“Wait a minute Mr. Postman…”

With the proliferation of the internet and WiFi, I have found myself sending a lot less postcards then on former trips. But when you’re on a ‘round the world’ tour like me, you will inevitably have to send some packages home from various countries. I’ve been fortunate to have a few friends visit me while I travel and not only of course is it great to see them, I also benefit by being able to shove some crap into their bag that I no longer need—like some memorabilia I’ve collected or the hiking boots I haven’t worn since the rainforests of South America or the magic walking stick from New Zealand or the conical Asian hat I got in Vietnam. This way they can cart it home for me and I save a ton on postage and mostly am saved from the stress I would suffer by worrying if my precious package would ever make it safely to the shores of ‘Amerika.’ When I could not pawn things off to friends, every few months I’d put a little care package together to send home. I’ve learned that the post offices around the world are as varied as the toilets. And some are just as stinky.

Monteverde, Costa Rica—This was a tiny post office up in the cloud forest with one window and one man. No muss no fuss. Signed, sealed, delivered.

Galapagos Islands—In the middle of an empty beach on an island only inhabited by animals three hours from mainland Ecuador is a ‘post office.’ Well, it’s actually just a wood barrel with a door cut out, but it may actually work better than some real postal systems that I have come across. Here’s the deal: You write a postcard to someone you know (or perhaps a stranger if you are feeling friendly) who lives anywhere in the world. You address it and sign it, but you DON’T put a stamp on it. You leave it there in the barrel. Then you look through the other postcards that have been left in there and take one that is supposed to be ‘sent’ to your country…or a country where you are headed. Once you get to that country you can either hand deliver it if you are near the address or just buy local postage and just send it off. It’s a postal system by the people, for the people. Sounds perfect, but, by the way, has anyone ever received my postcards from here??

Melbourne, Australia—Fairly similar to going to the post office in the US: fill out some forms, pay way too much money, stamp it with some official looking seals and away it goes—all the way around the world and up into another hemisphere. Too efficiently boring to give me anything interesting to write about.

Hong Kong—Here I remember playing ‘musical windows;’ the first window guy said to go to another window across the room. At the second window, they weighed my package and addressed it. Then I had to return to the first window with some kind of receipt which I gave window guy #1. Here I had to pay and he stamped it. Then I returned to finished package the second guy. Got it?

Hanoi, Vietnam—I think I could have sat in this tiny post office (similar to a small bar with some round stools at the windows) all day and never have been served. They certainly didn’t ask me if I needed help and when someone local came in she would literally just shove in front of me at the window and be helped before I was even acknowledged. Before I ‘went postal,’ I finally pushed my way in and was handed, I kid you not, about five different convoluted forms to fill out—each one just about the same as the last. My current address, the recipients address, the address of my second cousin once removed, several lists of what the contents of the box where, the value of each item in Vietnamese Dong, the total weight, etc. I was given two different total costs by two different people. I was not feeling confident about this one and thought I would never see my Vietnamese trinkets and souvenirs ever again…but alas it arrived weeks later intact and unharmed.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam—One of the prettiest post offices, it was in a grand old building and kind of looked like an old fashioned train terminal. I had been told ahead of time by fellow travelers that I did not need to scavenge for a box prior to my arrival here. The young man that helped me here was great—he found me a box behind the counter, we put everything in it exactly how I wanted it and he spent the next ten minutes taping it up so good—that the whole box was covered in blue tape and you could not see one speck of brown from the original box color. I filled out one form and paid in cash (only). I noticed that the ‘form process’ was much simpler than in Hanoi—kind of strange considering it is the same country, no? In the end, I made a possibly detrimental decision and chose to save money by sending it ‘sea mail’ as opposed to the modern method of ‘air mail.’ I pictured my sad little package all wet and moldy with crabs and seaweed clinging to it on the decks of some old pirate ship. Four months later it arrived in the US and apparently had no sea creatures in it. Amazing.

Istanbul, Turkey—This was a doozey. There were only five windows at this post office and yet none of them wanted my package. They actually ushered me through the ‘employees only’ door and behind the glass partition that usually must separate postal worker and postal user. I had brought my package unsealed to show its contents. Not only did they not care one iota of what was inside, they did not have me fill out one form at all. No, actually there was one form—it was practically the size of a postage stamp and had three lines on it—one for the sender’s name, one for the recipient’s name, and on the final line they scribbled the word ‘Amerika.’ Doesn’t seem like enough info for an important international parcel, does it? I already did not have a very confident feeling. After finding out my package was going to ‘Amerika’ the postman told me, like nearly every other foreigner I’ve met, ‘America? George Bush bad man.’ I agree, but it gets tiring after a while being a spokesperson for our entire nation and carrying the weight of the American government’s often bad decisions on my shoulders. Plus, at this point, I just wanted to mail my package, not be a diplomat. I actually forced the two Turkish postal workers that were helping me to just take a gander of what was inside my box, just out of habit. Then they haphazardly taped the box shut, took it away, and told me the price as if we were finished.

“What about the address??” I exclaimed.

“Oh yeah, address, address.” The two men said in unison. Then they proceeded to slap on some plain white stickers onto the top of the box where I was to write in the address.

No official stickers. No official cards. The postage meter machine apparently had a maximum of nine lire per sticker so now he had to slap about five different meter stickers all over the top of my box wherever they would fit. Lastly he licked an ‘airmail’ stamp and a “Turkey” sticker and slapped them on as well. By the end of this unofficial process I just about decided I would certainly never see this package or any of its contents again. When the nervous security-crazed U.S. Customs Department sees this crazy looking, hand scrawled box coming from 99% Muslim Turkey…they will probably just blow it up on site.

In actuality, all of my packages traveled half way around the world and have arrived safely. BUT ironically, the postcards I sent out from the most efficient, anal city in the world, Singapore, never made it. Makes you wonder. Maybe Turkey is on to something.

