And then my love came. Location: San Jose
On the other side of the glass, I see Alex walking towards the exit, and our eyes meet- finally, he's here. Although it was only two weeks apart, it seemed like a year, with so much that happened in that time. He walks through, is hounded by the many taxi drivers that wait outside, along with a ton of people holding signs, and we know that the adventure has begun.
A twenty minute taxi ride to San Jose, through run down buildings, and a familiar feeling of being in a dumpy city, leads us to our hotel/hostel. It's gated, so secure that it makes us wonder, our brows furrowed- just how dangerous is this city? We are in the home of an ex-President, José Figueres Ferrer who gave women the right to vote and abolished the army. Our room is large, with a painting above the bed that looks fitting for a Gothic art gallery in LA, and has a small outdoor gated area, for which we can find no purpose. It's pouring, but we are absolutely ravished, so we walk along the streets and find ourselves in San Jose's version of Santee Alley. After a stop at a pizza joint, where I mistakenly order the traditional gallo pinto- no! no more rice and beans!- we pick up some local beer for a sampling and head back to the hotel.
At 9pm, the biggest football game is on, the finals between two Costa Rican teams, and it's getting heated. No one has scored, and there's an hour left to go. With some broken Spanglish, we ask where to go out, and are taken via taxi to a shady part of San Jose. This is being an understatement, when later on a waiter tells us that the entirety of San Jose is muy peligroso and compares it to Trenton, New Jersey.
For some reason the cab driver doesn't understand restaurante, and we get dropped of at a sister hostel, equally guarded. A hooker walks by, a common thing as it's legal here, and stares at Alex. She licks her finger, then gives a crude gesture, and sits down on a curb. Alex rings the bell. A little slide viewer in the door moves, and a Tico is starring at us.
HOLA! We say in unison, with wide smiles. Click, click, click, the door is unlocked, and he hurries us in, alarmed by these two Americans standing outside that could easily be killed. We replay that moment of him over and over, and maybe it's one of those things that you have to be there, but his expression was priceless.
We are sent in another cab to El Pueblo- neither of us are looking at each other, but instead out the window, nervously noticing that we've gone through circles of one-way streets, and into some areas that would be a perfect place to dispose of a body. We arrive at a maze of connected tiny dive bars that play club music, dance clubs, little pizza places. A bouncer pats you down, checks your purse, and you see groups of Ticos hanging out; girls in tiny tight dresses, some of whom shouldn't be wearing them, and there is a constant feeling of uneasiness palpable. We have one beer, and decide we've had enough. These people have been eyeing us, and they know that we know that they know...we ain't in Kansas anymore.
GET THE HELL OUT OF SAN JOSE. This was a common phrase heard from everyone traveling here, and one that should be followed.
A twenty minute taxi ride to San Jose, through run down buildings, and a familiar feeling of being in a dumpy city, leads us to our hotel/hostel. It's gated, so secure that it makes us wonder, our brows furrowed- just how dangerous is this city? We are in the home of an ex-President, José Figueres Ferrer who gave women the right to vote and abolished the army. Our room is large, with a painting above the bed that looks fitting for a Gothic art gallery in LA, and has a small outdoor gated area, for which we can find no purpose. It's pouring, but we are absolutely ravished, so we walk along the streets and find ourselves in San Jose's version of Santee Alley. After a stop at a pizza joint, where I mistakenly order the traditional gallo pinto- no! no more rice and beans!- we pick up some local beer for a sampling and head back to the hotel.
At 9pm, the biggest football game is on, the finals between two Costa Rican teams, and it's getting heated. No one has scored, and there's an hour left to go. With some broken Spanglish, we ask where to go out, and are taken via taxi to a shady part of San Jose. This is being an understatement, when later on a waiter tells us that the entirety of San Jose is muy peligroso and compares it to Trenton, New Jersey.
For some reason the cab driver doesn't understand restaurante, and we get dropped of at a sister hostel, equally guarded. A hooker walks by, a common thing as it's legal here, and stares at Alex. She licks her finger, then gives a crude gesture, and sits down on a curb. Alex rings the bell. A little slide viewer in the door moves, and a Tico is starring at us.
HOLA! We say in unison, with wide smiles. Click, click, click, the door is unlocked, and he hurries us in, alarmed by these two Americans standing outside that could easily be killed. We replay that moment of him over and over, and maybe it's one of those things that you have to be there, but his expression was priceless.
We are sent in another cab to El Pueblo- neither of us are looking at each other, but instead out the window, nervously noticing that we've gone through circles of one-way streets, and into some areas that would be a perfect place to dispose of a body. We arrive at a maze of connected tiny dive bars that play club music, dance clubs, little pizza places. A bouncer pats you down, checks your purse, and you see groups of Ticos hanging out; girls in tiny tight dresses, some of whom shouldn't be wearing them, and there is a constant feeling of uneasiness palpable. We have one beer, and decide we've had enough. These people have been eyeing us, and they know that we know that they know...we ain't in Kansas anymore.
GET THE HELL OUT OF SAN JOSE. This was a common phrase heard from everyone traveling here, and one that should be followed.
From Hell to Heaven. Location: Arenal/La Fortuna
Our shuttle to Arenal volcano/ La Fortuna city has arrived. It's super nice... a little too nice. We pick up different groups of people, and are looking around a bit curious. Then, Ricardo, a charming little man, tells us he will be our guide and we realize that the hotel has booked our shuttle with a tour group that's going to the area for the day. I feel victorious- I have duped the system. We are getting a three hour tour for free. Oh happy day!
