Santa Teresa but wondered if the car would even make it there as it was making some odd klunking sounds as it idled in the street. We said goodbye once more and I wished her luck and peace in her life. I said I’d drop her a line soon and see how things worked out for her and her marriage. It was time to start the long journey back to San Jose and ultimately New Jersey.

Waterfalls, Yoga & New Beginnings in Montezuma

22 December 2010

Waterfalls, Yoga & New Beginnings in Montezuma

The other residents of my hostel told me that the howler monkeys woke them up that morning, but I didn’t hear them. I had slept so well again. Now that I was becoming better rested, I was even starting to have dreams again! I have all but stopped dreaming since residency started, and I really enjoyed the vivid dreams I used to have. I was so glad that I forfeited salsa dancing for sleep the night before.

Christy and I had made plans to meet for breakfast at a place called The Bakery Café in town. By the time I got myself ready, I realized that I’d probably be a bit late arriving, but who can be in a rush when visiting a town like this? I found Christy sitting in the café, located a few meters from the beach, eating tropical fruit and granola and drinking a coffee. Christy, Sam and Danny were all taking a tour boat out to Tortuga Island to snorkel and were leaving the hotel at 9am. I had all the time in the world, so I ordered another round of gallo pinto with fried eggs and a latte and savored it. I watched the white-faced monkeys jump from tree to tree next to the restaurant.

I learned more about Christy’s difficult situation as we ate breakfast. She is married to a wonderful guy who treats her like gold, she said, but she started to realize that he was more like her best friend than her lover. She was taking some time to figure out what she wanted. She had moved out of their house together three months ago. Part of her reason for coming to Costa Rica was to have space to think. That, and the fact that she said she really hated Christmas. She also wanted to come to Costa Rica to reevaluate with Christmas meant. Back home, she felt it was all so contrived and materialistic. She didn’t know how her husband’s family would take 6 hours to open presents and “ooh and aah” over them when she just wanted to get drunk and be cynical.

I made no rush in getting to the yoga studio. It was located not even half a mile down the road from where I ate breakfast. Montezuma Yoga studio was located on the grounds of a hotel called Los Mangos. The yoga studio itself was an open-air gazebo draped with batiked tapestries and pictures of Buddha and lotus flowers. Hibiscus bushes surrounded the gazebo and one could see views of the pristine ocean further down the hill. Dagma, the German woman I had met the day before, greeted me warmly and told me to help myself to a yoga mat.

Dagma was an attractive, middle-aged woman. She was tall and lean with an angular face and piercing blue eyes. She led us through a challenging but enjoyable hour and a half long Vinyasa flow yoga class. It was definitely the most beautiful and peaceful setting in which I have ever practiced yoga. The clientele at the studio were actually mostly locals and expats, not tourists. It was a fabulous way to start another day in paradise.

It was about 90F by the time I left the yoga studio. I decided to head back to my favorite little hippie hang-out, Organico café, for a snack. It felt kind of strange to me that I was having such a slow-paced vacation. I was accustomed to the kind of vacation where I’d get up early, cram in as many museums or sites into one day as possible, or hike the biggest mountain I could find. Then inevitably I would come home from vacation with laryngitis and bronchitis or just be more sleep-deprived than I was before I’d left. I had decided when I arrived in Costa Rica that this was going to be a different kind of vacation. I didn’t plan to park my ass on the beach and cook myself the whole week, but it was going to be an active but relaxed affair.

Back at Café Organico, they were having free guitar lessons. A smiley and bubbly Costa Rican man was teaching a little boy and one of the expat cooks how to play some cords of a Costa Rican song. I sat there and listened while sipping a smoothie made of coffee, rice milk, banana, caramom and cinnamon, deemed Turkish Delight. I took advantage of the free wifi while I sat there and watched the world go by. A bit later a Swedish couple sat down on the floor cushions in front of me with their two small children. The woman actually looked like she could have been Costa Rican, she was some breed of Latin-Swede. They sat and ate a rice noodle salad with vegetables while the little girl played drew on their legs and feet with chalk and the mother breastfed the baby. It looked delicious, the salad, not the breastfeeding, so I ordered one for myself. Just because I was on vacation, I ended the meal with some kind of vegan “chocolate” coconut dessert.