Here are some general tips for you if you decide to send packages from abroad:

1. Bring your passport.
2. Bring cash and lots of it. Many post offices in other parts of the world do not accept credit cards.
3. Bring your package unsealed. Oftentimes for Customs purposes, they will need to look inside (excluding Istanbul) to see what kind of contraband you are actually sending, so be prepared to explain your ‘apocalypse now’ shot glass from Vietnam or the ‘opium pipe’ you picked up for decorative purposes in Phnom Penh. Also be aware that many post offices can provide you with a box and tape it up for you.
4. Bring your patience, sense of humor, and comfortable shoes.
5. Before you go, make a list of what you are sending. This will make it easier to fill out all the forms and keep them all consistent rather than you repeatedly shuffling around the contents of your package (like most guys I know tend to do).
6. Of course, wrap everything breakable very carefully. And then you will inevitably unwrap it and wrap it again after you show it to the postal worker.
7. Don’t mail anything from Singapore.

 

Pura Vida.

In Costa Rica there’s a saying that permeates everyday life. Pura Vida literally translates to ‘pure life.’ But here, it’s used in many ways to kind of mean ‘it’s all good.’ When someone asks:

“How are you?”
“Pura Vida.”

“How’s the weather?”
“Pura Vida.”

A pretty girl or cute muchacho is “pura vida.”

It’s an attitude. It’s a feeling. It’s all good. It’s laid back. In the States we don’t really have this attitude in everything we do.

It makes me think about how we say we want to live life to the fullest, but how hard it is to actually do when we are so preoccupied with working, making more money to buy more things, commuting, running on the treadmill, and falling into bed exhausted. How do we have time to really ‘live life’ or ‘pura vida?’

We say “stop and smell the roses” and “work to live, don’t live to work.” But it takes five seconds to say these words and then MAYBE we think about their meaning for another five seconds before our own daily thoughts, responsibilities, and to-do lists come crashing into our brain. We fill our lives with so much crap when we need to be focusing more energy on the most important things:

Personal Relationships with friends and family
Love
Happiness
Laughter

Believe me, I’m writing about this, but I’m no expert and no better than anyone else and certainly get caught up in the daily BS. And if I figure out how to do this thing called ‘life’ better I will let you know. And you do the same for me.

Pura Vida.

 

I See Rich People…

…and they’re all Gringos!

I’m back in San Jose for a few nights before my flight to Ecuador.  So as I’ve traveled throughout the country I’ve noticed an amount of poverty that I’m not quite used to. And this country is nowhere near the poorest country I will visit. Again, it makes me painfully aware of all that we have in the states and more specifically all that I have.

I’ve also noticed nearly every house here has at least bars on the windows and in most cases, a gate, and a big metal fence usually topped with razor wire.  Sadly, the more tourism has increased, the more crime has also increased.

For my last few nights, I decided to stay in Escazu, a well-to-do suburb up in the hills just outside of San Jose.  I hadn’t seen any wealth and was curious as to what I’d find here. I knew I would find many Americanos because as my bus pulled into town we preceded to pass Denny’s, Tony Romas, and possibly our worst import—Hooters. Wow. Was I in Costa Rica or Atlanta?

After a morning of catching up on my sun at the pool and catching up on my writing, I took a walk around the ‘hood. I turned a corner and there I was in Gringoland.   It looked like a wealthy suburb of Miami.  Coral colored stucco mansions with tile roofs one after the other lined the streets.  It was the first time I’d seen pretty streetlamps and manicured lawns the whole time I’d been here.  I strolled up a block that dead-ended at a security booth.  I ended up chatting with the security guard (in Spanish—so thankful for my lessons!) about the neighborhood.  According to Señor Security, nearly everyone that lived here was American.  And they all worked for Intel.

If you recall in an earlier blog, I mentioned technology was the number two industry in the country, thanks in large part to Intel.  It was like a mini Stepford with all these American housewives whizzing by in their SUVs into their gated driveways and their hermetically sealed homes.  Muy interesante.  AND I bet they pay beau coup bucks on the monthly exterminator bills to keep the ants out.

 

 

Jeep-Boat-Jeep

Isn’t that fun to say? That’s what they call the transportation method I took to get to La Fortuna and Arenal Volcano. It’s actually more like Van-Boat-Van, but I really think they should call it Bus-Boat-Bus and really have some alliteration fun. The road from Monteverde to Lake Arenal was probably the worst yet—bumpy and rocky the entire way. But the scenery was gorgeous—rolling green hills dotted with cows and a few small farmhouses. And in the background the perfectly conical Arenal Volcano arose from the hills into the clouds.

We reached the lake and boarded a boat for the other side. This quick one hour ride across the calm waters provided a nice reprieve from the unpaved roads, plus it provided the most spectacular view of the Volcano itself. Arenal Volcano is the second most active volcano in the world. It has eruptions every five to ten minutes. In 1968, it erupted violently after laying dormant for hundreds of years. A village was destroyed and 80 people were killed. Nowadays, Arenal erupts just about every five to ten minutes shooting red hot lava rocks out of its crater.

Proving once again, IT IS a ‘small word,’ I met a guy named Scott on the boat who had worked as a TV Producer for WIS-TV in Columbia, South Carolina. I was a Director at this same station for three years just out of Journalism School! He worked there about six years after I did, but we knew some of the same folks. I love random encounters like that. We got to the other side of the lake and what to my wandering eyes did appear?? A double yellow line and actual pavement! We’ve reached civilization!! Land ho!

I took the last leg of my “Jeep-Boat-Jeep” excursion and was dropped outside of “Gringo Pete’s,” the hostel Marcel and friends recommended. Pete is a jolly (and I soon learned often condescending) ol’ expat from Washington State. I’ve done it—I’ve crossed over into dormitory living. I’m in a clean room with 4 bunks and my roommates are a Swiss guy, Martin, a Dutch gal, Sandra, and a cool Romanian (who speaks 5 languages and works for a bank in Geneva) just walked in. We all end up hanging out now I have instant friends for the next few days. Oh—and the rate? Three dollars a night!

