La Comida Costarricense

Well, it’s been over a month since we got back from lovely Costa Rica, but in many ways it feels like a lifetime ago. School has started back up again for my son and husband, old friends have come to town for a visit, our dog has slowly become reacquainted with us, and life is starting to take on a predictable rhythm.  My garden is producing, despite ignoring it for three weeks, and it’s peach season.  I’m cooking and baking, and loving the season’s offerings.  In moving forward, though, I must finish recounting our summer’s adventure…

Apparently, in certain circles, I am what could be described as a “foodie.”  If indeed this is so, then I can be fairly certain to have given a fair judgment that Costa Rica is not a food destination.  If you’re looking for the food capital of the world, look to Italy, Thailand, France, Japan….but don’t look to Costa Rica.  That’s not to say that the food is bad in Costa Rica, far from it.  Every restaurant we went to had hearty, filling fare, and most was reasonably priced (although not a huge bargain).  It’s just a bit…repetitive, after you get used to the typical dishes, and…bland.  The focus is on freshness instead of flavor, and few, if any, spices are used.

There were usually items included from typical Costa Rican cuisine at every restaurant.  Gallo pinto, pinto beans cooked with rice, is considered the national dish by many, although it’s shared among many neighboring countries. Casados  are a well-rounded plate with gallo pinto, some kind of salad, some kind of vegetable or fried plantains, and some kind of meat (grilled beef, chicken, pork chicharrones, or fish), sometimes served with tortillas on the side.  Almost everywhere you can buy ceviche, a cold fish stew that has been marinated in lime juice or vinegar and spiced with onions, peppers, and herbs.  My description is not terribly flattering, but if you like fresh seafood, you will love ceviche.  Costa Ricans eat it with crackers; sometimes a sweet ketchup-y sauce is added.  I’m not a fan, as the sweetness overpowers the delicious flavor of the fish.  Sometimes the ceviche is made sweet to start with, which I find downright criminal in light of the quality and freshness of fish that is being disguised for no good reason.

And then, there are the juices and shakes and smoothies…passionfruit, cas (some sort of green guava), guanábana (sour sop), chia seed, banana, mango, horchata (chia seed), guava, strawberry, blackberry, papaya, and watermelon, just to name a few.  My son enjoyed a full Tico breakfast of gallo pinto, eggs, toast, and fruit almost every day, then subsisted mainly on batidos (sort of smoothie, can be made with or without milk) and fruit juices the rest of the day.

Meals, of course, are also enhanced by the company we keep and the warmth and comfort of the surroundings.  Here is an incomplete list in no particular order of the most memorable meals we experienced in Costa Rica:

1.           Our first meal in Turrialba after Ray, Heidi and family met us at the bus station coming from San José; after dragging our bags down crowded sidewalks in the pouring rain, we feasted on simple carne asada, salsichon (sausage), and ceviche  at a restaurant called Betico Mata.  Little did we know what a wonderful introduction to Tico cuisine we were getting; the restaurant was reviewed favorably very recently in the nation’s most important newspaper.

http://www.nacion.com/blogs/el_sarten_caliente/Betico_Mata-Carne_Asada-Turrialba_10_1428357151.html

2.          Our first breakfast cooked by our American ex-pat host Tommy after waking up in the tree house was pecan waffles, bacon, and coffee ground with cardamom seeds.  The only Costa Rican part was the coffee, but the breakfast was so delicious it must be mentioned.

3.          Ceviche in a Styrofoam cup at the market.  Perfect on a hot day.  Before that, we were introduced to the coconut seller whom Ray and Heidi had befriended.  There is absolutely no beverage better to quench your thirst on a hot, humid day than a chilled, freshly-split-open coconut.

Classic ceviche

4.        Our last meal in Sitio de Mata at Doña Rosa’s. I’m not sure what was more amazing, the meal or the view over the valley, dam, and reservoir (one of the many that Costa Rica uses to export power to other countries). Heidi had been a “guest cook” in the kitchen, learning how to cook a typical meal, and had gotten to know the family rather well.  We ate the best example of chicharrones—tender fried pork rinds—Costa Rica has to offer. We also met a young man visiting who was German with Costa Rican grandparents, and had a lovely conversation.  Worth the fairly scary walk on the unlit main road back to the house afterwards.