The heat of the day was subsiding now and I decided it was time to visit Montezuma falls. There are multiple waterfalls located in and around the town, but Montezuma falls were the main attraction. It was a 10-minute walk to the trailhead and from there one just follows the river up hill. I criss-crossed back and for over the river by hopping over rocks. Hemp flip-flops turned out to be a poor choice for hiking, but again, I was traveling light so I had to make do. As I teetered on the rocks at the edge of the river, a couple returning from the falls suggested that I take the trail through the jungle instead, as it was much safer. It was certainly easier to walk on the dirt path. I also got good views of the waterfall from above. It eventually became steep and narrow and followed a series of water pipes that were jerry-rigged throughout the woods. Someone was clearly taking advantage of this fresh water below.

My dress fully drenched in sweat and feet covered in dirt, I finally made the final descent down the mountain to the basin of the waterfall. A dozen people were sprawled out on the rocks around the waterfall, enjoying the mist, cool breezes, and drying off. The water was chilly but refreshing after the hike. After a quick dip, I too lounged on the rocks. When I was dried off enough to put some clothes back on, I started the walk back to the road. I walked for a bit with a couple from Toronto. When I said I was from Houston, they said they’d been stranded there for four days on the way down to Costa Rica, but with a month of travel time, it didn’t effect their vacation too much. When they asked how long my stay in Costa Rica was, they, like everyone else, said that 6 days was just not enough time. I conceded that this was true but that six days were better than nothing, and plus I wanted to see my family for Christmas. The Canadian couple told me that they had made a practice of just being together as a couple, away from family, for their Christmases. They said it took awhile to trail their families on this tradition, but they enjoyed that it was just “their time.”

The sun was getting lower in the sky as I returned to Montezuma town from the waterfalls. It was that beautiful time of day when everything is colored in a warm red hue. I decided I’d take another walk down the beach. I didn’t make it far before I found Sebastian laying in the sun and reading his book. We caught up for a bit and said we’d try to meet for dinner later. Christy had been interested in the same. I took a walk down the beach until the next bend in the shoreline, just to get the view of the next beach. The surfers were still catching waves, hippies smoking joints, kids digging holes in the sand, and countless people worshipping the sun; it was a real tropical paradise.

I relaxed at the lounge area in the hostel, waiting to see if Christy or Sebastian would show up for dinner. It was almost 7pm and I was starving so I decided it was time to go in search of food alone. I had read about a sushi place right on the beach and thought that sounded healthy and delicious. As I walked through town, I spotted Christy drinking beers with a man, Brad, whom she’d met the night before where I salsa-danced. I thought of saying hello, but figured they were better left alone. She needed to do some exploration on this trip, and I didn’t want to interfere.

The sushi restaurant was located on the northern end of town right next to a hippie beachside campsite. It was a small operation, really just a hut for making food and a tent with tables in the sand. There were only two other couples there. While I waited for my food, I also got to walk on the beach at night. I wish my camera could have gone justice to the beautiful scene. The full moon was large and yellowish and hung low over horizon casting long beams of light on the still ocean below it. A campfire burned further down the beach. The sky was clear and all of the constellations were easily viewable.

I was a bit curious to see what sushi from Costa Rica would be like, but it was as delicious as anything an Asian person could make. While I ate, I watched an older white man, probably in his 60s, putter around the beach. He picked up coconuts and odd trash items off the beach. He approached the Costa Rican couple behind me and tried to offer to cook or prepare something for them on the beach campsite. When he walked away, the girl giggled and referred to him as “Papa Gringo.” The guy had clearly dropped one too many acid tabs and killed a lot of brain cells; he had a vacant look to his eyes. His skin was tanned and leathered and dotted with multiple tattoos. He seemed like someone who had probably run away from something at home many years ago and never returned, getting by on odd jobs, fondling young girls, and living in a tent on the beach.

I headed back to the hostel around 8pm, planning to make an early night of it and get up at dawn to go running. I had a craving for something sweet and bought a sleeve of vanilla crème cookies at the convenience store for about 80 cents. Christy and Brad were still sitting at the same restaurant and chatting outside while indoors the movie, The Hangover, was being projected on a large screen for all to enjoy. Christy waved me over to them and I sat down for a bit while I devoured the entire sleeve of cookies. I inquired more about Brad’s story. He said that he technically lived down here in Costa Rica now. He was and soft-spoken man in his early 40s from Minneapolis originally which was easily evident from his Midwestern accent. He had some kind of high-powered job in the internet business and traveled continuously. He felt burned out and unhappy, and subsequently laid off, and decided he was going to re-evaluate his life in Costa Rica. He wasn’t sure how long he’d stay, but it was a start and he was happier already. It seemed that a lot of the people I’d met this week were in Costa Rica to do some serious self-reflection.