Through the mountains, similar to Monteverde, we see the sugar cane fields, the pineapple farms, and stop at a souvenir shop where artisans hand-make everything from wood turtles, to trays, to coffee makers, etc. We pass through the coffee fields, where Ricardo calls the balance between the tree system and coffee fields a symbiotic relationship. Their organic, shade-grown coffee is in such high demand that Europe happily pays two to three times the amount for it. No chemicals are used. Instead they cut of branches, which regrow and prevent termites as they don't allow wood to rot. The other types of trees provide all of the nutrients, and everything the coffee needs. Since 35% of the country is under protection, he tells us that if a person buys land, the government will pay them, each year, for every tree that they don't cut down. I smile smugly at Alex- see, you can grow crops in mass quantities without pesticides.
Bump, skid, bump. Flat tire. An hour detour, a piss in the woods, and another bus comes to takes us to La Fortuna. We part ways with the group, and end up at a soda, a small Tico restaurant that serves traditional food. This is perhaps, the worst meal of my life. My atun salad resembles a bit of cat food atop meager lettuce, and his arroz con pollo is only saved my the massive amount of salsa Lizano.
A brilliant executive decision on his part, which I keep reinforcing and tell him to remind me about in case I'm ever pissed at him for a future decision, winds us up by the famous Arenal volcano, and even better, at the hot springs 5 star hotel, Hotel Baldi. TWENTY FIVE pools, with natural hot springs, covered in a jungle of plants, palms, massive amounts of flora, and rocks paths is simply amazing. We look out on our balcony, blown away by the sight of the volcano so close, and the views of the natural landscape. This is heaven on earth.
We are little kids, going from one spot to another, and as I look over and see free range cows grazing on grass I joke that I want one for dinner. The strawberry coconut rum drink at the swim up bar, the three water slides that dump you into a natural spring, one that goes 70 mph, and another that you go backwards...man, oh man. Our second day, and we can go home happy.
For dinner we order a filet mignon wrapped in bacon, and another more traditional steak that comes with sweet refried beans and guacaomole. The filet, covered in mushroom sauce, is so tender and delicious, the sauce filled with fresh butter and white wine. The waiter brings us a fruit, or vegetable, so unusual there's no name in English for it, topped with mayonaisse. Alex asks the waiter if the beef is organic, to which he replies a quick no. Then, a long pause- Actually, I don't know what that means. Alex explains, and the waiter replies Oh! YES! That comes from the cows over there, that's all we use here. The ambience, the flavor, the company- this, is the best meal of my life.
Today we are off to see some waterfalls, to venture closer to the volcano, and in the coming days we will do the zipline and stay in a tree house hotel.
The Jack Johnson song Better Together plays on repeat in my mind, and traveling with someone I love, that makes me laugh, that I trust and respect, and who treats me like a queen whether it's in our tiny one room apartment or at a five star hotel, is simply the best.
Through the mountains, similar to Monteverde, we see the sugar cane fields, the pineapple farms, and stop at a souvenir shop where artisans hand-make everything from wood turtles, to trays, to coffee makers, etc. We pass through the coffee fields, where Ricardo calls the balance between the tree system and coffee fields a symbiotic relationship. Their organic, shade-grown coffee is in such high demand that Europe happily pays two to three times the amount for it. No chemicals are used. Instead they cut of branches, which regrow and prevent termites as they don't allow wood to rot. The other types of trees provide all of the nutrients, and everything the coffee needs. Since 35% of the country is under protection, he tells us that if a person buys land, the government will pay them, each year, for every tree that they don't cut down. I smile smugly at Alex- see, you can grow crops in mass quantities without pesticides.
Bump, skid, bump. Flat tire. An hour detour, a piss in the woods, and another bus comes to takes us to La Fortuna. We part ways with the group, and end up at a soda, a small Tico restaurant that serves traditional food. This is perhaps, the worst meal of my life. My atun salad resembles a bit of cat food atop meager lettuce, and his arroz con pollo is only saved my the massive amount of salsa Lizano.
A brilliant executive decision on his part, which I keep reinforcing and tell him to remind me about in case I'm ever pissed at him for a future decision, winds us up by the famous Arenal volcano, and even better, at the hot springs 5 star hotel, Hotel Baldi. TWENTY FIVE pools, with natural hot springs, covered in a jungle of plants, palms, massive amounts of flora, and rocks paths is simply amazing. We look out on our balcony, blown away by the sight of the volcano so close, and the views of the natural landscape. This is heaven on earth.
We are little kids, going from one spot to another, and as I look over and see free range cows grazing on grass I joke that I want one for dinner. The strawberry coconut rum drink at the swim up bar, the three water slides that dump you into a natural spring, one that goes 70 mph, and another that you go backwards...man, oh man. Our second day, and we can go home happy.
For dinner we order a filet mignon wrapped in bacon, and another more traditional steak that comes with sweet refried beans and guacaomole. The filet, covered in mushroom sauce, is so tender and delicious, the sauce filled with fresh butter and white wine. The waiter brings us a fruit, or vegetable, so unusual there's no name in English for it, topped with mayonaisse. Alex asks the waiter if the beef is organic, to which he replies a quick no. Then, a long pause- Actually, I don't know what that means. Alex explains, and the waiter replies Oh! YES! That comes from the cows over there, that's all we use here. The ambience, the flavor, the company- this, is the best meal of my life.
Today we are off to see some waterfalls, to venture closer to the volcano, and in the coming days we will do the zipline and stay in a tree house hotel.
The Jack Johnson song Better Together plays on repeat in my mind, and traveling with someone I love, that makes me laugh, that I trust and respect, and who treats me like a queen whether it's in our tiny one room apartment or at a five star hotel, is simply the best.
