I wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed (read: hung over, on far too little sleep) for an early morning flight. It's freezing outside, and Damien is on his way to the house to pick us up. Seth, Devon, Josh and I, clad in sweatshirts and long pants, head for the Albuquerque International Sunport. Day one begins as my bag and I are searched by security due to the possession of a "dangerous weapon" (a corkscrew that has been in my shaving kit for years.) After being summarily stripped of my deadly tool of murder we continue to the gate. The four of us pile onto an America West flight to Phoenix, AZ. Once there, we meet up with our fifth traveler, Jill, who has come from LAX. We board another America West plane for a 5 hour and 15 minute international flight on which cocktails will be full price, no meal will be served, and headphones for the movie will be 5 bucks. Of course, we are not sitting together. I begin to re-re-read The Dalai Lama's "Ethics for the new Millennium." I catnap. A nice traveler happens to have an extra set of headphones for the in-flight movie, Seabiscuit. I watch Jeff Bridges--yawn--all the way till the credits roll. The "uniformed crew members" take this opportunity to dispense peanuts and sodas. My stomach grumbles. Did I mention I need a smoke? I eat all 16 peanut halves in the first bag. I eat all 17 peanut halves in the second bag. I read some more. I sleep. I play poker on my Clie. I read even more. I resolve never to buy stock in America West. Then, by luck, or telepathic influence from The Lama, a thought crosses my mind that changes my perception of this torturous flight: I haven't had a real vacation in years! The reason I'm so uncomfortable is because I'm not DOING anything. How...glorious! Suddenly I feel completely relaxed. I find myself able to "daydream" instead of "think" for the first time I can remember. Those readers with similarly hyper-active brains will agree that the difference is NOT subtle. When the captain announces our descent into San Jose, the capitol city, my attention is gently pried away from the seatback in front of me (where, apparently, I have been staring for an hour and a half.) Peering out the window I can make out the voluptous terrain of central Costa Rica.
We land, and quickly gather the checked baggage. We press through customs and head immediately for the exit. Have I mentioned that I need a smoke? I pause in the relative cool of the air-conditioned airport to remove my sweatshirt. We'll be taking a shuttle from the airport to the Hampton Inn about 3 miles away. The first obstacle is to fight through the gaggle of taxi drivers gathered behind a waist-high barrier wall built around the airport exit. Apparently, the barrier has been erected specifically to hold back the throngs of shouting drivers. I am, for the first time, confronted with native Spanish-speaking Costa Ricans (referred to as "Ticos.") It is normal practice at the San Jose Airport, as in many places, to simply snatch the bags out of the hands of newly arrived travelers and lead them (using their bags as bait) to your cab or van. We are headed straight for the (read: obviousely marked) Hampton Inn Courtesy Shuttle parked across the street when a skinny man in plain clothes tries to take my bag while "leading" us thither. We arrive at the shuttle muttering in our best "Spanglish" and clutching our luggage for dear life. The driver, visibly surprised to see the skinny man leading customers to the Hampton bus, helps us load our luggage while glancing pointedly at the other gentleman. The man who led us there impatiently waits for his tip as it becomes quite clear that he is just pedestrian that saw an opportunity to make a little money. Josh gives him four or five hundred Colones (the Costa Rican legal tender, exchanged at 418 per US Dollar). He shakes his head at us in disgust, as though he had provided some kind of valuable service by leading us across the two-lane street to the Hampton Shuttle. I chuckle. Once we're checked into the hotel, we go next door to the "Pollo" restaurant. A meal and a beer are tied for first priority in my mind. Costa Rica�s national beer is "Cerveza Imperial," which has been heartily recommended by both Seth and Josh (who are the only people among us that have been here before.) At the front door, a Tico bums a smoke in full-speed Spanish. I understand him well, and respond accordingly, even asking whether he needs a light. The meal is good, but the beer is better. Imperial, which is similar to Corona from Mexico or Carib from the Caribbean, is not exactly the beer I normally prefer. There is nothing like, for instance, a good stout. However, for some reason I found this style of beer to be very pleasant in this climate. It was so pleasing, in fact, that after our obligitory "cheers to Travelin'" I immediately finished the first mug in three swallows. After finishing dinner and sending a few e-mails from the hotel business center we all hit the sack. Our plan is to spend the first night in San Jose, then run errands tomorrow before we head southwest to our final destination: Playa Matapalo. The errands include procurement of our transportation (a Suburban that our gracious hosts (The Boieses)) keep down here, finding a pharmacy, and getting some groceries (especially large quantities of the much coveted Cerveza Imperial!)