View of the valley from Doña Rosa's

Kitchen where our meal was made

Doña Rosa's

5. Breakfast at Minor’s in San Lorenzo, outside of San José in the Central Valley.  Simple, filling, with pleasant conversation with our jovial host who encouraged us to use our very little Spanish with him.

Fresh fruit, first breakfast course

Followed by eggs, gallo pinto, tortilla (and sometimes sausage)

6.         Dinner at an Italian restaurant in Heredia.  Felt a little Godfather-ish, except for the TVs and loud street noises.  The pizza and pasta were excellent and the portions were copious.  It was my only wine in Costa Rica; I had been forewarned about the lack of quality or variety of wine available.  It’s just not a wine culture, which makes sense.

7.          Breakfast at Café Milagro with all our friends.  We met the owner, Michael’s long-time friend Lance, as we were leaving (you can check out the story at cafemilagro.com).  They served their own brew from the coffee business he owns to accompany a fantastic menu of omelets, crepes, and other breakfast items with a distinctly non-Tico flair. We spent a lot of time chatting with one another and corralling the children.

Erzsi, Heidi, Laszlo

Patrice, Erzsi, Heidi--hungry

Ale and Michael

Beckett, enjoying his own version of breakfast

Sophia

Cousin Tati with Sophia

Ray and Gaël

Blackberry mango crepes

8.         Ceviche at the fancy beach restaurant on Playa Espadilla in Manuel Antonio.  Served in half a fresh coconut, it was by far the best ceviche I had in Costa Rica.  The restaurant was expensive, but it was a unique experience to eat a leisurely lunch while watching the waves crash on the shore and look up and see capuchin monkeys in the trees above our heads.

Ceviche in coconut with plantains

9.         Red snapper with green mango chutney.  This fish experience is what I came to Costa Rica for.  Michael, Ale and Patrice and I used to be part of a dinner club, and have often cooked for one another.  We wanted a reprise at the house in Manuel Antonio: to create a special meal together once again. We went with Michael to the port in neighboring Quepos, next to the warehouse where the fish is flash-frozen and prepared to go all over the world.  We stood at the window of a small hardware store and ordered about 10 pounds of red snapper.  Yellowfin tuna and seabass were also available that day.  Michael graciously did the grunt work of scraping off the scales while I made a paste of olive oil, salt, and garlic to spread on the fish; it made a crunchy exterior and simultaneously flavored and protected the delicate meat.  Michael was sweating furiously over the grill while we sorted through veggies we had in the fridge, and Patrice peeled the green mangoes from the tree in front of the house.  We made an impromptu chutney of mangoes, lime juice, red pepper, onions, and tons of cilantro to serve over the fish.  I have never had such fresh, tender, sweet, flavorful fish.  We compared methods for filleting, swatted mosquitoes, scrounged for something for the fish-phobic kids to eat, but when that first bite melted on my tongue, the world went away for a moment.  I don’t think I’d need to check with Michael to make sure it was worth all the blood, sweat and…more sweat; I know he would agree that it was.

Glowing coals--the perfect temperature for grilled fish

Amazing!

10.     Rainmaker lunch.  On our way from Manuel Antonio towards Arenal we stopped at a little park called Rainmaker, which had a delightful little hike with rope bridges, loads of tropical flowers and plants, and stunning vistas.  A simple buffet lunch was included in the price.  This was true, simple Costa Rican fare:  chicken-y rice, black beans, cabbage salad, passionfruit juice.  Absolutely perfect after a morning hike.