Oh, Chalo! Location: La Fortuna
At 7am, the sun is out, and we've just finished our breakfast at the hotel of fruit, that damn good Costa Rican coffee that accounts for the Ticos’ addiction, and for myself, the suspiciously addictive gallo pinto con huevos. For $50 a night, the hotel Carmela is perfect for this leg of the trip- clean, cheap, with a small balcony that looks overlook the city and is situated next to that one large local restaurant- the one that stays open twenty-four hours a day- an anomaly in a country that is in bed by 10pm- where late night riff-raff can grab a large bowl of pasta in cream sauce with seafood, where the police who ride tandem on a scooter are chilling, and the local dogs hang around. If you’re lucky they will befriend you until they get sidetracked on the walk down the street when another tourist grabs their attention.
The Arenal volcan smokes lightly in the background on this particularly clear day, a break from a stretch of constant eruption, a seven month lava flow glowing in the night like a warehouse rave, gliding down the sides in figure eight moves.
Our days in La Fortuna are rhythmic. The town consisting of one main road filled with modest hotels, sodas, authentic restaurants and a little gem of a bar called Mango, seems to subside on tourism. However, even if no tourists came, it seems as though the locals would happily survive on meager wages, hanging out with each other, living a peaceful life.
We walk down the street, taking in the view of the main square, a church surrounded by a beautifully landscaped pristine garden. Like many cities in Costa Rica, La Fortuna has the standard attractions of ziplines, horseback riding, rafting, national parks and many hiking tours. This is what we call a throwback to the childhood favorite Choose Your Own Adventure.
Amigos! What are we doing today, asks Chalo, our pseudo appointed personal tour guide. Chalo! We should've come to you yesterday- our taxi to Arenal was $30 each way! Oh No No No friends, I give you a whole tour with transportation for $20 each. Ah Chalo, we will never make that mistake again! Chalo, a character that hustles tours like no other, who genuinely enjoys hooking up tourists with cheaper options, is startled when I go to get water and say good morning to him. He glances down at his watch- Your tour!!! Alex and Andres are standing up the street looking at me.
The Arenal volcan smokes lightly in the background on this particularly clear day, a break from a stretch of constant eruption, a seven month lava flow glowing in the night like a warehouse rave, gliding down the sides in figure eight moves.
Our days in La Fortuna are rhythmic. The town consisting of one main road filled with modest hotels, sodas, authentic restaurants and a little gem of a bar called Mango, seems to subside on tourism. However, even if no tourists came, it seems as though the locals would happily survive on meager wages, hanging out with each other, living a peaceful life.
We walk down the street, taking in the view of the main square, a church surrounded by a beautifully landscaped pristine garden. Like many cities in Costa Rica, La Fortuna has the standard attractions of ziplines, horseback riding, rafting, national parks and many hiking tours. This is what we call a throwback to the childhood favorite Choose Your Own Adventure.
Amigos! What are we doing today, asks Chalo, our pseudo appointed personal tour guide. Chalo! We should've come to you yesterday- our taxi to Arenal was $30 each way! Oh No No No friends, I give you a whole tour with transportation for $20 each. Ah Chalo, we will never make that mistake again! Chalo, a character that hustles tours like no other, who genuinely enjoys hooking up tourists with cheaper options, is startled when I go to get water and say good morning to him. He glances down at his watch- Your tour!!! Alex and Andres are standing up the street looking at me.
Rio Celeste deserves it's own chapter. Location: Rio Celeste
You are an hour and a half north of La Fortuna, and this time it feels real, you are deep inside the rainforest. A light path of dirt and natural steps wind up and come back down, curve around the edges of the mountains inside this national park. Mossy roots hang down from the secondary rainforest, flourishing after a volcanic eruption, massive flora growing back with vengeance and purpose. Monkeys are howling from afar, but the echo makes your double-check their proximity. The insects that stick to you are now not that big of a deal anymore, but when a snake crosses and you are in it’s path, that tickle that makes you give a slight kick will make you jump afterward knowing that a snake was hanging off the back of your foot.
Andres, our 24 year old guide, resembles a soccer player with tight black curls and athletic stature. He tells us that Costa Rica ranks as the top country in the world when it comes to happiness. Is this true, Alex and I wonder with a casual shrug. Probably. You see, they run on a different time, sometimes referred to as island time. Maybe all of my last minute, casual putzing around when I should be leaving is just a self-medicated form of living this kind of life...maybe.
Andres picks up a grey leaf. It’s big and with that twinkle in his eye you know that he’s referring to good ol’ ganja. Except this plant is for sloth’s only. Monkey Marijuana as they call it is the food of the sloth, a toxic leaf that makes them sleep twenty hours a day, barely moving. When we look through a small telescope in Manuel Antonio a week later, the sloth is laying on his back, hands behind his head, and yawning, in such a resemblance of Brad Pitt in True Romance or Penn’s Spicoli that the sight is truly uncanny.
God painted the sky blue then washed the brush in the river. This is the folklore of the aboriginals who live by Rio Celeste, their population diminishing in size and tradition; a familiar tale of the Western man’s technology tempting those that still live a primitive lifestyle.
It’s wondrous, magical, and comes close to supernatural. The part of the river that turns directly from clear water to a solid blue that resembles at any given time an ombre variation taken from a Crayola box, as if a child’s elementary drawings came to life.
The blue water slips over white rocks, and is cold, but not unbearable. We’re at the part of the river where the natural hot spring is conveniently nestled against it, where the blue is so vivid due to the sulfur mixing with calcium, and where you know that this gem was worth the effort. You know it was really worth the effort when you find out that no living thing can survive in the river, making this probably the best place to swim- ever.
If you’re with a local like we are, and if they’re worth the $80 you paid for this private tour including transportation and lunch, they will reach into a soft pocket of earth and pull out a hunk of gray matter. Volcanic mud, highly valued and sold for in La Fortuna, is the fountain of youth. You spread it all over, reminiscent of the mud in the Dead Sea, and let it dry. I’ve just taken back those years that were wasted on alcohol and the other debaucheries of my twenties. I will add Rio Celeste to my list of staying young, which includes lots of red wine, dark chocolate, yoga, and food with friends.