Day two begins with a continental breakfast and the exchanging of our Dollars for Colones. American television is playing in the lobby, but the little things tell me we're far from home: I didn't even know they made Chocolate Corn Flakes...is this fresh papaya�...what� you want me to separate the recyclables out of the trash? All errands get taken care of, but while driving around it's obvious that our vehicle is unusual in this country. A Chevy Suburban is a regular sight on the streets of the United States, but here people stare like it's a giant neon-lit spaceship hovering down the road...on fire. Costa Ricans drive small cars: Mitsubishis, Old Land Cruisers, Mazdas, and Suzuki Sidekicks. Heavily laden with luggage, food and beer, we head west over the mountain towards our first checkpoint, Steve and Lisa's Restaurant, on the Pacific Coast
Let's talk about driving in C.R... First, no one seems to know if drinking and driving is illegal here. Now, I'm not referring to drinking and THEN driving. I mean drinking WHILE driving. We were a little liberal in our interpretation of local laws, but responsible. Before getting all the way out of town several of us were partaking in the day's first Imperial. Secondly, as I mentioned, people here drive small cars. I hypothesize that this is what enables them to pass each other on narrow windy mountain roads with rail-less "cliffs of death" on one side, and a shoulder-less jungle of thorny trees on the other. There appears to be a well orchestrated system for "threading the needle" on these little roads. When one is passing a slightly slower vehicle around a blind corner and is confronted with head-on traffic, they jerk the wheel to the right and drive on the centerline. The passee is either hit by the passer or immediately responds by driving halfway off of the road fighting to maintain control at speed while branches claw at their passenger side panels. The oncoming car can then barely squeeze by (mostly in their lane) without having to drive off of a 500 foot cliff. This "middle of the road" position allows room for three cars to pass abreast at full speed around a blind corner, much of the time without killing anyone (or spilling beer.). Note to readers: There may be a problem with this system when any of the three vehicles happens to be a truck. While Costa Ricans have very few fender-benders, the accidents that do happen are usually fatal. I have no idea why.
We successfully complete the mountain road gambit and approach "The Crocodile Bridge." Several carloads of people are standing on the bridge, peering over the rail at a group of about eighteen 12-16 foot crocs. We, of course, had to pull over as well. The car tires in the pictures will give the reader a sense of scale...fascinating animals. Approaching "Steve and Lisa's" most of us needed to "make room for more beer." I finally get my first view of the ocean here. Holy jeebus! Amazing, as you will, no doubt, agree. Piling back in the car, we soon reach our second checkpoint, Quepos. Now our next errand can be pursued. We need surfboards. Yes, we certainly do. We have little luck in the Quepos "surf-shops." Apparently, "surf-shop" in Costa Rican Spanish means "we sell t-shirts and sunglasses to gringos, but don't carry any boards." After having some ice cream, with hit the road again (Willie Nelson would be so proud.) Leaving town we brave the unpaved roads that will be our stomping grounds for the next two weeks. The landscape of this area is breathtaking. Fields of neatly planted palm trees line both sides of the road for miles. One side is a splatter painting of wide, lush green fronds. The other looks like a post-nuclear forest. Grey, headless trunks in rows: these are "harvested" fields. Apparently, there is a large palm oil manufacturing plant that produces raw materials for all sorts of beauty products and cleansers (e.g. Palmolive). The harvested fields look a little creepy, but somehow have a beauty all their own.
The roads are dusty. When I say dusty, I don't mean a little dust flies around. I mean the air is gritty and chewy. The condensation on your beer becomes mud in seconds (how many times have I mentioned beer thus far?) Furthermore, the road is speckled with rickety one-lane bridges. Many of these bridges, upon closer examination, are simple wooden span bridges made of two-by-sixes! In accordance with another Costa Rican driving custom, when bi-directional traffic approaches a bridge he (or she) with the smallest balls yields to oncoming traffic while he (or she) with the biggest balls "floors it." Misunderstandings seem common.
Finally, we reach Matapalo. The house is half-way up a mountain (about a mile from the beach.) We have arrived just after rainy season, so the road leading up to the house is pretty rough. Pulling up in front of the house, I am immediately taken back. It had been described to me as a sort of open-air log-cabin-type thing with two stories. Someone was being modest! Upon entry, I was impressed by the crisp design which made gorgeous use of white tile floors and had a perfect balance achieved by the understated symmetry of the floor plan. Vaulted ceilings in the two central upstairs bathrooms, and the spacious front balcony were two more of my favorite features. I would later be told that the breathtaking wall-to-wall white tile floors prevented snakes from entering the house. Ah...function and fashion. The house was designed by Josh�s Mother, Mary.
=== All that and I just got to the house? ===
========= To be Continued