I asked Brad if he thought he’d get bored in Montezuma. I said that I could probably only last a month before I’d be itching to leave. He agreed that it could get boring, but he liked the slower way of life right now. He could always move on to some other beach town. I think he’d like it if Christy would stay down there with him, in his quest for fulfillment. He was clearly smitten with her. The two of them were planning to move on to another bar for more beers, I figured I’d leave them to their own devices and get myself to bed. I was really enjoying this whole “sleep” thing that had become so foreign to me.

Eating and salsa-dancing my way through hippie town

21 December 2010

Eating and salsa-dancing my way through hippie town

It was wonderful to sleep in with no alarm to wake me up that morning, and it was the first time in two weeks I had been able to do that. Of course, there was the 5am wake-up call from the rooster down the street, but I was able to fall back asleep. I slipped quietly out of the room while the Norwegians continued to sleep.

It was 8:30 in the morning and already about 80F and humid. I walked to the café directly next door; a place called Zwart café. The café was a monotone of white with colorful art pieces hung around. I ordered a latte and the gallo pinto breakfast, which is the typical Costa Rican breakfast. Gallo pinto is a rice dish mixed with black beans, onions and peppers. Mine came with scrambled eggs, toast and bacon. My latte was delicious, as it should be, considering coffee is grown in Costa Rica. It was good enough that my dad would have approved, and probably ordered a second right after finishing his first.

I took a long stroll back to the hostel by walking down the beach. It was sweltering already with little to no breeze coming from the ocean. I felt the sun baking my pale Anglo-Saxon skin. It dawned on me at that time that I had completely forgotten to bring sunblock on my trip to Costa Rica! The scenery was still gorgeous though. The surfers were already out in droves. It was time for me to head on to my next destination though.

I planned to spend the next few days of my vacation in the hippie beach down of Montezuma which was about 15km from Santa Teresa. Jonnie told me that if I stood on the side of the street outside the hostel, the bus to Montezuma by way of Cobano, would pick me up around 11:30. I was still standing in the heat and sun at 12:00. I was quickly realizing that schedules are only a suggestion in Costa Rica.

Finally I saw the green bus bouncing down the road. It was moving at a speed about as fast as an easy jog. You don’t rush to get places when you life in the tropics. I plopped down the first seat in the bus and patiently waited while the bus crawled down the dirt roads. The bus made frequent stops to pick up locals. The girls would kiss or shake hands with the middle-aged driver. The bus also seemed to function as a mail delivery system. People would flag down the bus, hand the driver a package and some money, and off we’d go. A few miles later, someone else would flag down the bus and receive their package and also hand the man some money. Between the female attention and the extra change he received, I’d say that this driver had a great job!

About thirty minutes and 7 km later, we had finally arrived at the town of Cobano. From here, I would catch a bus to Montezuma which was only another 7 km distance. The town of Cobano is nothing special, it’s really just a town to pass through on route to another destination. Unfortunately, I spent an hour and a half there standing on the curb, waiting for the bus to Montezuma which was 40 minutes late. When all was said and done, it would take me two and a half hours to travel the 14km from Santa Teresa to Montezuma. I guess this is why the travel guide said that once you arrived in these towns, you were loathe to be in any rush to leave.

I called out to my bus driver to stop the bus when I saw the sign for my hostel, Luna Llena, on the side of the road. The hostel was a bunch of bamboo bungalows perched on the side of a steep hill which overlooked the ocean and town below. A Dutch woman told me that my room was ready, except it had no mattress. Apparently the owner was out shopping for a new mattress. The room was small, just enough space for a single bed with a mosquito net and a shelf for belongings. Shower and bathroom were open-air and located at the end of my bungalow.

I ditched my stuff in the room and walked the remainder of the way down the hill to the small town of Montezuma. The town itself was only about 2 blocks in length. It was densely concentrated with restaurants, bars, cafes, tourism offices, taco shops, and hippie hang-outs. Rastafarian men and women were making jewelry out of shells and threads and selling them on the side of the road. Buddhist prayer flags and hammocks hung from the fronts of the buildings.

I spotted the sign for a place called, Organico, with a slogan that said, “Pure food with love.” Outside the café was a chalkboard listing different events, all free, that would go on at the café throughout the week. Earlier today there had been salsa dancing and tribal dance classes. Later on there was as Christmas cookie baking class. Other highlights included Hypnosis positive thinking class, Buddhist meditation, Tibetan meditation (was there really a difference between the two?), chakra balancing yoga, and free drawing class with live model.