 

Zippity Do-Da…

My second day in Monteverde I went on the very popular Canopy Tour
through the St. Elena Forest. This is a series of steel cables, or ‘ziplines’ strung across the top of the forest. You wear a harness and with a pulley and several carabineers, you are hooked up to the line and literally zip across the tree tops. Costa Rica has become somewhat famous for these adrenaline pumping tree top ‘rides.’ The canopy tours have popped up all throughout the country. Mine consisted of about 17 different lines of varying heights and lengths. It’s not for the faint of heart or those with a fear of heights. It’s also not really a good way to ‘see’ the rainforest since you are zipping through so quickly you can enjoy the tree tops, but little chance of spotting any wildlife.

I loved it—it’s scary and exhilarating at the same time. The guides were a bunch of fun young Ticos who made it even more fun. The craziest part was doing what they call the “Tarzan Swing.” It was basically just a rope they tethered your harness to and with a “lista?” (are you ready?), they would push you off a high platform and you would free fall until the rope caught and then you’d swing into the jungle. I screamed and then kept laughing so hard, I was crying! It was a great rush and as I was whizzing through the forest with no control, like some kind of monkey, I realized this was the ultimate feeling for ‘letting go,’ like I hope to be doing all year.

At the Canopy Tour I met some cool Americans (sometimes sadly that seems to be an oxymoron). There were two couples—one from Buffalo and the other from Aspen, Colorado. We hit it off right away and it was nice to be with fun, down to earth, outgoing people who were my own age. I ended up kind of inviting myself to dinner with them (I’m usually direct, but being alone, I feel I sometimes have to make friends quicker than I normally would) that night. We went to a place called Sofia’s and I had the nicest meal I’ve had since San Jose (these were not backpackers on a backpacker budget). I ordered the chicken in a plantain crust with a mango salsa and coconut rice. It was beautifully presented and delicious

Later that night I met back up with my roommate, Marcel from Germany, who’d gone away on a sidetrip for a few days and had now returned. Super nice guy—very friendly and easy going—he made the perfect roommate, but alas, he was also leaving the next day for Nicaragua. We met up at Amigos, the local watering hole, and were joined by Daniella and Yasmine, a couple friends from Switzerland who were also staying at our hotel. Also there was my cute Tico waiter from dinner who’d actually invited me to go dancing at the local ‘discothèque.’ He had a cherub face and the sweetest brown eyes with long eyelashes, but I think he was ten years my junior. I think I’d sit this dance out. I really enjoyed my new friends—we were a mish mash of German, American, Swiss, Canadian, and Tico. Monteverde definitely was a special place and after three days in this small town I already started to recognize and be greeted by some of the locals. That is definitely something I like and a lesson in staying in each town for a good length of time to enable me to meet and get to know the people. I’m definitely starting to meet more people which is great, but many new friendships are fleeting as we go our separate ways. It is so easy to meet and ‘bond’ with fellow travelers and swap road stories. It makes the solo traveling hardly solo at all!

 

“I’m Singin’ in the lluvia…”

I love my rain jacket. This is the best thing I packed for the world tour.

I spent three days up in the St. Elena just outside of the Monteverde Cloud Forest where when they say ‘rainy season,’ they really mean it.

The actual town of Monteverde (Green Mountain) was founded in the 1950s by some Quakers who’d left the United States to avoid a constant fear of war and an obligation to the military and the taxes that supported it. Ironically for me, my hometown of Randolph, New Jersey was also founded by Quakers. I even grew up right off of “Quaker Church Road.” But, oddly, I don’t think I’ve ever even met a Quaker…or at least if I ever did, I didn’t know it. Side note: they are actually named Quakers because in their religion they meditate in a way that actually makes them tremble or “quake.”

Cloud forests are the same as rainforests, except they exist only high atop mountain slopes. The warm, moist ocean air is swept up the mountain forming clouds which give moisture to the abundant plant life.

I took an excellent (and very wet) guided tour of the Cloud Forest given by Vernal, a very knowledgeable and excited young guide.

He

Here are some amazing stats on Monteverde Cloud Forest:

• 2500 different types of plants, including 350 types of ferns alone
• 1000 Epiphytes (plants that grow on the branches of forest trees—ferns, orchids, bromeliads)
• 400 species of birds
• 100 different species of animals

<!–[if !supportLists]–>

This was truly a great example of nature at its finest. It was so lush and so full and most of the life was up above in the canopy of all the trees where the sun could get through.

On our tour we saw a multitude of plant life—ferns, orchids, huge fig trees. Animals were a little harder to spot but we saw a ‘walking stick’ insect, a praying mantis, a poisonous viper snake (thankfully far away and only viewed through Vernal’s scope), hummingbirds, a fox, howler monkeys, and even the very elusive and endangered Quetzal bird. Another guide mentioned to Vernal that he’d spotted the bird. Suddenly, Vernal scampered up the wet trail with the rest of us huffing and puffing in tow. He plopped down his high powered scope and with hundreds of trees and branches in his view, he spotted the bird within thirty seconds. These guides were amazing. They knew the forest well and knew exactly what to look for—certain torn branches, rustling (although with rain pelting everything this seemed impossible), and the areas where certain animals had been spotted before. The Quetzal was once revered by Pre-Columbian peoples of this region. It is a stunning green and in mating season, the males sport two very long ‘tail feathers.’ Sadly, today their habitat has diminished and in turn so has their numbers, but thanks to newer conservation efforts—things are turning around.

 

“Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need…roads.”

Today I left the homey and hazy beach town of Montezuma for the mountains.

Here’s how I got there:

 

First I took a minibus 1 hour east to the town of Paquera to catch the ferry. Our mini bus was contantly dodging potholes on the dirt roads.  Then I took the 1 ½ hour ferry ride crossing the Gulf of Nicoya. From here I was to catch a public bus, but alas, it had departed just 15 minutes before the ferry arrived (seems like poor scheduling, no?). So I jumped in a cab with 3 other travelers I’d just met and we chased down the bus. I haggled with the cabbie for a lower fare and 20 minutes later we were on the “Express” bus to Monteverde Cloud Forest which was about 50 miles away. Three and a half hours later our “Express” bus rolled into the town of St. Elena just before the
Forest.  Once again, Costa Rica’s horrible roads slowed us to about 15 miles per hour most of the way here as we swerved around pot holes and dodged oncoming traffic while clinging to the side of a mountain blanketed in a thick dense fog.  So combining my mini bus, ferry, taxi, and “express” bus it took me a total of 8 hours to get here. It took me less time to fly to Costa Rica from
Chicago. But that’s okay—it’s all part of the adventure!

