What's the worst that could happen?

My father has a motto: "What's the worst that could happen?" In college my friends decided that the worst possible scenario should always end with "And then you can never have sex again!" which requires quite a bit of creative thinking. And although it can be a little annoying when my dad says it, I find it a useful exercise to hypothesize about all the horrible situations that could happen and how I could handle them. (In fact my father and I did it just this morning when I found out that the building I live in is foreclosing and we decided that the worst would be if I had to move back in with them and commute 2.5 hours to school which would be logistically impossible because I don't have a car and I rarely leave the academic buildings to begin with...and that would most definitely result in the situation that my college friends foretold)

Anyway, L and A and I were all set to leave the ecovillage and head on to the beach (!!!). We had called a taxi to come at 7AM, figured out the bus and ferry schedule and gotten all packed. The taxi showed up! On time!  And despite my bruised little bottom the ride was not too horrific. The taxi driver and I spoke briefly about the semantics of the words parque, plaza and cancha...after he corrected me several times when I told him to drop us off in the central plaza. (Evidently their soccer fields are called plazas, their plazas are called parks, and their stadia called canchas...they also give all directions using meters instead of blocks "de la esquina 500 metros" which made me feel like I had to triangulate everything or carry a surveyors tape).

We arrived at the parque and the girls ran for breakfast while I again guarded the bags and verified the bus schedule....we were an hour early. As I sat, I noticed that some buses arrived with standing room only which worried me because we had a lot of gear and I didn't want to stand for 2 hours. So we got on line early and got seats and set out....on the slowest and hottest bus known to man. About a half an hour out of town the bust stopped for the gazillionth time, but this time people were muttering "Puntarenas, puntarenas directo, hay que bajarse, Puntarenas." A quick survey revealed that the bus behind us was going directly to Puntarenas (our intermediate destination) so we quickly got our stuff and switched buses. I actually thanked my lucky stars because if we were in Bolivia people would have silently debarked just knowing that the other bus was better and having no need to state it to the hot and frustrated tourists. Although equally oven-like the new bus was indeed better, less crowded and much faster....and thus we arrived at noon to Puntarenas described by my trusty rough guide as the hottest place in all Costa Rica, fading and wilting in the sun. I had a general idea that the next ferry to Nicoya  Peninsula (yet another intermediate destination) left in two hours but I was hoping that there might be an earlier boat so we rushed into a taxi to the other end of town. No luck. A two hour wait. We chilled in a lovely gulf-side restaurant in perhaps the only town in Costa Rica where it is not recommended that you drink the water. A declined to take this advice citing the fact that she's Indian.

I am a nervous traveler and one of my quirks, besides needing to be fed at regular intervals, is being early. When I get to the airport I like to go directly through security and to the gate and then go to eat or pee or whatever. The same with buses or ferries or any mode of transportation. I am irrationally afraid of being left behind. (This phobia is in the same category as being afraid of being locked in the bathroom. Both situations have happened to me numerous times...sometimes with one causing the other.) So even though we could see the ferry from the restaurant and knew that it wouldn't leave for a half hour I was still nervous because we weren't actually on it yet.

But we didn't miss the ferry and not one of my numerous forays to the bathroom resulted in being trapped. It was at this point that I realized how ridiculously bad I smelled, which A had said was her travel quirk. Besides also needing to know where she would be eating next, she detested smelly people. L declined to let us in on her weakness but I suspect it's control. We quickly deduced that she is a youngest child and must always get her way. Luckily A and I are middle children and are capable of compromise or alternatively joining forces to get our way. The ferry was actually quite nice, although slow like molasses, and we arrived at Paquera to be shepherded into a waiting bus. The ticket taker was the least pura-vida Tico we met the entire trip and he was in such a hurry that we finally just threw some money at him and got on the bus. We had to stand.