It was already late for lunch at 3pm, so I ordered a light meal of a fruit shake called Super Sexy which was made of mango, avocado, banana, spirulina, and wheat grass and ate this with a vegan raspberry banana bread. I enjoyed this while sitting on cushions on bamboo floor mats. When I was done with my meal, woman with an obvious Scottish accent approached me and offered me an Indian head and upper body massage; 40 minutes for $20. When I found a good place in my book to stop reading, I took her up on the offer.

We moved to another part of the café for the massage next to an American woman about my age who was reading a book and sipping a drink. Her name was Christie and she was also traveling alone and happened to be staying at my hostel. I invited her to come come to dinner with me later that night. The Scottish woman sat me up in a chair with cushions and proceeded to give me a wonderfully relaxing massage during which I couldn’t help but fall asleep; luckily she was holding my head up.

When the massage was finished, she brought me a cold glass of water and we talked. I asked her how she had ended up in Costa Rica all the way from Scotland. She had taken a visit to Montezuma and fell in love. At first I thought she meant she fell in love with the town, but turns out it was a Costa Rican man who had smitten her. They stayed in touch, and she started to plan how she could move her life to Costa Rica. She was a travel agent in the UK. When she decided to make the move to the tropics, she started learning how to do massages, manicures and pedicures. After practicing her new skills on friends at home, she finally relocated to Costa Rica for good. She admitted that it was a big adjustment at first, but she now had learned to live life in the slow lane.

I walked a bit more around the town of Montezuma as well as the closest beach and snapped a few pictures. On the way back I realized that it was time for the Christmas cookie baking class at Organico. There was a small gathering of some of the expat locals who had brought recipes. Some of the cookies were already out of the oven and ready for eating. I met Czech woman who lived between Prague, Los Angeles, and Costa Rica with her American husband. She had made some delicious Czech almond butter cookies. There was another woman named Dagma, who was a German from Hamburg, who’d lived in Montezuma for 10 years now. She invited me to her yoga studio the next morning. Then there was a young Australian guy named Noah, who was a chef at what was considered the best restaurant in town. This is, coincidentally, where I had invited Christie to join me later that night.

The Scottish woman had given me a recommendation of where I could go on an evening run. I returned to the hotel and put my running clothes on. They were still a bit damp from the massive amount of sweating I had done the prior day on the beach. That is one drawback of traveling very lightly in a tropical country; one resigns oneself to being a bit smelly. But I figured I’d fit right in at this hippie town where the women don’t shave their armpits, let alone wear deodorant!

It was actually a challenging run along the dirt road. I had to dodge potholes and loose rocks as well as climb up and down steep hills and be wary of all passing cars, trucks, ATVs and motorbikes. The views were beautiful though as the road hugged the side of the coast. I turned around again when the sunlight was dwindling. As I ran back to the hostel, bats flew out of trees, swooping over my head.

After a shower, I headed up to the lobby area of the hostel. It was really more like an open air balcony with cozy chairs, hanging chair baskets, views of the ocean, jazz music and all alight with candles and Christmas lights. It was an extremely relaxing hang-out spot. Christie was already up there on the couch, reading a book. She told me that she had invited an English couple to join us for dinner. While we waited for them, we started a conversation with the guy sitting in the couch near us. He was a German from Berlin named Sebastian, also traveling solo. We now had a dinner group of five people.

We all got to know each other a bit more as we walked down the road to Playa de los Artistas. Sam and Danny were from the Midlands area of England. They had moved to New York City four years ago when Sam, a medical editor, had been offered a job. Danny worked in international aide, fundraising for war torn countries. Sebastian was originally from the north of Germany, from small town famous for making the world’s best marzipan. He plays the flute and the saxophone in an electronica band that toured around Europe and Asia. Christie is a therapist from Ashville, North Carolina. She had recently separated from her husband and was taking time to decide whether or not she still wanted to be married to him. Her two-week trip to Costa Rica was part of her soul-searching. We realized that all five of us were all exactly one year apart with our each of our ages ranging from 29 to 33

Playa de los Artistas was a very romantic restaurant set right on the edge of the beach. There were many candle light tables scattered around the palm trees. The restaurant’s menu changed daily depending on what fresh fish they had or what the chefs decided to make. We ordered a round of beers while we waited for the waitress to present the menu. Finally a tall thin woman in a microskirt and midriff bearing shirt walked over, she looked like some kind of Brazilian model. “You will order food,” she said. It sounded more like an order than a question.