The hot vapors coming out between the cracks in the jungle wall can only be described as a scene from Jurassic Park. Da-na…da-na…na-na-na-na-na-na…na… The theme song plays softly, a little too softly. Then you realize that Alex has been humming it behind you the whole time.
The rain comes, light at first, as we head down through the muddy path. The waterfall is the icing on the cake, and any Googled picture will do it better justice than my words. All I know is that when looking at the seafoam aqua water splattering around the waterfall, with the green walls on either side, it’s too much to comprehend that I’m allowed, for this moment, to enjoy such a remarkarble feat of Mother Earth.
The torrential rain makes the walk back slippery on the soft mud. Alex, Andres, and I huddle into the company’s beat up 1980’s Toyota and we head to a well-deserved feast. This sopa is different. It has really good casado. We are served a whole fish of Tilipia, very lightly breaded and fried, along with chunky yellow mashed potatoes, gallo pinto, salad, and plantains. Alex is seeking out the tiny last bits of meat on the bones, scraping as if he’s doing an archiagical excavation. When Alex is sprayed down by the woman’s son after being covered in mud from a fall during the walk back, he notices the dirty pond with all of the tilapia swimming around.
Andres, our 24 year old guide, resembles a soccer player with tight black curls and athletic stature. He tells us that Costa Rica ranks as the top country in the world when it comes to happiness. Is this true, Alex and I wonder with a casual shrug. Probably. You see, they run on a different time, sometimes referred to as island time. Maybe all of my last minute, casual putzing around when I should be leaving is just a self-medicated form of living this kind of life...maybe.
Andres picks up a grey leaf. It’s big and with that twinkle in his eye you know that he’s referring to good ol’ ganja. Except this plant is for sloth’s only. Monkey Marijuana as they call it is the food of the sloth, a toxic leaf that makes them sleep twenty hours a day, barely moving. When we look through a small telescope in Manuel Antonio a week later, the sloth is laying on his back, hands behind his head, and yawning, in such a resemblance of Brad Pitt in True Romance or Penn’s Spicoli that the sight is truly uncanny.
God painted the sky blue then washed the brush in the river. This is the folklore of the aboriginals who live by Rio Celeste, their population diminishing in size and tradition; a familiar tale of the Western man’s technology tempting those that still live a primitive lifestyle.
It’s wondrous, magical, and comes close to supernatural. The part of the river that turns directly from clear water to a solid blue that resembles at any given time an ombre variation taken from a Crayola box, as if a child’s elementary drawings came to life.
The blue water slips over white rocks, and is cold, but not unbearable. We’re at the part of the river where the natural hot spring is conveniently nestled against it, where the blue is so vivid due to the sulfur mixing with calcium, and where you know that this gem was worth the effort. You know it was really worth the effort when you find out that no living thing can survive in the river, making this probably the best place to swim- ever.
If you’re with a local like we are, and if they’re worth the $80 you paid for this private tour including transportation and lunch, they will reach into a soft pocket of earth and pull out a hunk of gray matter. Volcanic mud, highly valued and sold for in La Fortuna, is the fountain of youth. You spread it all over, reminiscent of the mud in the Dead Sea, and let it dry. I’ve just taken back those years that were wasted on alcohol and the other debaucheries of my twenties. I will add Rio Celeste to my list of staying young, which includes lots of red wine, dark chocolate, yoga, and food with friends.
The hot vapors coming out between the cracks in the jungle wall can only be described as a scene from Jurassic Park. Da-na…da-na…na-na-na-na-na-na…na… The theme song plays softly, a little too softly. Then you realize that Alex has been humming it behind you the whole time.
The rain comes, light at first, as we head down through the muddy path. The waterfall is the icing on the cake, and any Googled picture will do it better justice than my words. All I know is that when looking at the seafoam aqua water splattering around the waterfall, with the green walls on either side, it’s too much to comprehend that I’m allowed, for this moment, to enjoy such a remarkarble feat of Mother Earth.
The torrential rain makes the walk back slippery on the soft mud. Alex, Andres, and I huddle into the company’s beat up 1980’s Toyota and we head to a well-deserved feast. This sopa is different. It has really good casado. We are served a whole fish of Tilipia, very lightly breaded and fried, along with chunky yellow mashed potatoes, gallo pinto, salad, and plantains. Alex is seeking out the tiny last bits of meat on the bones, scraping as if he’s doing an archiagical excavation. When Alex is sprayed down by the woman’s son after being covered in mud from a fall during the walk back, he notices the dirty pond with all of the tilapia swimming around.
Those characters and that food. Location: La Fortuna
Luis! He turns his head and gives us a surprised look of recognition. Sitting around the circle bar behind a restaurant our waiter from the Baldi resort is having an after work drink with his friend and fellow bartender Mr. Fabio. You didn’t think we’d come, I say. After a nap, a usual occurrence of living a life based on hedonistic days, we venture down the main street. Perdon, do you know where the Mango Bar is, we ask the guard sitting outside the hotel. A look of puzzlement- Donde es el bar de Mango? Oh yes! One hundred meters, y luego al la izquierda 20 meters. For some reason Bar Fill-in-the-blank will never register, fill-in-the-blank de Bar, will however.
Sambuco on fire, what’s considered the finest- Tanqueray and gin, Imperial, and a slew of other beverages come our way. Fabio and Luis make more dick jokes than an early episode of South Park, sending drinks to the ladies across the way, but not to that perro over there they laugh. Fabio’s story about how he landed a job on a cruise ship, then wrecked his marriage, drove from Atlanta to Argentina sleeping on couches of customers he’s waited on, and then came to La Fortuna would make any screenwriter jealous, and any studio privileged to have a tale worth telling.