Typical fare

11.       Breakfast at Casa Amenecer.  We decided to spend the night before pushing another three hours to La Fortuna and the Arenal volcano.  The Lonely Planet didn’t have many choices in San Ramon.  We went to a slightly seedy hotel, then another which was even less appealing, while the kids grew hungrier and hungrier.  We finally called Casa Amenecer, a B and B outside of San Ramon, in San Juan de San Ramon. Miracle of miracles, they had two rooms large enough to accommodate our two families.  After settling in, we admired the amazing night sky with two layers of fast-moving clouds giving us glimpses of the brilliant stars beyond; all this from a hillside terrace with giant rocking chairs.  The next morning we got up to a smiling hostess and an enormous buffet breakfast.  She told us how everything we saw was grown or made locally, including the cheese, the jams, and the coffee.  Having hungrily gobbled up loads of pizza the night before did not prevent us from returning to the buffet two or three times for this extraordinary breakfast.

This counter was covered with dishes: meats, cheeses, eggs, fruit, veggies, breads, cakes

The terrace with a view

Our lovely hostess

12.      Michael’s Birthday meal and market in Heredia.  We went to the indoor Mercado Central in Heredia and saw every fruit, vegetable, cheese, fish, and meat possible, as well as raw spices (I guess someone uses them), clothes, shoes, and a stand selling juices and batidos, of course.  

Market fare

More market fare

Very eco, even at the market

And...more market fare

There's no end

This, I have to admit, was a little smelly

Afterwards, we drove for a couple of hours up a twisting, tiny road (even for Costa Rica standards) into the mountains above the Central Valley to Barva for a chilly, rainy lunch at one of his favorite restaurants, Chagos.  The restaurant was cozy, the food was good, hearty, typical Costarricense, the birds and squirrels on the balcony overlooking the forest were persistent.

The crew and the birthday boy

13.      Barbecue in Alajuela.  Our last night in Costa Rica was a sad parting.  We knew we would see Ray and Heidi again in the U.S. very soon, but we had no idea when or where we’d be seeing Michael and Alejandra and their beautiful children, Sophia and Beckett.  And agreeing on a restaurant for such an occasion is never easy.  We settled on one that was not a long drive from our hotel.  Coincidentally, I had noticed the restaurant on our way earlier that day and thought it looked interesting and cozy.  The food was wonderful, an excellent array of barbecued meats (and real hot dogs for the smaller kids), good company, and lively conversation in the open air.  It felt like an appropriate sendoff from the “happiest country in Latin America."

Life lessons and adventure travel

So…it’s with a heavy heart and a different perspective that I continue this blog today.  For better or for worse, I’ll be looking at photographs and recalling moments from our trip, thinking “am I living this trip to its fullest?” or “did I really see everything I wanted to see and experience all I wanted to experience?”  I would like to use this kind of thinking to guide me on future travel endeavors, and as a perspective on past experiences.  I’ll be thinking also of my friend Glenn, who never passed up an opportunity to see and experience it all.

And so, although this is slightly out of chronological order, I must write the entry about zip-lining.

After our fun, humid, buggy, conversation-filled days with our friends at the house in Manuel Antonio, we drove away from the Pacific coast towards the interior.  We ventured through a small park with swinging bridges and waterfalls called Rainmaker.  I was determined to conquer my fear of heights, or at least not be ruled by it, so I steeled myself to hike up to and across as many of those bridges as possible.  My son swore he would not try to make them swing when I was crossing, and I managed to hold on with a death grip and not look down into the tops of trees.  I survived, sweaty-palmed and hyperventilating, but triumphant as we splashed around in the waterfall pools afterwards.  I actually had gotten to enjoy some of the views from the many crisscrossing bridges.

Friendly waterfall

Our friends taking a photo at the overlook

 

Maybe I wasn't the only one afraid to look down...

The overlook from Rainmaker

As we arrived in La Fortuna, next to the now-dormant Arenal Volcano, the conversation turned to zip-lining.  My son was excited, my friends and their kids were enthusiastic, my husband was curious.  I was 100% uninterested.  Why would you voluntarily swing on a wire, careening without control towards a platform in the canopy that is so far away you can’t even see it when you jump?  No, I told my friends and family, you go ahead.  I have my Kindle and a cabin in the rain.  And if I get bored, there’s a chocolate tour across the road I could join.  Mmm, chocolate.