 

Plus, getting off the ferry and dashing into the taxi I met my first traveling partner who was also on his way to Monteverde. Marcel, from Freiburg, Germany, is traveling through Central America and Mexico for 3 months. With his new surfboard in tow, he had just come from a month of learning to ride the waves in one of the beaches on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast. I was planning on staying at a hotel recommended by my book and also by a couple I met in Montezuma. Marcel’s budget was about $10 a night. I thought maybe this is it—tonight I will really take the plunge into hostel-dom and go for it. I’ve been a bit reluctant to give up my personal space yet and share a dorm room with smelly strangers, but since I’d have a friend in tow, I figured ‘what the heck?’ I needed that extra push to get out of my comfort zone.  I could go with him to check it out and if I hated it I could always just go to my originally planned hotel.

As soon as we stepped off the bus from our LONG journey, we were bombarded with the ‘hotel hawkers.’ A group of about ten men and women with laminated pictures got in our faces shouting things like:

“Nice rooms!”

“Stay here get breakfast!”

“We have nice warm shower for you!”

I ignored them all and focused on retrieving my bag from the bus’s baggage compartment. My backpack is my number one priority.  One woman had Marcel in her clutches and we decided to go with her and check out her place—if we didn’t like it we could always leave.  Her and her husband drove us in their jeep about “500 meters” to their Cabinas.  Surprisingly, it was actually very nice and VERY cheap. We have our own room with 2 beds and a private bath for…get this…$5 a night! Wha?? Now, that’s how I can afford this trip!!
Costa Rica you so cheapa!

 

Massage Heaven

It literally felt like I was in heaven or at least close to it as I lay on the massage table feeling my muscles melt while listening to the sounds of the ocean. You know how back in the States, when you go to a spa for a massage how they play some soothing CD with ocean sounds? Well, here there was no CD—this was the real thing. Wow. This was so incredible.

I was at the Ylang Ylang Resort just about a 10 minute walk from town. But I’m not talking about walking down the street. There are NO roads to Ylang Ylang. The only way to get here is to walk on the beach. This IS paradise.

I was a bit early so I sat at the bar and had a nice cool Michelada (In Costa Rica it’s beer with lemon on the rocks with salt). The place had an all around resort feel and was a nice step up from the dusty main street of town. After my one hour open air massage I headed back to the bar for some Sushi. Here I met Matt and Craig, two Northwestern Grads who were here on vacation with their wives. They were having a grand old time and were already a bit hammered from a day of drinking and relaxing by the pool. After being regaled with tales of the ‘old days in Wrigleyville’ and Cubs memories, the boys went back to their wives and I finished up my sushi and Mojito and headed back to the beach for the trek back to town.

It was dusk as I headed back and the beach was deserted. Crabs scurried under random flotsam and jetsam as the waves rolled onto the beach and back. I stared thinking about all the expats I was meeting who had moved down here for a slower, better life. There was definitely something appealing about it—less money, but less responsibilities and less stress. Not sure if I’m ready for this lifestyle yet, but maybe someday…

 

Montezuma’s Revenge

 

At 8am this morning, I left Jaco, the busy, noisy “Daytona” of Costa Rica.

I hopped in a motor boat taxi, sped across the Nicoya Gulf and by 10:30am I was taking a dip in my hotel pool at Playa de Montezuma. It was an easy commute except for the all-too-common need for a sports bra while cruising through the choppy seas of the Pacific. Also, it was the first time on the trip that I had to hoist my backpack/suitcase with wheels actually onto my back. The reason? We actually had to wade into the ocean with our bags to get on board one boat and then climb into a second boat about 50 yards out to sea—I’m guessing the waves were crashing too much for the boat taxi to come ashore. And of course there was no dock. For awhile, I was second guessing this large purchase wondering if I should’ve just brought my regular rolling small suitcase. At least this confirmed the need for this huge backpack.

Our dinghy wasn’t much bigger than the first boat. It held all our bags, three crew muchachos, and four passengers—a couple from my home state of New Jersey and another solo traveling girl from Big Sky, Montana. The one hour ride over to the other coast was a little bumpy, but the breeze was a welcome change from the hot, stagnant air.

So now, I’m lazing about at the pool at my hotel in Montezuma. This tiny beach town at the southern tip of the Nicoya peninsula has a funky laid back vibe. Apparently it has seen its hippie/artist times and now attracts Euro backpackers, vegetarian rasta types, and even UFO seekers! The beach stretches for miles and is virtually deserted—especially now in the low season. My hotel, Hotel Los Mangos, is just a few minutes walk from the center of town down a bumpy dirt road. It appropriately sits underneath dozens of mango trees. There are several private ‘bungalow’ rooms sprinkled through the property. I have a tiny colorful room in the main building of blues and yellows and share the bathroom just outside with one other room for just $20 a night. There is a porch in front of the rooms with rocking chairs that are great for sitting in to watch the surf below and pelicans sour above and cool off with the ocean breezes. The best part is the pool . It is up on a hill where you can see the ocean and towered over by palm trees. It is surrounded by stone and even has a waterfall going into it giving it a very natural feel.

This town is very relaxed and a very good place for me to catch up on some reading and writing. It’s funny how little I have to worry about now compared to back home in ‘real life.’ I really want to appreciate this. At home I had my job and all its daily responsibilities, plus my other job teaching part time at Columbia College. I had my condo to pay for and worry about plus my other condo which I leased out to renters. I had my cat to take care of plus constant relationship issues and all around other responsibilities and ‘to do list crap.’ Here my job is to figure out how to get from one place to another, find food, find lodging and take in all there is to see and learn. That’s it. Oh—and the packing and unpacking is already becoming quite tedious, but I’m trying to look at it as one small task that’s just part of my new existence.