We devour “fajitas”, thin sliced steak in mushroom sauce with rice and vegetables. It’s so buttery and satisfying we get a second order para llavar. The food is repetitive yes, but if this is the happiest country in the world, who the hell cares. That BBQ chicken wrap the other day was so fresh, filled with guacamole, and just the right amount of rice, you forget about fast food. In fact, you don’t see fast food except for the Pizza Hut that resembles a Michelin star restaurant, or the occasional KFC that warrants it’s own sign with kilometers on a dirt road. Don’t even get me started on those smoothies either- holy cow- when did water, simple syrup and fresh fruit taste that good! You will find this bebida on every menu, from fine-dining to the local joint. Have that with plantain chips covered in salt and lemon, and your jaw will tingle, your taste buds will sing in delight.
Sambuco on fire, what’s considered the finest- Tanqueray and gin, Imperial, and a slew of other beverages come our way. Fabio and Luis make more dick jokes than an early episode of South Park, sending drinks to the ladies across the way, but not to that perro over there they laugh. Fabio’s story about how he landed a job on a cruise ship, then wrecked his marriage, drove from Atlanta to Argentina sleeping on couches of customers he’s waited on, and then came to La Fortuna would make any screenwriter jealous, and any studio privileged to have a tale worth telling.
We devour “fajitas”, thin sliced steak in mushroom sauce with rice and vegetables. It’s so buttery and satisfying we get a second order para llavar. The food is repetitive yes, but if this is the happiest country in the world, who the hell cares. That BBQ chicken wrap the other day was so fresh, filled with guacamole, and just the right amount of rice, you forget about fast food. In fact, you don’t see fast food except for the Pizza Hut that resembles a Michelin star restaurant, or the occasional KFC that warrants it’s own sign with kilometers on a dirt road. Don’t even get me started on those smoothies either- holy cow- when did water, simple syrup and fresh fruit taste that good! You will find this bebida on every menu, from fine-dining to the local joint. Have that with plantain chips covered in salt and lemon, and your jaw will tingle, your taste buds will sing in delight.
So long Tamagringo. Location: Tamarindo
Chalo tells us to go to the northwest region of Guanacaste, where his favorite Sugar Beach is located and is only three hours away. I tell Chalo that Alex said whatever Chalo says, we do. For this, we are given a great surprise, according to Chalo… We stand there waiting for something amazing, and this is what we get.
His cell phone number for when we return.
Because everyone should have one night in hell and like it:
The shuttle stops to pick up people from every hotel, driving around La Fortuna for TWO hours before we even leave. I curse Chalo and his last mission for us.
TEN hours later we arrive to a place that should take THREE. Yes, I’m pissed, and Carlita pissed is no bueno.
The streets have vents coming up along the sidewalks, a smell so foul there is no need for a confirmation that this shit-hole tourist town is built on a sewer. WHY? Why do these morons voluntarily come here to vacation. For the waves, man! Oh screw the waves! Go to Santa Teresa or Mal Pais if you want the big boys.
In a tiff I made the executive decision to forego Flamingo beach for Tamagringo, oh I meant Tamarindo, after the upper-class Mexican family told me we’d have more hotel choices there. This is the last executive decision I will make. Yes, the beach is beautiful, but it can’t make up for all of those people selling crap on the beach and sidewalks, asking if you want a taxi ride when you are clearly walking into a store, or the mediocre bars that resemble an under-aged night in Tijuana or Rosarito.
The white tile floor is covered with ants, giant flying insects, and the accordion bathroom divider is disgusting. We’re outta here! Alex grabs his bag in a huff, and walks out. I follow like a little mouse. After some time, we find a decent hotel, where we stay in a small two-bedroom apartment. The night out is fun, but hell, Ladies Night with free drinks and a guy selling skewers outside would be fun anywhere. We take a twenty minute taxi to Flamingo beach the next morning.
His cell phone number for when we return.
Because everyone should have one night in hell and like it:
The shuttle stops to pick up people from every hotel, driving around La Fortuna for TWO hours before we even leave. I curse Chalo and his last mission for us.
TEN hours later we arrive to a place that should take THREE. Yes, I’m pissed, and Carlita pissed is no bueno.
The streets have vents coming up along the sidewalks, a smell so foul there is no need for a confirmation that this shit-hole tourist town is built on a sewer. WHY? Why do these morons voluntarily come here to vacation. For the waves, man! Oh screw the waves! Go to Santa Teresa or Mal Pais if you want the big boys.
In a tiff I made the executive decision to forego Flamingo beach for Tamagringo, oh I meant Tamarindo, after the upper-class Mexican family told me we’d have more hotel choices there. This is the last executive decision I will make. Yes, the beach is beautiful, but it can’t make up for all of those people selling crap on the beach and sidewalks, asking if you want a taxi ride when you are clearly walking into a store, or the mediocre bars that resemble an under-aged night in Tijuana or Rosarito.
The white tile floor is covered with ants, giant flying insects, and the accordion bathroom divider is disgusting. We’re outta here! Alex grabs his bag in a huff, and walks out. I follow like a little mouse. After some time, we find a decent hotel, where we stay in a small two-bedroom apartment. The night out is fun, but hell, Ladies Night with free drinks and a guy selling skewers outside would be fun anywhere. We take a twenty minute taxi to Flamingo beach the next morning.
A slice of paradise. Location: Flamingo Beach
Winding up the coast, the six or so beach towns make a Big Dipper, a graceful line along the hills. Atop a mountain lies a small town reminiscent of something you’d find along the Amalfi coast, with only two hotels and about six restaurants, a small market, and one tourist stand. It’s a ghost town here in May, except for the Flamingo Beach Resort where rich Latino families and tourists lounge in the pool that is just a few feet away from the beach.