She then went on to present us with the menu of the night which was hand written on two pieces of paper inside of a book cover made of the bark from a tropical tree. We decided to share some appetizers, which included a tuna tartare with passion fruit, tuna carpaccio, and a mahi mahi ceviche. For dinner, we also all ordered fish dishes. Christie and I both had what was basically a fish lasagne. Instead of noodles, there was polenta stained black with squid ink and instead of meat there was mahi mahi. Sam had a whole grilled barracuda. Danny ordered mahi mahi filet covered in nuts and raisins. Sebastian had fried tuna balls. Everything was fresh and delicious and the company was equally as enjoyable.

We decided to continue the evening at the main bar in town called Chicos. We ordered another round of Costa Rica beer and chatted. I spotted my Scottish masseuse out on the dance floor salsa dancing with her Costa Rican boyfriend. Before long, a guy who looked like a Costa Rican approached me. He asked me if knew how to salsa dance. I said not really, but I’d try. I stumbled around like an idiot for a little bit while he tried to explain the footwork to me. Once we actually started to dance, he was so good at leading that it didn’t really matter that I had no idea what I was doing. His English was as good as mine, and it turned out he wasn’t technically Costa Rican. He said his father was from Florida and of Italian-American descent and his mother was Dutch. He said that he is Costa Rican though, because he was born here. His parents own two hotels in Montezuma and he helps to manage one of them. He wanted me to stay out for more salsa dancing, but I declined in favor of sleep. He asked me if I wanted to go running down the beach with him at 6am, but I knew he couldn’t keep up with me. Finally he said that if I wanted to come by his hotel tomorrow night, he might be able to hang out. I know how these vacation guys operate. First you have pina coladas by the beach. They tell you how pretty you are and how the ocean brings out the blue in your eyes. Next thing you know, they get you to quit your conventional job and move down to paradise to weave friendship bracelets and whittle jewelry out of coconut shells. Either that, or you just get drunk, end up with sand and crevices of your body you never knew existed, and taking home the souvenir that keeps on giving, herpes. Oh no, I knew better than to mess around with “Latin” lover wannabes. But I’m just hypothesizing here; I don’t speak from experience!

The Long Quest for Love, Surf and Yoga in Santa Teresa

20 December 2010

The Long Quest for Love, Surf and Yoga in Santa Teresa

I quickly dressed and gathered my belongings together after my 4:45am alarm went off. The sleeping man at the front desk got up and called me a cab to get me to the bus station. About 10 minutes later I was arriving at the Coca Cola station where I would board the 6am bus to Santa Teresa or Montezuma…I hadn’t quite decided yet where I would land.

I found the bus station quietly busy at that early hour. The city was not as loudly humming as it had been last night, but there was a good amount of food traffic outside. It wasn’t really much of a station, more like a bus depot. I knew I must have found the bus to the hippie surf area when I spotted a white girl with blonde dreadlocks standing nearby. She confirmed that this would be the area where the bus would arrive in about 45 minutes. I decided that food was in order now that I had time to spare.

Across the street from the bus depot I spotted a basic café filled with Costa Rican travelers. I sat down at the table closest to the open kitchen and was quickly approached by an older man hunched over with osteoporosis. He asked me what I wanted. I said, “Heuevos and café.” He seemed to ask me what I wanted to go with that, but unfortunately most of the Spanish vocabulary I know pertains mainly to vaginas. I nodded my head and figured I wouldn’t have much issue eating whatever the man brought me. The coffee was served immediately. He plopped a spoonful of powdered milk into it before giving it to me. Following coffee came a plate full of buttery scrambled eggs and slices of dry bread. I hungrily ate it up.

By the time I had finished my breakfast and gotten over to the bus stop, I realized that the line was already very long. It seemed that half of San Jose and all the tourists were heading where I was. As I got in the back of this line at least 60 people deep, I started to feel frustrated that I had arrived at the bus station so early but yet might not even get on the bus at all. The man in front of me was clearly not Costa Rica with his long blonde hair and enormous surfboard bag. “So are we getting on this bus or not?” I asked him. He said that he wasn’t sure either and if we did miss the bus, the next one wasn’t until 2pm. Turns out that this guy lives in Costa Rica so I trusted his words.

The bus drivers cut the line off about 4 people before I was finally about to board the bus. There was a lot of discussion between the bus drivers in Spanish and they eventually pointed us to the next bus over, luckily for us, they had a second bus.