So here I am, finally relaxing at the pool. Sometimes I have trouble relaxing. I’m so used to always going and going that I get bored very easily when there’s nothing to do. Here in Montezuma it’s super relaxed and I laid at the pool for hours trying to let go of my inner anal, tightly wound self. I felt good doing nothing and thought I was slowly accepting ‘doing nothing’ UNTIL I came back to my new cute room to find big nasty ants crawling in my bag and all over the walls. Yuck! One thing I hate is bugs. Just one is enough to send me into a tizzy, but they were everywhere. I literally killed about 15 or so until I went to the reception desk across the grounds. In broken Spanish, I managed to communicate my problem and walked away with a can of bug spray to eradicate these ‘hormigas.’ Well, it temporarily killed some, but that didn’t stop them from continuing to come in from cracks in the ceiling. In the room next to me two girls from California said they have ants too and it’s just from all the trees and stuff. “That’s why we have these,” said one brunette as she pointed to their mosquito nets.

So here I was all relaxed and happy with this hotel after a nasty one in Jaco last night and now I can’t stop scanning the walls for movement. Great. How am I going to sleep now? I took the can of ‘raid-ito’ and literally sprayed the perimeter of my bed and also made a line around my big backpack–kinda like you would find at a murder scene. My pack was on the floor because, like in most places I’ve stayed, the furniture is sparse or non-existent in these rooms. As I write this, I’ve killed about 8 more ants. This sucks and now I’m completely un-relaxed. I don’t think I will learn to love bugs on this trip—I just don’t think this is possible to change. And now they will probably will be crawling over me as I sleep. Fun.

After a restless, hot, itchy night I awoke this morning to hear the cleaning lady next door. In Español, I asked to change my room to the one she just cleaned.
“Quiero cambiar mi cuarto porque hay muchas hormigas y no me gusta insectos. Esta bien?”

My new room actually has an ocean view (and therefore ocean breeze—which in this heat is more important). I don’t know if it will be any better, but I’m hoping it just can’t be any worse. I hope.

 

 

Surf’s up, dude.

Spanish classes go from eight in the morning to noon. Then on certain days four of us walk down the hill next door to the surf shop. Here Jorge and his gang take us to the beach with the best waves for that day. How cool is it that during my first lesson I was able to stand up and ride a wave all the way in about three times?  Now, of course, I fell the other ten or so times. Jorge, my surf instructor, is from here originally, but like most surfers, seemed like he was from Southern California. He had bleached blond streaks of hair and was lean and tan with a laid back ‘it’s all good’ kind of attitude. And when I did well, he shouted with glee and gave my high fives.  He was great.  Unfortunately, I didn’t do as well my second day. That is actually quite normal for me. When learning something new I tend to get worse before I get better. I think on my first attempts I just ‘dive right in’ so to speak and don’t hold back. Then once I learn a few things I tend to ‘overthink’ everything and my brain messes up what my body is trying to do.  Plus, this day Jorge wasn’t there and I had Juan a new, sixteen-year-old instructor. Oh, and he didn’t speak English. The only surfing words I know in Spanish are:

1. Surfiar=to surf
2. Olas=Waves
3. Mierda=Shit!!

We both used a mangled mix of Spanglish, but he was no Jorge!

On the third lesson, Jorge was back and we went to the beach at Manual Antonio, much prettier, but also much bigger waves and much harder. I managed to get up on a few waves, but the hardest part is actually just going back out to sea once you ride a wave in. These waves were big and mean and wouldn’t let you come back out. Every time I jumped under one and came up to wipe the salt out of my eyes, another wave would shove me back under—sometimes forcing sand in my mouth, up my noise, and other places unknown. These waves were mean! After an hour and a half of being beaten up by the Pacific, we called it quits.  

So now with three big surf lessons under my bikini, I am ready hit Australia’s Gold Coast! Well, maybe just to watch. I can’t imagine doing it without hearing Jorge in his heavy Spanish accent say, “Paddle! Paddle! Paddle! Now standup!!”

 

 

Shock the Monkey!

After class today, I hopped on the bus to Manuel Antonio National Park. This entire coastal area used to be all forest and sadly this park is all that’s left. The entire country of Costa Rica used to be covered with mostly forest, but agriculture has taken over and the forests have shrunk considerably. I arrived at the park at about 2:45pm and unfortunately learned it closes at 4:00pm. Why am I rushing on a one year vacation? But today actually was the only day I could see the park because the rest of the week I have surfing or other activities after class. Inside this national park is the perfect picture of a beautiful beach—white sand, huge palms, and not another sole around. On and near the beach many iguanas sat basking in the hot son. There were also hundreds of bright red crabs crawling around under the trees in the shade. I could hear the rustle of monkeys in the trees above. I hiked on some trails that left the idyllic beach and went into the rainforest. Wow—I’m in a rainforest. All by myself. And they gave me no map. Great, I’m lost. Well, not exactly.

Even though the park ranger told me it takes 4-6 hours to see the park. I figured he just doesn’t know how fast I walk, right? Wrong. I hiked up the Cathedral trail into the forest. It was dense and humid. The humidity here is really something I’ve never felt before—in fact I still have clothes hanging that are not dry after several days. On my barely marked trail, the sand gave way to mud and slippery rocks and trees that had fallen across the path. Not being one who likes to return the same way I came (I bore very easily—maybe that trait will mellow on this trip), I keep going and going and going. Many times I stopped and thought, ‘maybe this trail doesn’t loop and I should turn around.’ But then I’d see some light ahead or a curve and think to myself—‘let me just see what’s up there.’ So, of course, then I kept going and going some more. I hiked for another hour and the park was closing in 15 minutes. There was no way I could go back the way I came in 15 minutes. I was so torn on whether or not I should assume it looped. Damn it! I turned around and went back. On the way, I saw and heard some Capuchin Monkeys way up high in the trees. I also spotted a few Cabybaras (the world’s largest rat!) enjoying a small stream. I returned to the beach where I started and walked back though the entrance that was now gated shut. I squeezed through an opening in the fence and out of the park. Ah, but not so fast! An interesting thing at this park—it was now late in the afternoon and high tide. The entrance was actually on a high part of the peninsula this park was on. A road actually deadends into the park and you must cross part of the beach to reach the entrance. Well, now this beach was covered with water. Little men waited in little boats for you to shuttle you across the 200 yards or so. You dropped some change in their bucket and away you went. My driver was probably 15.