The restaurant there will serve the best ceviche of your life. I mock the use of the word “signature” in the description, being wary of anything named Original, Signature, or Famous, and when I say that they should really publicize this dish, Alex reminds me that they did indeed call it their signature. I’ve finally landed upon the holy grail of ceviche. My quest is conquered. The sea bass is succulent, tender, marinating in the perfect amount of citrus, and served with freshly fried plantain chips. We suck on it, inhale it, fighting with our forks over the last piece.
This is the well-deserved bit of paradise we deserve after having a face-off with Tamarindo. The water is blue, the hills vibrant green, and the waves lift and crash with such force; the white water will be higher than your shoulders and tumble you in a washing machine with a strong undercurrent. I wouldn’t dare to surf, but swimming is a pleasurable work out. The beach is clean, and those three dogs playing with each other that come lay under the lounge chairs after a dip in the ocean are just so darn cute. They don’t have no Daddies, a hotel worker tells me.
Exploring those tiny beach towns by ATV is the way to go, Conchal being an absolute fav for snorkeling, of everyone we meet. The black sand of Sugar is covered in stones, the little town of Brasilito houses tents of goods for sale. We inquire about Coco beach, a somewhat famous playa 30 miles north, and hear comparisons to Tamarindo. It’s my turn now. We turned around on the ATV, and I step on the pedal to the fifth gear and accelerate, flying down the bumpy dirt road. I feel Alex’s butt lift off the seat and laugh.
Your other option is a cheap hotel, the Mariner, clearly owned by a US expat furious with the current government. Pro-Bush signs, anti-socialist bumper stickers, and other conservative propaganda plaster the walls of the restaurant attached. It’s half amusing, half questionable and alarming.
I could stay here, at the resort, of course, for a couple of days in solitude. Then again, you only need two days to see everything including all of those other beaches.
The restaurant there will serve the best ceviche of your life. I mock the use of the word “signature” in the description, being wary of anything named Original, Signature, or Famous, and when I say that they should really publicize this dish, Alex reminds me that they did indeed call it their signature. I’ve finally landed upon the holy grail of ceviche. My quest is conquered. The sea bass is succulent, tender, marinating in the perfect amount of citrus, and served with freshly fried plantain chips. We suck on it, inhale it, fighting with our forks over the last piece.
This is the well-deserved bit of paradise we deserve after having a face-off with Tamarindo. The water is blue, the hills vibrant green, and the waves lift and crash with such force; the white water will be higher than your shoulders and tumble you in a washing machine with a strong undercurrent. I wouldn’t dare to surf, but swimming is a pleasurable work out. The beach is clean, and those three dogs playing with each other that come lay under the lounge chairs after a dip in the ocean are just so darn cute. They don’t have no Daddies, a hotel worker tells me.
Exploring those tiny beach towns by ATV is the way to go, Conchal being an absolute fav for snorkeling, of everyone we meet. The black sand of Sugar is covered in stones, the little town of Brasilito houses tents of goods for sale. We inquire about Coco beach, a somewhat famous playa 30 miles north, and hear comparisons to Tamarindo. It’s my turn now. We turned around on the ATV, and I step on the pedal to the fifth gear and accelerate, flying down the bumpy dirt road. I feel Alex’s butt lift off the seat and laugh.
Your other option is a cheap hotel, the Mariner, clearly owned by a US expat furious with the current government. Pro-Bush signs, anti-socialist bumper stickers, and other conservative propaganda plaster the walls of the restaurant attached. It’s half amusing, half questionable and alarming.
I could stay here, at the resort, of course, for a couple of days in solitude. Then again, you only need two days to see everything including all of those other beaches.
A little gem. Location: Manuel Antonio
The private shuttle is a savior, chalked up to the hassles of getting anywhere on a group shuttle in less than six hours, or the public bus that stops every minute. It’s also $180, but you can’t put money on saved time, right? That’s what people who have money say, anyway.
Manuel Antonio is a destination worth seeing. The rainforest on a beach, waves perfect for novice surfers, and good restaurants.
I curse myself during the tour for bargaining with our tour guide Miguel, who eventually only went down $5 each. He’s a jolly old man, fat and bald, with a few missing teeth. This man LOVES giving tours. He’s a kid in a candy store- a wizard at spotting the smallest camouflaged insects. Through the small telescope he brings, we see everything: zebra insects, howler monkeys, white-faced monkey’s, a toucan, bats, a snake, and sloths. Is he just using one of those slideshow toys for kids that flash a different picture, I wonder allowed. Unbeknown to us, there are two small beaches inside of the rainforest, secret beaches that are nearly private- one rough, and the other calm from the reef.
I only do one tour a day, Miguel tells us, stating that doing two makes him too tired, and that’s just not a good way of life, working too much to the point of exhaustion. This is the epitome of the Costa Rican philosophy of life. He gave up banking years ago, subsiding on six acres of land, with enough vegetation to eat from, and a beehive for a new honey business. We buy a giant bottle of pure honey and Alex gives him the other $10 for the tour.
The town is split into two parts: one part nestled along the beach and the other a mile up a steep hill. Taxis go back and forth transporting us up to what I will declare as the best restaurant in Costa Rica- El Avion.
A shotdown plane from the Iran-Contra scandal rebuilt on the top of a hill overlooking the ocean, the inside serving as a bar, the rest of the restaurant sprawled out. Sounds gimmicky. But no. This place is the real deal. My whole Red Snapper cooked perfectly, the Banana Juice of banana, coconut cream, and rum is a meal in itself, the Mahi Mahi mock chicken fingers with blue cheese is just as good as it sounds, and the shrimp bisque has a smoky flavor, so much flavor that you can taste the shells that were used as a base. We come back here the next day, and the black pepper Mahi Mahi is two inches thick, so tender and fresh. We get four drink, and four dishes with tax and tip for $70. I rate this an A+ on the receipt for quality, value, and ambiance. Two words, one nap- Food. Coma.