Even standing wasn't too too horrific. At least we were in the front where there was a breeze. And hanging on for dear life builds arm muscles. So at approximately 7PM we arrived at Montezuma our final beach-front destination. Hooray! I walked up to the hotel and the man at the desk opened with (in Spanish) "You're the three girls who reserved yesterday. Please don't yell at me."

He had given away our room! Despite his request, I started to yell (just a bit). "What do you mean you gave away our room? I reserved with a credit card! Why didn't anyone verify it on the phone! Are there any more rooms? Are any other hotels free? Are you fucking with me?" At this point, my brain busted and my Spanish completely failed me so L took up the charge, "Can we call your manager? Will you pay for the taxi to another hotel? You have the responsibility to make the customer satisfied! You can't just give away rooms!" This man was exasperatingly smug and just sat there as we fumed.

We calmed down a bit while talking to a shirtless American tourist named Michael (Michael was a good distraction but A said he wasn't suitable because he didn't have six-pack abs just a four pack and I said he wasn't suitable because he was an idiot.) and the receptionist eventually found another hotel for us (far far outside of town). He was not willing to pay for the taxi or the extra cost for the other hotel and he declined to call the manager saying that she would only yell at him and at some point he made some comment to the effect of "At least you guys speak Spanish" which caused another round of yelling and fuming.

We left our bags and went to dinner where we took photos of our comic distress and decided to construct an alternative narrative of our day...something about a yacht and catching seagulls with our bare hands and enjoying cocktails at sunset. We finally arrived at our new hotel; L remained exasperatingly optimistic and went night-swimming while A criticized everything about it before going to bed. I bridged the gap by criticizing before going to check out the beach.

The girls set out on a three hour cruise, a three hour cruise

They are stranded on an island

The girls despair

But then with extreme facial expressions they realize their skill at catching their own food!

Also somehow they can do cocktails

Next up: socialism at its frustrating-ist and our own private beach

Where did you learn Spanish?

One of the more surreal experiences was the daily dance around the questions, "Where are you from?" and its close follower, "Where did you learn Spanish?" Being a veritable United Nations of single lady travelers we generally stuck with "We study in the United States" for the first answer unless one of us was asked specifically. The second question made for some ridiculousity.

My favorite conversation was one I overheard between L the Mexican and one of the Costa Rican hippies. The exchange went something like this:
H: Where did you learn Spanish?
L: I'm Mexican.
H: Oh so you learned Spanish in Mexico?
L: Uh, yes.
H: Did you take Spanish in school? Or just from living there?
L: What?
H: Because you speak really well. You even have a Mexican accent.
L: Right.
H: Because that other girl has a different accent. She says she learned in Bolivia.
L: But I'm Mexican.

Conversations with me usually went:
Where are you from?
The United States
But you speak Spanish!
To which I would respond either "I lived in Bolivia" or "All New Yorkers speak Spanish."

Upon reflection, this isn't as strange as it at first seemed. We did meet several Americans living in Costa Rica who had made no attempt to learn Spanish. One of the hippies, for example, had been coming to CR for 11 years. The owner of our hotel had been living there 15. No Spanish. Honestly, besides the Subways and Dennys and Walmart and Burger Kings, I think this is one of the reasons that I didn't really enjoy Costa Rica as much as I could have. At the very least, our sojourn into hippydom gave us the opportunity to speak with real live Costa Ricans who were super proud of their land and the efforts they made to make the country environmentally friendly.

Of body odor and composting toilets

The morning of January 1 we struck out for an ecovillage near San Mateo. Not that telling you it's near San Mateo will give you any indication of where we were; the town only has about 500 residents. But in case you're interested it's about halfway between San Jose and Puntarenas if you go the back way. The bus ride was a good opportunity to see the areas surrounding San Jose (including the Walmart and Dennys) the mountains, pineapple plantations and all variety of four-wheel-drive vehicles. I must take a moment to admit that even recognizing that pineapples are very heavy and it would be anatomically illogical...I thought they grew on trees. The road itself was quite steep and extremely curvy. Some small children were yelling "wheeeeee!" at every curve but even they got silent and motion sick in short order.