It was a two and a half hour bus ride from San Jose to the town of Paquera. When we arrived, we all disembarked from the bus and waited about 20 minutes to board a ferry boat across the bay which would take another hour. I sat with the long blonde haired man on the ferry ride over and we talked to pass the time. His name was Alex and he was an artist. When I asked where he was from, he said, “All over.” He had grown up in Florida, Houston and Southern California and lived and traveled other places. His mother was Cuban and his dad was French. He had moved to Costa Rica to do his art and surf the good waves. He currently resided in a border down just north of Panama but was headed to the town of Mal Paìs for some Christmas surfing.

As the ferryboat chugged along, we talked about our travels. He showed me pictures of his artwork, which were very colorful beach inspired murals and paintings. Recently, he had been traveling to different cities around the US to paint his art on Ugg boots in stores. Alex gave me his recommendations about places to visit in the southern Nicoya peninsula. He suggested I try out Santa Teresa and stay at a place called Casa Zen. The man had lived here for nearly a decade, so I figured I would follow his lead and the specific directions he gave.

When the ferry finally docked, we found our bus waiting for us on the other side. The journey wasn’t over yet; we still had another hour and a half to reach the town of Cobana, which was the entry point to the nearby surf towns. The buses don’t move very fast on these mountainous and trench-filled dirt roads. I took my final bus ride of the day from Cobana to Santa Teresa just as the rain started falling. It was the shortest ride of all: only about 15 minutes. I saw the blonde, dreadlocked haired Canadian girl on the bus again, and she described where I would find Casa Zen. When I spotted the painted sign of a Buddha, I knew I had arrived.

The rain was falling hard when I left the bus so I jogged the rest of the way down the soupy road to the entrance of Casa Zen. Nestled under thatched roofed huts and open-air buildings, I found the hippie enclave of Casa Zen. I asked the woman at the bar if there were any available rooms. She looked through her books and then unfortunately informed me that the only room they had was an apartment meant for 4 people with a price of $85 a night. Now this is not really an expensive room by American standards, but I was in Costa Rica and I knew I could find a better deal. I told her that I would think about it while I ate lunch at their restaurant.

Before I said anything else, she was on the phone with another hostel in town, trying to find me a spare room. When she got off the phone, she happily informed me that her friend Jonnie, who she just “looooved,” had a free bed in a dorm room. I decided that for $12, I would take it and I settled in to eat my lunch of brown rice, beans, avocado and pico de gallo.

This woman, Tiff, working the bar and managing the hostel turned out to be great lunchtime entertainment. She was a thin and fast moving woman with sleeve tattoos on both arms as well as most other places on her body. She flitted around the kitchen in tiny shorts, taking food orders, delivering food, all while playing with the boom box and fixing her hair and makeup. She turned the music up when a particular song came on, “Oh my god! This is my favorite Tears for Fears song! I love it!” she said, before rocking out to the music.

A woman approached her at the bar, and they had a very excited conversation in Spanish. There was hugging and squealing in high-pitched voices. When Tiff returned to the bar she told me, “Oh my god! I think I am going to cry! I am so happy!” “Yes,” I said, “it looked like you got some good news.” To which she replied, while wiping tears out of her eyes, “Yes! That woman I was talking to makes the best bikinis in town! They don’t fall of while you are surfing and the actually make me look like I have an ass…and she is going to make a bikini for me! Oh my god, I am going to cry! I need to start making some earrings to give her back as a gift.” I never saw anyone get so excited about a bikini.

I soon realized that Tiff was one big ball of manic energy. Everyone and everything she talked about was “awesome” and she just “looooved” it. Everyone was also like her family or her best friend, the men at the tattoo parlor were her family. The cab driver was her favorite person ever. She wanted me to tell Jonnie, the hostel owner where I’d later stay, that she “loves him sooooooo much.” I asked her if she ever hated anyone. She giggled and said, “No! Oh wait…there are some ex-boyfriends in this town actually…”

I stuck around Casa Zen for an hour and a half yoga class for $8. It was located in an open-air room on the second story above Tiff’s bar. There were hammocks hanging overt the yoga floor. The teacher was clearly an American expat. She did a good job teaching a class to about five of us, however I could still hear Tiff yapping away downstairs throughout.

When class was over, I walked about half a mile down the main road in Santa Teresa to meet Jonnie and check into the Don Jon hostel. The road was a mess of puddles and slimy mud. As I walked down the road I was passed by countless ATVs carrying bikini clad women and shirtless men with surfboards on the back. I walked by surf supply stores and many a tattoo parlor.