We surf. We meet a guy we call Creepy Alex, a local Tico with a bald head and bleached curly hair resembling Bozo. He takes us along with friends on a hike to a waterfall he’s never been to- alright, alright, by the time we go through the sewer tunnel, over slippery rocks, crawl over fallen trees, and it starts raining- I know this much by now- get out when you can! Call me a wuss, a pussy, a lame American. I don’t freakin care! I am NOT getting lost again in this rainforest. Fool me once…
One little gem of Costa Rica would be the Manuel Antonio beach inside the park. Perhaps a jet-ski ride over, or on a sail boat throughout the coves would be a better option. In the afternoon those white-faced monkeys comes out, swinging and jumping between the low trees that are closer to the bunch, giving inquisitive looks to the people, eyeing them carefully, giving them the once over to determine if they are indeed carrying food, or better yet, beer. Apparently, these little guys are just as much of alcoholics as humans, given the chance. The calm water is emerald, shimmering in diamond forms, a painting that came to life. People bob up and down, floating around, and just when you least expect it, they will dart for your bags, especially once they smell chips or leftovers. They look like a type of raccoon and when a guy pushes the nuisance away, it comes right back. He socks fistfuls of sand, throwing it on the little beast who eventually gets the point and darts mysteriously back into the rainforest.
Every night has a night here. You know what I mean, that one bar that gets the business from the whole town. Hola Amigos! We ask the reception guy what’s good. Bayou-Ma. Uh, what? Bayou-Ma? Booya-ma? Si. I tell the taxi driver a slur, a mix of sounds I’m hoping resonates. Ah, Bayou-Ma! Si!
It’s Tuesday at Bambu Jam. Oh! JAM! Bam-boo-Jam. After two glasses of particularly strong sangria, Alex and I venture to the dance floor where the locals have taken over and are showing off moves Dancing with the Stars contestants would surely win with- Rico Suave takes one girl sitting at the bar, twirls and spins her, blows her off for the next girl waiting in a short dress and heels and continues his dancing to what appears to be mostly for himself. I add Learn Salsa Dancing below Learn Spanish Fluently.
Manuel Antonio is a destination worth seeing. The rainforest on a beach, waves perfect for novice surfers, and good restaurants.
I curse myself during the tour for bargaining with our tour guide Miguel, who eventually only went down $5 each. He’s a jolly old man, fat and bald, with a few missing teeth. This man LOVES giving tours. He’s a kid in a candy store- a wizard at spotting the smallest camouflaged insects. Through the small telescope he brings, we see everything: zebra insects, howler monkeys, white-faced monkey’s, a toucan, bats, a snake, and sloths. Is he just using one of those slideshow toys for kids that flash a different picture, I wonder allowed. Unbeknown to us, there are two small beaches inside of the rainforest, secret beaches that are nearly private- one rough, and the other calm from the reef.
I only do one tour a day, Miguel tells us, stating that doing two makes him too tired, and that’s just not a good way of life, working too much to the point of exhaustion. This is the epitome of the Costa Rican philosophy of life. He gave up banking years ago, subsiding on six acres of land, with enough vegetation to eat from, and a beehive for a new honey business. We buy a giant bottle of pure honey and Alex gives him the other $10 for the tour.
The town is split into two parts: one part nestled along the beach and the other a mile up a steep hill. Taxis go back and forth transporting us up to what I will declare as the best restaurant in Costa Rica- El Avion.
A shotdown plane from the Iran-Contra scandal rebuilt on the top of a hill overlooking the ocean, the inside serving as a bar, the rest of the restaurant sprawled out. Sounds gimmicky. But no. This place is the real deal. My whole Red Snapper cooked perfectly, the Banana Juice of banana, coconut cream, and rum is a meal in itself, the Mahi Mahi mock chicken fingers with blue cheese is just as good as it sounds, and the shrimp bisque has a smoky flavor, so much flavor that you can taste the shells that were used as a base. We come back here the next day, and the black pepper Mahi Mahi is two inches thick, so tender and fresh. We get four drink, and four dishes with tax and tip for $70. I rate this an A+ on the receipt for quality, value, and ambiance. Two words, one nap- Food. Coma.
We surf. We meet a guy we call Creepy Alex, a local Tico with a bald head and bleached curly hair resembling Bozo. He takes us along with friends on a hike to a waterfall he’s never been to- alright, alright, by the time we go through the sewer tunnel, over slippery rocks, crawl over fallen trees, and it starts raining- I know this much by now- get out when you can! Call me a wuss, a pussy, a lame American. I don’t freakin care! I am NOT getting lost again in this rainforest. Fool me once…
One little gem of Costa Rica would be the Manuel Antonio beach inside the park. Perhaps a jet-ski ride over, or on a sail boat throughout the coves would be a better option. In the afternoon those white-faced monkeys comes out, swinging and jumping between the low trees that are closer to the bunch, giving inquisitive looks to the people, eyeing them carefully, giving them the once over to determine if they are indeed carrying food, or better yet, beer. Apparently, these little guys are just as much of alcoholics as humans, given the chance. The calm water is emerald, shimmering in diamond forms, a painting that came to life. People bob up and down, floating around, and just when you least expect it, they will dart for your bags, especially once they smell chips or leftovers. They look like a type of raccoon and when a guy pushes the nuisance away, it comes right back. He socks fistfuls of sand, throwing it on the little beast who eventually gets the point and darts mysteriously back into the rainforest.
Every night has a night here. You know what I mean, that one bar that gets the business from the whole town. Hola Amigos! We ask the reception guy what’s good. Bayou-Ma. Uh, what? Bayou-Ma? Booya-ma? Si. I tell the taxi driver a slur, a mix of sounds I’m hoping resonates. Ah, Bayou-Ma! Si!