Before he left me off he asked, “Que tipos animals tu ves?”
“Yo veo monos y iguanas y raton.”
He shuttled me over to a tree and pointed, “Mira en el arbole!”

There laying in the branches was a huge snake. I’m glad I was on my way out!

 

Beep! Beep! Time for school!

Every morning at 7:30am, my minivan “school bus” honks outside to pick me up. Jennifer, my housemate and one of the teachers, my neighbor Ryan, a nineteen-year-old ex-air force academy cadet, and I climb in the van to pick up a few other students and head to school. I have to say it’s neat to be “in school” again and learning something. I felt for a while now that I wasn’t “learning” anything new in life like I used to back in college and I like learning. It doesn’t always have to be in a classroom though, and I feel this whole trip will be a huge learning experience for me—making the world my classroom!

El Paraiso (The Paradise) school is on the main road to Manual Antonio National Park. There is one small indoor office with a desk and a few computers for the staff and all the rest is in the great outdoors. There are five or so open-air “classrooms” which consist of a concrete slab, wood table, four maroon plastic chairs, and a log and tin roof. There are trees all around us filled with chattering Squirrel Monkeys. It’s hard to study mi verbos reflexivos when all these cute white faced guys are jumping around tree to tree.

There are about 5 other students studying at the school right now. It is the rainy or low season in Costa Rica which makes things cheaper and not as crowded. I have to say I was slightly disappointed in my new group of amigos. They are all nice for the most part, but not as friendly and outgoing as I’d hoped. Maybe it’s because they’re all Americans? Plus, they are all a lot younger. If this was a reality show (“Spanish Immersion School: Costa Rica”), we would have an interesting cast:

Ryan: A very white, slightly chubby nineteen-year-old from a suburb of San Francisco. He’s nice and quite smart for his age, but a bit dorky and unsure of himself. He and I have class together (it’s just each teacher per one or two students) and every time he says an answer in class he rocks back on his chair, answers, and then makes an annoying popping noise with his lips. He lives just next door to me in our barrio and we’ve gone out for cervezas, but he’s just not all that much fun.

Kate: Okay, now it starts to get interesting. Kate is also pretty young—maybe 20. She’s from Colorado and seems like a hippie/burnout type. Despite multiple warnings by locals and friends, she’s been dating Mohammed, the town drug dealer and all around thug. Apparently Mohammed stakes out the surf lessons and preys on unsuspecting young American chicas looking for love and security. Today in class, Kate told us all she stayed with Mohammed overnight and he lives in a hammock on someone’s roof. Sounds like a stable guy to me.

Jennah: This is the spoiled 18-year-old rich girl from Boca Raton, Florida. She’s ‘too cool for school’ and mumbles when she talks. She seems mostly nice, but doesn’t say all that much. She also wears her board shorts super low and is constantly drawn to playing with her own stomach.

Jennifer: Another one from the San Francisco bay area, this 28-year-old is a social worker looking to quit her job and shake life up a bit. She seems mostly cool, but ah, some drama, I just found out today that she’s “hanging out” (having sex) with our surf instructor Jorge. I think it could be all cool, although she seems to get a bit possessive of him when other muchachas are trying to learn to surf—like me! Plus I really think he’s just like Mohammed—maybe not a drug dealer (just doer—he lit up a joint after our last surf lesson), but still has fun with the touristicas when they are here. I think she maybe naïve to think they have ‘something’ more.

Crystal: Okay, last one’s a charm. Crystal is a mini Pamela Anderson. She’s a beautiful ex-mormon with long blond hair, big eyes and lips and fake breasts. She also annoyingly wears way-too-long fake eyelashes every day. How about saving them for a special occasion? Nope, while everyone else is super casual in shorts and bathing suit tops, she’s got on her long lashes in class and to surf. Here’s the kicker: She’s 22, already divorced and is now dating some Utah Mining Equipment owner “sugar daddy.” I’m guessing he bought her the new boobage. He “sent” (paid for) her down here for six months to ‘get away’ and look for a house for them! She says he did it because he wants to show her that he will miss her. Que? He’s almost 40 and she said he’s about to retire. She is constantly on her cell phone with him and even got lost in Manual Antonio Park because she was gabbing with him instead of seeing all the rainforest has to offer. She is literally doing everything for and around him—sending pics and videos everday, getting packages from him. And she doesn’t go out with the rest of us at night because she needs to talk with him. Or he forbids her to—that’s what I’d like to think. Not sure why she’s even here. Oh Yeah—to buy a house? She can’t even figure out the ipod nano he sent her…so I’m guessing real estate in a foreign country might not be her thing either. Ya think?

Tune in next week to see if Kate gets killed by Mohammed or Crystal gets off her cell phone!

 

 

Mi Nuevo Familia

Several years ago my friend Mark had visited Costa Rica with his friend Seung. They’d rented a car and I distinctly recall him telling me how terrible the roads were here. Well, it appears not much has changed since then. Let’s just say that on my bus ride from San Jose to Quepos, I wished I’d worn a sports bra. Ouch!

Before I left on my trip one of the things I decided to do was enroll in a Spanish Immersion program in which I would take lessons en Español and live with a local familia. The school also offered surfing lessons which I couldn’t pass up.