Finally I found Don Jon hostel and was welcomed with the sounds of Bob Marley playing overhead. I met Tiff’s Jonnie, who seemed like he’d smoked so much marijuana in his day that he had lost his ability to make and quick or sudden movements. There were a cat and dog lazily lounged in the reception area that looked as if they had profited from years of second hand smoke and so were equally as lethargic. Jonnie took my $12 and showed me to my room. On the way, he told me to be careful with my belongings at the beach, “There has been some delinquency,” he said. I asked him if it was safe to leave my stuff unattended in the room. To that he replied, “Yes! Your roommates are Norwegian.” Oh, the trust worthy Scandinavians.

The room was basic but clean. Jonnie showed me to one of the lower bunk beds and handed me some sheets. I didn’t linger in the room very long. It was already after 4pm and I wanted to take a run on the beach since it wasn’t too hot that day. If I didn’t get going, it would be dark before I got very far. It took me about 10 minutes to find a path down to the beach. The views were pretty amazing when I stepped out of the jungle path and onto the sand. The beach seemed to stretch on for miles in either direction. I would find out just how many miles, as I intended to run about 10 miles if I could. Running on sand is definitely more exhausting then the dirt paths and paved roads to which I am accustomed. I was able to find packed sand in most areas, but my legs were feeling the extra work. It was also about 75F and humid out, which I should be used to from living in Texas, but nonetheless I was not moving at my normal pace.

It was certainly one of the most scenic runs I had ever taken. I watched the waves break along the beach. Crabs scampered out from holes in the sand. Surfers bobbed up and down in the ocean. Mist rose from the jungle along the shore. Beach goers walked along the coast with children splashing through tide pools. The scents and smells along the way were also amazing. The aromas of tropical flowers were intoxicating; some smelled of citrus, others were like gardenia or jasmine. In one area there was a fire burning. Every so often I would smell another kind of smoke, from the surfer guys smoking marijuana along the beach. And of course there was the smell of sea air.

I ran on for about 3.5 miles and the sun was getting pretty low in the sky. The beach was also getting narrower and more rugged. I had run out of beach and sunlight a bit earlier than I’d have liked, so I turned back. When I had retraced those 3.5 miles, the sun had completely set. If it weren’t for the full moon in the sky, I would have been in complete darkness. There were a few others late to leave the beach as well, but it was pretty deserted. I had a feeling it might be difficult to find the same path I had taken out to the beach in darkness. Everything sort of looked the same during the day, let alone at night. I kept on walking down the beach, looking for some landmarks I’d remembered. I had gone quite a ways and nothing looked familiar anymore so I knew I had gone too far. Luckily I found a well-light hotel beach area and cut through their property to get back to the street. When I reached the street, I realized that I had definitely walked well past my hostel, but at least I knew where I was.

After a refreshingly cold shower, as hot water is not offered at many hostels, I was ready for dinner. I invited my Norwegian roommates to join me at a café called Rendez Vous just a few meters down the road. The café was run by a young French couple and I had a delicious crepe filled with cheese and spinach and some kind of tropical fruit drink. It was a relaxed and cozy café where some people sat on laptops, and others practiced their musical instruments. I heard more about the Norwegians. They had been traveling for about 6 weeks in Costa Rica, and clearly the girl was ready to go home. She said that it had been raining too much and it was making her depressed. I reminded her that in Norway it was dark and freezing. She said, “Yes, but I love the snow!” She was a chef and worked on the ships the left out of Bergen. She’d cook for the men on the ship for about 4 weeks and then return to home for a 4 week break. It sounded liked a pretty good gig. Her companion, Ivan, was some kind of mechanic in Norway.

We also met a young married couple in the café from Texas who had just moved down to Santa Teresa. The guy said that he had a job in security which allowed him to travel a lot and work from anywhere in the world. I asked him why they moved to Costa Rica. He said there were a few reasons. For starters, he wanted his wife to go back to school to get some kind of masters in education. She wasn’t as keen on this idea. So he suggested that they could move to another country and she could work on her degree there. She agreed. So they looked into some different places in Central America. He said they liked Costa Rica because many people spoke English, there were direct flights back to Texas, and a good education and high literacy rate and, at least for Latin America. They had just arrived to their new home in Santa Teresa. They were renting a two bedroom house, just off the main street, for about $800 a month. He said that eventually they would move inland, closer to the beautiful volcano, Mt Aranal, where they could have an even bigger house for only $400 per month. I was starting to understand why so many expats have settled in Costa Rica. I was enjoying the company of all of these friendly travelers, but I was ready for bed. I had decided that catching up on sleep was going to high on my list of priorities while on vacation and my bed was calling.