It’s Tuesday at Bambu Jam. Oh! JAM! Bam-boo-Jam. After two glasses of particularly strong sangria, Alex and I venture to the dance floor where the locals have taken over and are showing off moves Dancing with the Stars contestants would surely win with- Rico Suave takes one girl sitting at the bar, twirls and spins her, blows her off for the next girl waiting in a short dress and heels and continues his dancing to what appears to be mostly for himself. I add Learn Salsa Dancing below Learn Spanish Fluently.
It comes full circle. Location: Monteverde
Sometimes you choose the city, and sometimes it chooses you, he says. I laugh, nestled in Alex’s arm around me. Back on that damn shuttle. These six hour treks are a necessity, unless you rent a car, and brave the crazy drivers that will pass any other car, whether it be on a hill, a curve around a bend, or tailgating so close to each other that my eyes both widen and squint in fear.
We’re heading back to my homeland, the Cloud Forest of Monteverde. Spending the last two days here brings the whole trip in full circle. I’m excited to share this with Alex, as it holds a special place in my heart. I’m not sure why exactly- I’ve never been fond of forests, or small towns, but here I feel at peace.
We eat French onion soup and sip on wine in Santa Elena on the second floor of a restaurant built around a giant tree. Two blocks make up the downtown, filled with restaurants, and tourist shops.
Yessenia! She looks up and smiles. I give her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. Fue en su casa en la manana, I tell her. We walked back down to her house which functions as the home base for the Women of the Cloud Forest artisan co-op. She tells me she’s on the way to the store to cook for her son and his friends. Alejandro! The photo! Si, she smiles. Mucho gusto. I tell her I will send her the matzo ball soup when I get back home.
The hotel we choose is at first a modest, but seemingly decent room, with rock walls, wood floors, and a strange bar inside. Late at night, after doing the Superman zipline (again), and a huge meal, Alex and I huddle under the top sheet in complete fear. The windows won’t shut and every type of fly, moth, and mesquito enters; an army willing to attack any visible flesh. Throughout the night, dogs bark at the raccoons, which have been stomping on the roof, their fangs visible through the mesh screen below the ceiling. What. The. Hell. It’s 3am and Alex is ready to bolt, as am I, but this is Monteverde- everything is closed. We wait til 6am, and get a taxi out of there. We arrive at El Estable, a luxury hotel transformed from a horse ranch. The room is pricey, but we haven’t slept a lick. A huge king bed awaits our bleary eyes, a place of solace after the battle of the night.
Later on, we venture up the pathways of the hotel, so expansive that the hotel has their own line of shuttles to take guests to various places within the hotel. It’s foggy, with every passing minute the air turns more opaque. However, this isn’t fog- it’s a cloud coming over the hotel. We are so high up, we are above some of the clouds. A surreal dream, a childhood fantasy of being inside a cloud and trying to lick it. The hike up the road to their own trails within the forest leads to an incredible view. All of Monteverde can be seen from here, a breathtaking view of red and blue covered houses, the three areas that make up the city, and dips and valleys of green mountains.
We’re heading back to my homeland, the Cloud Forest of Monteverde. Spending the last two days here brings the whole trip in full circle. I’m excited to share this with Alex, as it holds a special place in my heart. I’m not sure why exactly- I’ve never been fond of forests, or small towns, but here I feel at peace.
We eat French onion soup and sip on wine in Santa Elena on the second floor of a restaurant built around a giant tree. Two blocks make up the downtown, filled with restaurants, and tourist shops.
Yessenia! She looks up and smiles. I give her a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. Fue en su casa en la manana, I tell her. We walked back down to her house which functions as the home base for the Women of the Cloud Forest artisan co-op. She tells me she’s on the way to the store to cook for her son and his friends. Alejandro! The photo! Si, she smiles. Mucho gusto. I tell her I will send her the matzo ball soup when I get back home.
The hotel we choose is at first a modest, but seemingly decent room, with rock walls, wood floors, and a strange bar inside. Late at night, after doing the Superman zipline (again), and a huge meal, Alex and I huddle under the top sheet in complete fear. The windows won’t shut and every type of fly, moth, and mesquito enters; an army willing to attack any visible flesh. Throughout the night, dogs bark at the raccoons, which have been stomping on the roof, their fangs visible through the mesh screen below the ceiling. What. The. Hell. It’s 3am and Alex is ready to bolt, as am I, but this is Monteverde- everything is closed. We wait til 6am, and get a taxi out of there. We arrive at El Estable, a luxury hotel transformed from a horse ranch. The room is pricey, but we haven’t slept a lick. A huge king bed awaits our bleary eyes, a place of solace after the battle of the night.
Later on, we venture up the pathways of the hotel, so expansive that the hotel has their own line of shuttles to take guests to various places within the hotel. It’s foggy, with every passing minute the air turns more opaque. However, this isn’t fog- it’s a cloud coming over the hotel. We are so high up, we are above some of the clouds. A surreal dream, a childhood fantasy of being inside a cloud and trying to lick it. The hike up the road to their own trails within the forest leads to an incredible view. All of Monteverde can be seen from here, a breathtaking view of red and blue covered houses, the three areas that make up the city, and dips and valleys of green mountains.
Epilogue.
When I return to Los Angeles, I’m depressed, but rejuvenated, a would-be Alanis Morisette lyric. The 405! The 10! Too many cars are in a gridlock fighting to make their way through this city where dreams can become reality. The hustle, the grind, the reality of everyday life begins. I keep that place in my heart with me, the pura vida way. We can learn something from them over there. The appreciation and education for nature and conservation, the importance of being nice to each other, and taking the time to enjoy ourselves; to love what you do, and if you don’t, to love the people that surround you. Take the time to eat well, and know that things will get done in their own time… to live the pure life.
The End.
©2011 Carly Cylinder. All Rights Reserved.