But our contact and adventure tour guy, Johnny—an outdoorsy Canadian with a decidedly political bent, giving us his speech, complaining that the benefits of tourism were bypassing the Costa Ricans’ pocketbooks—did his best to sell the zip-lining as a “great way to see the rainforest without trampling all over it.”  His tone was friendly but not pushy.  He said if I really wasn’t interested, I could probably “hang out” at the tour headquarters and look at pictures of people zip-lining, or do a quick hike down to the river and waterfall nearby.

Hmm.  I suddenly had a picture in my head: my son, my husband, my friends, all returning from zip-lining, exhilarated, happy, proud.  And probably bonded to one another in a way that I never could be, never having participated in their adventure.  A schoolgirl, knee-jerk response won out:  I simply didn’t want to be left out.  I paid my ticket to do zip-lining; if I backed out now, it would be a heavy forfeit.

For the next 24 hours, I tried to be nonchalant.  I avoided thinking about the actual event, focusing instead on making sure we had the schedule for the next few days worked out, making sure we had enough cash and groceries, finding a place to watch the Netherlands-Argentina game in the World Cup.  I didn’t sleep a wink that night.  Breakfast was bright and early.  We walked up to reception and sat at the tables on the patio.  The señor brought us plates of cut-up fruit, then coffee, then fruit juice, then huge plates of fried eggs, gallo pinto (the ubiquitous pinto bean-rice mixture served with all breakfasts, and often lunch and/or dinner), and toasted Wonder Bread with margarine generously spread on top.  Normally a staunch believer in a sturdy breakfast, I had to swallow hard to get my few bites to go down.  The thought of smelling coffee and greasy eggs, let alone eating them, was making me queasy.  I guess I would rather dangle above the canopy on an empty stomach.  The van to pick us up was late, and I was trying not to run back to the cabin to pee every five minutes from nerves.  Why was I doing this?  I was afraid of everything about it:  heights, falling, pain and discomfort, my own physical strength and balance (or lack thereof), humiliation and public ridicule…and the list kept getting longer in my head.

We finally arrived, and were part of a group of around 50 people being herded into a large shed, issued hard hats and heavy belts, then seated for a lesson on how not to die while zip-lining. There were to be twelve lines in all; the first three were “practice” runs; number seven was the longest, almost a kilometer long.  We would be hanging by a double-hooked cable from the zip-line.  Our “brake” was a strange-looking leather glove with a reinforced channel into which the zip-line fit.  We would slow down by leaning back and squeezing.  Not too much, of course, because if you get stuck on the line, you have to turn yourself around and pull yourself hand-over-hand to the end.  If we went too fast, there was a double-stopping system at the end of the zip-line—essentially a knot at the end of the line—that would prevent us from ramming into the end; however, the system wouldn’t prevent you from the jarring impact of hitting the knot.

My nervousness increased.  My mouth was dry.  I found it hard to concentrate on what the guide was saying.  Then our group—about 25 people, mostly from the U.S.—boarded an old school bus.  The bus never got out of first gear as the driver maneuvered us over rocks and ruts up the side of the mountain.  Being jostled didn’t help my nerves.  Neither did getting out, climbing up the trail to the staging area, and the guides putting our gear on us.  Neither did climbing the 20 minutes (10 minutes of “Tico time) of “stairs” built into the hillside to wait in line at the first platform; I couldn’t figure out if my t-shirt was soaked with sweat or rain.  Someone took a picture of all of us.

I don't remember this photo at all

Finally it was my turn. I tried to just focus on my breathing.  It was raining so hard I couldn’t see the other end.  Fortunately, that also meant I couldn’t see how far up we were.  I clenched my teeth and let go.  And, of course, I made it to the other end.  My son stared at me, then told me my face was covered with mud.  The guide grinned at me.  “Monkey poop,” he said.

Really?  I mean, really?!!