The noise of San Jose

19 December 2010

The noise of San Jose

The glass at the San Jose airport arrivals may have been dirty and smudged, but I had no trouble spotting Jonas’ smiling face when I walked out. It’s always wonderful to arrive in a foreign country and have a friend waiting there. After working an exhausting two weeks straight in the hospital, squeezing in a visit to San Antonio the day before, and getting up at 5am to catch my flight, I was beyond tired. It made it that much nicer than Jonas had met me at the airport so I didn’t have to try to use my sleep deprived brain to navigate downtown.

For one dollar, we took a 20 minute local bus ride from the airport to the bustling center of San Jose. I had booked a hostel, at Jonas’ recommendation, at the end of a long shopping promenade in San Jose. It was Sunday afternoon, and the locals were out in hordes. The women had stuffed their bodies like sausages into skin-tight jeans and mini skirts but with muffin tops hanging out the top. The men had heavily gelled slick hair. And it seemed that every other woman was pregnant.

Hostel la Cuesta was located on a quiet street just off the main drag. It was a colorful house with basic but clean rooms. I had a private double room for about $25. As soon as we dropped off the bags, I insisted on getting some food to eat. All I had eaten all day was a tasteless egg pita on the airplane and I was starving. Jonas and I stopped at one of the first decent looking restaurant that wasn’t a McDonalds or a KFC. One had to all but tackle the waitress to get her attention. Finally she brought us some menus. I looked at what the family at the table next to us was eating, and decided I wanted that. I ordered a tropical fruit smoothie containing fruits of which I’d never heard and to go with that, the classic Costa Rica cosada meal which consists of a meat of your choice (pork in my case), rice, beans, plantains, yucca, and some other vegetables. Fortunately the food arrived with speed and soon my blood was flooded with happy little glucose molecules. I felt good!

After Jonas and I finished lunching and catching up, we went back to the crowded promenade for a post-meal stroll. There were all kinds of performers in the street including a Peruvian style band complete with Native American headdresses, a lone guitarist playing and singing classic rock hits, and I even spotted a fat & round lady dressed in a full clown costume. She wasn’t performing, just eating, or maybe that itself was her special act.

Just after I commented on how San Jose was not a very festively decorated for Christmas, we stumbled upon a holiday craft market. Vendors were selling all kinds of artsy items, but most were made out of recycled items. Costa Ricans do pride themselves on trying to be ecological. I met a cute, bubbly girl with perfect English who was selling her barrettes and headbands which were decorated with leaves and tree bark. She told me of her dream to help the planet through her work. I couldn’t resist but buy a few of her crafts.

After I had shopped enough and indulged in a latte and very rich dessert, called torta chilena, that must have contained at least one stick of butter, we started heading back towards my hostel. On the way, we visited another market which sold the typical Latin American souvenirs like coffee beans, woven hammocks, paintings of tropical scenes, and Hawaiian print sundresses. After that, we followed our ears to a performance in the middle of a square. There was some kind of celebration underway, commemorating the 165th anniversary of an agency of justice. There was an orchestra playing mostly Latin but also some Caribbean and Calypso music. The locals seemed to be enjoying it, some even partner dancing in front of the performers.

When the show ended, Jonas and I headed back to the hostel. He tried to help me figure out how I might best spend my short five day visit to Costa Rica. There were so many interesting places to see but so little time, especially since the buses in the country are slow moving. I decided that the Nicoya peninsula, in the northwestern corner of the country, might be my best option. There was a 6am bus to the southern beach towns on the peninsula and I decided I’d give it a try.

After Jonas left to meet his girlfriend at a play, I went out for another stroll down the promenade for a dinner snack. As I walked out of my hostel, I could hear the sounds of drums and chanting coming from the Hare Krishna temple across the street. They had been going strong in there, chanting, for the last 4 hours minimum. The streets were still bustling with locals. Men were yelling and cheering as they poured out of bars in football jerseys, clearly after the victory of a Costa Rica match. I grabbed a pastry stuffed with jamon and queso to eat and headed back to the hostel. I still had some travel research to do before I could get to bed.

When I finally decided to go to sleep, the hostel and area around seemed to erupt into nose. What earlier seemed like a quiet hostel, turned out to be very loud. There was a very inconsiderate British woman staying in the adjacent room with a 2 year old girl. She incessantly chattered away loudly to her daughter, banging on the walls of the room to play with her, and singing her loud songs while they showered together. The TV blared down the hall. A loud American girl arrived late to the room across the hall. And as a culmination to this cacophony, there was a fireworks show being set off about a block away followed by a loud performance of Christmas songs. I was so thankful for my earplugs which fortunately allowed me to get some rest before my 4:45 alarm went off.