Where Wandering Brings Us

When the Lasca plane alighted in San Jose airport, the first thing that struck me was the heat. The air was heavy with moisture, and the sun loomed overhead like a bloodshot eye. I bustled through the airport and managed to find my backpack amidst the confusion. The indecipherable signs and the scurrying Costa Ricans yelling in a language I barely understood left me reeling, drunk on the foreignness of it all. I had left my regimented existence back in the States to find something simpler here—to find some peace. They say that traveling to a foreign country is a great way to lose yourself—or maybe the best way to find yourself.

I made it through the airport and jumped into a taxi. The taxis in Costa Rica are bright red and they drive fast. The bumpy ride to the city brought me into a tumultuous noisy metropolis alive with the musical Spanish language. Fruit and vegetable stands occupied every corner, Ticos—the locals—sold avocados, mangos, and bananas to the passing tourists. I was blinded by colors—bright reds, turquoises, lime greens—everything vivid and alive. The streets were thick with car exhaust, and the buses rumbled past, blowing dust in my eyes. I walked slowly down Avenida Central, jostled by locals who seemed to resent my leisurely pace and gaping observations.

I found the Hotel Johnson, which seemed like a charming Costa Rican imitation of a Howard Johnson, and checked in, which required all the skills of my college Spanish and the help of my dictionary. I collapsed exhaustedly in the bed, and squeakily sank to the bottom; my back seemed to be touching the floor—this was no Howard Johnson. I woke early the next morning to the sounds of rush-hour traffic. In my anxiety to get a room, I forgot to request one lejos del calle, away from the street. At a soda, a small diner, I ate breakfast: gallos pintos con huevos fritos—black beans and rice with fried eggs and corn tortillas. (I soon learned that every meal here is served with black beans and rice.) The coffee was strong and dark. The waitress carefully spread a green tablecloth over my table as if to signify my importance as a gringo. None of the other tables, where the Tico men and women ate, had tablecloths. She seemed pleased to be serving a tourist, as if I were someone special.

From there I headed to the bus depot where I caught a hot, crowded bus to Montezuma, on the Nicoya peninsula. I wanted to escape the bustle of San Jose and find the tropical paradise for which I had come to Costa Rica. The tan and rust-colored bus was packed with Ticos carrying their groceries back home from the city. I was surrounded by bags of rice, wooden boxes holding squawking chickens, and colorful bundles of clothing. I tried to fit my cumbersome backpack into the bin over my seat, but it kept falling. I smiled apologetically to the man sitting across the aisle. He stood up and held the pack in place for almost the entire ride. I couldn't tell if he was just being nice or if he was trying to take advantage of my dependence on his help—I was, of course, a woman traveling alone.

Riding down from the highlands of San Jose, the temperature rose and the scenery improved. Lush tropical rain forests bordered the dirt road on either side. Soon I could smell the salt of the Pacific, and the air was filled with the exotic squawks of toucans, quetzals and monkeys. Toward the end of the ride, the man holding my pack got off. I shoved the bag under my seat as best as I could, and sat with my feet on it.

When the bus arrived in Montezuma, I checked into the Hotel Aurora for 2200 colones a night, the equivalent of 11 dollars. It was half what I paid for the Hotel Johnson, and there was no quicksand bed or thunderous traffic to wake me. The second floor balcony had hammocks strung from the rafters, where I spent lazy afternoon siestas soaking up the sunshine and brushing up on my Spanish. My room had a mosquito net over the bed and a rock-lined shower stall with a tree growing out of the far corner. At six in the morning, I was awakened by the raucous cries of the howler monkeys. They sounded like huge dogs barking and howling, and I explored the jungle-like terrain around the back of the hotel with trepidation. But when I finally discovered them, they turned out to be tiny black monkeys, the size of kittens, leaping from branch to branch in the tree tops.

I hiked through town, lugging my backpack, feeling conspicuously white, dripping sweat. A yellow school bus passed by; a group of girls leaned out of the window and called in stilted English, "Hello, how are you," giggling as the bus zoomed away. I stopped in a cafe for lunch and ordered a casada, a lunch special, from the dark-eyed waitress in a pink apron. She smiled shyly at my use of Spanish. "Thank you," she said as I exited, and I marveled at how welcome I felt here. In most of the restaurants there were dogs or cats, and, in some, parrots begging for scraps. In one soda where I had breakfast, the owner took my unfinished plate of eggs and potatoes and placed it on the floor. "Gatos, gatos...," he called the cats over to finish my meal.

The children playing out on the streets were small and brown and carefree. They didn't scream or cry or fight. I never saw a parent scold or spank a child, and I wondered why it was so different in my own country. I went swimming in the ocean one afternoon and met a Tico family. The daughter, probably about eight, plopped her infant brother into my lap, utterly trusting. They taught me Spanish and smiled at my eagerness to learn.

Being in Costa Rica is like leaving your past behind and rediscovering the innocence of your youth. Everything is lush, green, and without guile. You enjoy the sun, the water, the food and the language. Time takes on an elasticity...you forget to make demands, on yourself, on others. You appreciate beauty. You appreciate simplicity.