We arrived in San Mateo around 1ish to find that the guy who was supposed to meet us had not shown up. He was also not answering his phone. L asked everyone and their mother if they knew this character or if they had any idea where the ecovillage was located. We even asked the one cop and all the little old men hanging in the plaza who were less than helpful; the cop couldn't even figure out how to dial his cellphone. I voted to just go to the only bar in town and just wait and eventually L found a taxi driver who sort of knew where we were headed so we relaxed with a burrito and a few beers before setting out. The town (and the bar) were actually quite charming.

The taxista took us about five miles out of town and up a dirt road for a few miles before determining that his car couldn't handle the terrain....so he dropped us off. Ok. L and A started walking while I guarded the bags and read the Economist until a jeep came and picked me up about five minutes later. The guy driving was actually a local farmer who was going home for the day. He just picked us up out of the goodness of his heart, recognizing that  it would be a loooong walk. Like good little nerds, we talked with him about his citrus crops and asked about the other landholders and the history of the site. And then we arrived. I could tell that the farmer was particularly curious to see what the crazy hippies were doing in the middle of nowhere. I'm not sure what he was expecting, and I'm not even sure what I was expecting but this was....different.

Sure, an ecovillage is an "intentional community with the goal of becoming more socially, economically, and ecologically sustainable." Sure, that indicates some alternative worldviews, a lack of electricity and composting toilets. But this place was a bit less formal. They created a shareholder group with half American and half Costa Ricans to live on the land in the ideals of permaculture....which until this trip I didn't realize included communitarian aspects.

Anyhoo, people lived in half built houses with a communal kitchen. Each hut had a dry compost toilet (that they didn't really dress up much so it was basically "shitting in a bucket"), solar shower (which judging by the smell of certain individuals was not universally used) and a communal kitchen. As I later learned it had been formed by a small group of people who had a camp together at burning man in the early 90s...which should give you an indication of the vibe. Sure I've hugged a few trees in my time and my personal goal is to have a composting toilet in my house...but I'm not much into cleanses and spritituality. I don't believe in the paranormal or indigo children and I'm pretty sure that cutting off a cow's horns does not affect the quality of its digestion. (The last two were actual conversations with residents of the village. long conversations. Mostly one-sided.)

the kitchen

the little girls room complete with New Yorkers to peruse

Our humble abode

I was ridiculously cranky from wasting an entire day traveling and waiting around only to discover that I would be stuck in the middle of nowhere being bitten by ants. I even got angry when I discovered that the dog was named Yaku. (It means water in Quechua and in the recent movie Even the Rain is used as an example of neocolonialism; the foreign characters in the movie are criticized as thinking that they are somehow more enlightened because they know this one word and are therefore more "one with the people.") I didn't say it was rational anger; in fact, I apologized the next day for being so snippy. L responded, "I don't know what snippy is, but I didn't like your tone!"

So A and I immediately began to plot our escape. Jan 2 we got a ride into town to plan our next stop. Like dealings in any "non-Western" nation this involved talking to everyone and their mother to figure out bus schedules and calling lots and lots of hotels that all seemed to be full. After successfully figuring out how to  leave town and reserving a room over the phone, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream and headed back to the hippies.

That afternoon we had a lovely vegetarian lunch and headed up to the river to swim in the waterfall where L mocked me mercilessly for being so white. On this trip I was even more obsessive than usual about sun exposure and remained yuraq siki (See...my Quechua extends towards racial slurs for white people and their white asses!). The most eventful part (for me) was when I fell on my ass climbing down the rocks. It hurt so bad that my legs went numb for a second. A bruised tailbone right before the day we had a long day of travel planned. oh boy.

L and me

right before falling on my backside

Next up: travel quirks and yelling.