Upon arriving at the Jimenez casa is Quepos (just outside of Manual Antonio National Park—famous worldwide for it’s endangered squirrel monkeys), I really started thinking about how fortunate (or spoiled) we are in the States. Their home had everything they needed and yet probably less than 1/8 of what I had. The floors were plain old concrete. There were no area rugs. . There were no lamps or any other lighting except simple florescent bulbs in the center of the ceiling and there were none of the “extras” we have to decorate our homes. No art on the walls (besides the few small religious cards of the Virgin Marry and Jesus randomly hung where there happened to be nails), no bookshelves, no end tables, vases, no pretty paint colors on the walls, etc. Now granted, I love this kind of stuff—I love making my house feel like a home with cool tchtochkes and niceties like candles and framed photographs sprinkled about, but of course none of it is a necessity. The entire house felt like an unfinished attic. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining or judging them, but I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say it took some getting used to. There was no dry wall—just the beams and rafters. The kitchen was an amalgamation of various tables covered in cut up contact paper acting as counters. There were no cabinets, no real countertops, and just one mini sized fridge. There was no oven—just a few burners in a portable camping type stovetop. My room was upstairs and as bare bones as you could get—just a bed and one small armoire. Seriously there was NOTHING else in it. No bedside table. No lamp. No pictures. No rugs. No nada. Just a bed and some windows. It felt sort of like a cabin you’d rent in the woods somewhere. There was a wastebasket outside my bedroom door—well, it was actually a box with the top cut off with a plastic bag in it. It took me a day before I decided what it was for as there was no trash can in the bathroom. The bathroom probably made me the most uncomfortable—kind of like an outdoor bath you’d find in a campground with the requisite cobwebs in the corners and a makeshift shower stall. There seemed to be some odd rigging for hot water with actual electric cables leading right to the shower head. This electrocution-trap-waiting-to-happen did not sit well with me. There was also a dirty, wet towel sitting just outside the shower stall on the concrete floor that did not look like a place I’d want to put my clean wet feet post bathing. A subtle mildew odor filled the air. And, of course, there was no A/C and it was 90 degrees at least here. This brought me right back to my freshman year in my hot and sticky dorm.

My host madre y padre were Wilma y Jose Ramon Jimenez. They barely spoke any English—which was fine by me as I think that’s when you really “learn” a language when you must speak it all the time. Ah—hence the world immersion! The only problemo was they were really quiet and didn’t speak all that much to me. They had 2 sons and one daughter-in-law living with them. It turns out that Jennifer, the daughter-in-law, was one of the teachers at my Spanish Language school. She was 22 and had been living with them (and dating their son) for 5 years.

She graciously invited me to join her y una amiga para una cerveza (o dos) that night. It was really fun to be out with some locals—albeit kids about 12 years younger than me. But I did learn from her and her friends some interesting things about Costa Ricans I would not have guessed. Jennifer told be about the unimportance of marriage here. Most Costa Rican couples tend to live together and never get married. It was not very important here to be joined by holy matrimony. It was too costly and just not a necessity here. Jennifer didn’t plan on it and neither did my 40-year-old teacher at Spanish school who’d been with her ‘spouse’ for 14 years. I wrongly assumed most Latino cultures were very catholic and therefore marriage was high on the list. But although the majority of Costa Ricans are catholic, many are not religious and rarely attend church. I also learned that it is quite a liberal country—this attitude reminded me of Quebec, Canada or some parts of
Europe where most couples are also not married and just happily live together. Not sure if many in the States realize how conservative and puritanical our country still is.
Costa Rica is getting cooler by the minute.

 

Costa Rica you so sweeta!

Ah, the tropics–lush greenery, swaying palms, and afternoon rainstorms. I landed in
San Jose, Costa Rica Thursday afternoon. I was intact. My big backpack was intact. All was good in the world. I took a cab downtown to the Don Carlos Hotel. I decided to stay somewhere a bit nicer than a hostel for my first few nights in order to allow myself some alone transition time. The goodbye back in Chicago was pretty hard—it all hit me and I was a blubbering mess. And no one wants a weepy roommate to ruin their vacation.

My friend Claudia had brought wine and paper cups to O’Hare Airport to toast me and my trip. It couldn’t have been a better send off at three in the morning—when my plane departed. We even got to see four young Latino guys handcuffed to each other being deported back to
Guatemala. They were having a grand old time laughing and carrying on and would probably be back in
Chicago in a few weeks. I found that rather interesting and of course the producer in me jumped up to ask the TSA agent some pointed questions on the matter. She didn’t know much except it was quite common on these night flights. Well, lucky me, the guys were all on my flight seated in the back row (now in open airspace and therefore uncuffed) so every time I got up to go to the bathroom I was eyed up and down and then it just didn’t seem right to make small talk with them.

The hotel I stayed at in San Jose was just $50 a night and gorgeous. Even though that is pretty cheap for what we are used to, it’s more than I plan on spending. Most hostels are $10 a night per bed. When I told some about my ‘round the world plans, their first comments were‘how are you going to afford that?!’

Many don’t realize how cheap world travel can be. For example, for dinner yesterday I had a cold Costa Rican “Imperial” beer, an appetizer of yummy bass ceviche, and some jamon y queso quesadillas. My bill with tip and tax (which here is nicely included) was under $10. And
Costa Rica is by far not even the cheapest country I will visit!

The city was pretty rough around the edges and not so safe. The hotel staff warned us not to go out after dark. I walked around some during the day and encountered lots of stares and cat calls. I’ve read about the “machismo” way in Central and
South America. Plus my blue eyes, and light skin and hair don’t allow me to blend in very much. The downtown was dirty, hot and muggy and filled with people. The sidewalks were either non-existent or crumbling and motorists definitely have the right of way here—not pedestrians. But I did not come here for the city. I came to Costa Rica to see the luscious landscape of volcanoes, rainforests and beaches and of course the wildlife. So my second day here I took a full day tour of some of the more interesting spots just outside of the city. Our first stop was the 11,000 foot high Irazu volcano. It last erupted in 1963 on the day President John F. Kennedy actually arrived in
Costa Rica. The dry and gray ashy landscape seemed rather moonlike and the crater was filled with a nuclear looking bright neon green lake.

Driving through the Orosi Valley, the tour guide told us of Costa Rica’s biggest industries. Numero uno, thanks in very small part to me, is of course tourism. Suprisingly, number dos is technology. According to our guide Intel has a plant here. Number three and up are all agriculture—coffee, bananas, pineapple, onions, potatoes, and squash. Another stop we made was the beautiful Lankester
Gardens. There are more than 1400 varieties of orchids in Costa Rica and Lankester Gardens has no fewer than 800 of them! Lunch was at a beautiful restaurant with a huge outdoor patio over looking a lush green valley.