Costa Rica: the good, the bad, the ridiculous

When thinking about this post, I was torn between two different beginnings to describe my recent Costa Rican vacation:
1. A Mexican, and Indian, and an American walk into a bar. It sounds like the start of a bad joke but is instead the beginning of a worse vacation...
2. On several occasions my friends have commented on my propensity for disaster in all travel undertakings. And although many admit that I generally escape unscathed, some have decided to never travel with me again....
Although both seem overly dramatic they are based in truth (ok it was a party not a bar) and my notes from the trip place events squarely into three categories: the good, the bad, and the purely ridiculous.

It is important to note that each day, no matter how ridiculous, had at least one highlight. And I should start with my travel companions: two lovely ladies and classmates L the Mexican and A the Indian. Their company was invaluable and positive, our travel quirks were well balanced, and although towards the end of the trip we made a pact not to talk to each other our first week back...I think our friendship will survive.

Day 1! We arrived in San Jose bright and shiny at 1AM and went directly to bed. L and I had to share a bed which was no easy task. Although I was forewarned about her propensity to toss and turn (and I of course shared that I sometimes cuddle others) the scope of her spreadability was incredible. At some point during each night I woke up to find her taking over 3/4 of the bed. The other seven gazillion times I woke up were due to the noise of cars rushing past...a sound akin to a freight train.

That morning we set out to explore the city. The Rough Guide writes that Ticos who live outside of San Jose describe it as, "a maelstrom of stress junkies, rampant crime, and other urban horrors." They go on to cite "pothole-scarred streets and car dealership architecture," deep open drains, and kamikaze drivers. Determined to make the best of it we took cheesy photos of ourselves at all the parks and markets and made a valiant effort to check out the National Library, the National Museum, and the Gold Museum which were all closed without explanation. We did pee at the swanky Gran Hotel Costa Rica where JFK once stayed. At night we headed to San Pedro to eat hummus and drink with obnoxiously young university students. Someone actually called me senora.

Day 2! The next morning A and I woke up at 6AM to head to Poas Volcano...except we accidentally woke up at 5. I'm not entirely sure what the time difference is between the East Coast and Costa Rica and I didn't bring a watch or cell phone in an effort to enter a state of zen timelessness (which transitioned pretty quickly into stress and asking every five minutes, "What time is it?") but this was a bit extreme. Anyhoo we were on time for our bus! Once inside the Park, A and I walked to the crater where we looked over the wide open expanse....of mist. You could see nothing of the crater, the surrounding mountains, or even the sky. Nothing. We took a picture anyway because I'm thinking of starting a "Lenni in the mist" photo album. (If you'll remember, my experience at Macchu Picchu was similar.)

Mist!

What we could have seen

More mist!

Post-mist we hiked around complaining about how our old knees hurt and avoiding the green squirrels and then checked out the tiny volcano museum, gift shop, and tiny art gallery before realizing that we had two additional hours to kill before the bus headed back to San Jose. We spent this time passing back and forth a three-month old copy of The Economist. Getting back to the city we checked out a few churches before heading back to the hotel to meet a friend (P the Bolivian) for dinner.

Dinner was actually pretty sweet. The food was delicious, the atmosphere local and although our ordering was like a scene out of When Harry Met Sally the Vegetarian with simultaneous translation the staff was very accommodating. Chelles is panelled entirely in a rich mahogany and has an old drug store/soda shop feel to it. A San Jose institution, the restaurant's atmosphere afforded us an unparalleled opportunity to malign the incredibly loud American tourist at the next table. Usually open 24/7, even Chelles closed early for New Years Eve and we moved on making plans with P to meet up later for drinks because A and I needed a rest and L needed to finish work on her grad school application.

I wish I could say we finished strong and that our New Years Eve in the tropical nation was one for the books but unfortunately we are surprisingly lame. On our hike A had mentioned that one of our young professors had an open Facebook page that had several shirtless photos so we perused those before watching the ball drop on tv. Keeping in mind the time zone issue, we may have accidentally fallen asleep at 11PM Tico time.

Photos to come!

Next up: dirty hippies and compost toilets.