So, my first day in Costa Rica was a little lonely, but once I got acclimated, I was feeling fine and by second day I was already making new friends. One of the things I’m most excited about on this trip besides actually “seeing” the world is meeting all kinds of different people and characters along the way. It’s people that really touch your soul more then just they places. On my second night in San Jose I met Michael in the hotel lobby bar. He was a graying, bearded business man from New York City looking to invest in an agriculture company down here. He was the kind of New ‘Yawker’ that was successful, but not altogether polished or cultured. He was a bit ‘nebishy,’ but awfully friendly and was easy to talk to. We had dinner together at the hotel and were joined by red-headed Olga. A Russian gal with piercing eyes who came here on a whim to meet a not-so-attractive beer bellied man named “Jimmy” who she’d met ‘online.’ Hmmm. Maybe one of those Russian brides-want-rich-American man sites? But too bad for Jimmy because she made it very clear she didn’t like him. I think her wrinkled brow, tongue sticking out of mouth, and thumbs down gave it away. Don’t need to speak Russian to understand that.

The next night Michael and I went to dinner down the street at a place called Café Mundo. It was a great neighborhood Italian restaurant in a Victorian house setting. It really was a surprise in scruffy, dusty San Jose. Michael was an interesting guy—married and divorced 3 times, lived all over the world, and surprisingly lost his son to the Iraq war just a few years ago. In the middle of our Caprese salad he said this was his first “date” in a while. What?

I did not hesitate to blurt out, “No, this is NOT a date.”

“Oh but I figured you could call it a date,” he said. “Wow. You wasted no time correcting me.” He replied, rather shocked at my directness.

“Nope.” I said. “You can definitely not call this a date. The word ‘date’ comes with all kinds of connotations that do not pertain to two new friends doing dinner together.”

I didn’t say outloud that he was also two years older than my father and therefore just a wee bit too old for me. But apparently this would not have mattered to him as he later revealed his last “affair” was with an African 18-year-old girl in Zimbabwe.

He also later asked me if I smoked dope or knew where to get some in San Jose. This guy was getting odder by the minute. Since I could count the number of times I have on one hand, I don’t think I’d be good at scoring him his favorite weed here in some back alley of south central San Jose (although it would be another interesting way to get a mug shot and would of course make for good blogging!). He said he liked to smoke it everyday. Oh Yeah, I guess he did say he was in the agriculture biz! Although I was adamant about it NOT being a date, I graciously obliged when he paid for the check. See, there’s another way this could be a cheap trip around the world—my trip is getting cheaper by the minuto!

 

And Away We Go!!

I’m in a metal capsule hurling through the atmosphere towards the equator. It still hasn’t sunk in yet, but this has to be one of the coolest AND hardest things I’ve ever done. I know I will get used to it, but I also know that the first few days (hopefully no more) will be the hardest. But it’s not like I haven’t gone through similar feelings before. I went 800 miles away from home to College in
South Carolina and didn’t know a soul. I cried for the first week or so when I got to my hot, sticky, non-air-conditioned dorm room. I missed my high school boyfriend terribly. I hated my new, odd roommate from Georgia (who’s father happened to be the lawyer for James Brown—but that’s another story I don’t even know). It wasn’t even half way into the semester when I was already applying to transfer to universities ‘back home’ like Rutgers and the University of Delaware.

By the way, does anyone know ANYTHING about
Delaware?? It’s like the secret state. I must go there on my next
US tour. I mean I literally lived in the state just to the north of it (NJ for all you geographically challenged) and never heard a peep out of it. I know where I’m from it was a bit overshadowed by the huge lurking metropolis just to my east, but c’mon…not even one news story? It’s kind of like
Canada. Eh?Anyway, I was accepted into the
University of Delaware and Rutgers, but come my second semester at USC, I’d already started having fun and decided to stay.

I also took a huge leap of faith when I moved to Chicago and only knew about two people there—one was my friend Jim who with his girlfriend at the time (now wife), Jennifer, took me out for one of my first dinners in Chicago at Rosebud on Rush. And they just took me out for one of my last dinners too. To this day we remain great friends.

Chicago was a bit easier of a transition—I had a great new job at ABC and I loved the city in an instant. Plus it was good to be back in “yankee” territory again. Better food, cooler people, and…windier wind.

As the time ticked down on my days in Chicago it slowly started to hit me and I began to “feel” what I’d been telling people I was about to do. It’s much easier to SAY you are traveling around the world for a year than to know what it FEELS like to actually do it! The last days were also filled with so much stress—packing, selling car, renting condo, cleaning, etc., that I didn’t even have time to sit and reflect on what I was doing. I packed up all my stuff and put it in those big crates that they just haul away to some far off warehouse (in this case Libertyville). Slightly unnerving to see all your belongings being fork lifted down the street.

My final week in Chicago friends took me out to dinner every night. It was as if I was on death row waiting for my execution and I was getting to pick my favorite meals. The last 6 nights in a row consisted of Thai, Sushi, Middle Eastern, Italian, Indian, and finally, Greek. Opa!!

So, where was I? Oh yeah, on a plane to Costa Rica. As we climbed altitude and broke through the clouds, a bright luminous full moon came into view. Gotta be a sign.I hope my transition time into this trip does not take a semester. I don’t think it will. Many people have said to me that ‘I’m living so many others dreams.’ While many have also said what I’m doing ‘takes a lot of guts.’ So the way I see it, those two things don’t exactly mix. I think in fantasy this is a dream trip for many. But in reality, the packing, leaving everything, quitting, saying good-bye for a year is way too much a risk for most. I had thought about doing this a while back, but even for me it was too much. But then this year…my plan seemed to slowly evolve right before my eyes and before I realized it—I was going to do it. Kind of like most other big decisions in life—you never really know what the outcome will be until you do it.

(ding) “The captain has just turned on the saftey belt sign, please raise trays and seat backs to their upright and locked position and fasten your seat belts as we prepare for landing. Gracias”

So…here I go.