I would like to say that zip-lining was exhilarating.  I would like to say how surprised I was at how much fun I had.  I would like to say how much I’m looking forward to the opportunity to do it again.  But, alas, I would be lying.  I’m not an adrenaline junkie.  I do not enjoy whizzing through the rain at top speeds towards a platform I can’t see, hundreds of feet above the ground.  I did not enjoy the scenery, see exotic animals, or experience the unique sounds of the canopy.  The only sound I remember is the friction on the zip-line, and the sound of my own whimper/moan when I realized I was only halfway through the kilometer-long line and could look left to see the enormous waterfall.  (I recognized that whimper as the main sound I had produced while giving birth 11 years ago).  The view must have been spectacular, but I’m not sure I remember any of it.  I counted down the lines, twelve to zero.  When I got to the last one, my legs almost gave way on the last platform, and I had to be shoved forward out of the way of oncoming zip-liners.

When we got off, we were led through a Maleku village, (one of the groups of indigenous peoples of Costa Rica), given a short lecture of their history, given an opportunity to buy their art (who carries money with them while zip-lining?!), then taken back to the old school bus for the ride back.  

Maleku masks and artwork

We had been zip-lining for two hours; some of the lines gave us the opportunity to fly at speeds of almost 60 miles per hour.  I was sore, exhausted, and grateful to have survived.  My friends were pleased with the experience, my son was thrilled, and my husband was—as usual—unimpressed (I guess when you used to jump out of planes, zip-lining is a bit of a letdown).  It all felt a little like we were the sucker-tourists, taken in by the lure of a cheap thrill.

Would I have missed anything by not going?  I didn’t see anything, as I was concentrating on keeping my balance and using my core strength to brake with a wet glove on wet zip lines.  I didn’t see wild animals in their natural habitats.  I didn’t enjoy the whoosh of air past my ears, or the rush of adrenaline as I realized I was hundreds of feet above land.  But the one thing I would have missed was perhaps the most important of all.

Facing my fear.

Because at the moment I finished, I knew that if I had to do something similarly scary in the future, I could face the challenge head-on.  I would not be intimidated or, worse, paralyzed by my fear.  On the other hand, I also possessed the knowledge that I couldn’t let the schoolgirl worry of being left out direct my choices; sometimes—most times—I should simply follow my instinct, and let it be my guide.  Finding the balance between facing down your fear and following your instinct is one of the toughest lessons of travel.  And, of course, of life in general.  

This time, I’m proud of the choice I made, and having followed through on something incredibly difficult for me.

Yes, that's me

Next time, I’ll sit back in the cabin with the Kindle.

Long day's journey

An early trip to the airport on Wednesday, a heart stopping sprint at O’Hare to make our connecting flight to Champaign, a joyful reunion with our four-legged family member, and thus we arrived home late that night.  I fully expected to blog about our travels all day Thursday and Friday as I unpacked and did laundry and reacquainted myself with house and home. My biggest worry was trying to get over the leftover bit of tourista from our trip. I first hit Facebook on Thursday to see what was going on with the world, or at least my world.

And then…the wind was taken out of my sails.

My longtime long-distance friend Glenn Thomas had posted a status update “Long day's journey into night... Thursday morning departure - Friday night arrival. — traveling to Melbourne, Victoria, Australia from Air France KLM Lounge - GVA Geneva Airport.”  Strange, I thought, usually Glenn loves traveling.  He seems to dread this flight.  Wonder what’s up.

As I continued reading through the comments—some joking that he would finally get to Australia and it would be Monday, some querying whether the trip was for work or play, as Glenn traveled a great deal for both—my eyes came to a post from his nephew Jordan.  I couldn’t absorb the words.  Glenn was on that fateful flight to Kuala Lumpur.  What were they talking about?  I quickly Googled the flight number, MH17.  I looked at photos and reports in horror.  I felt sick.  Someone had mentioned terrorism, and I was instantly reminded of learning that my former student had been in the World Trade Center the morning of September 11, 2001.  

But this was a friend, someone I had hung out with more than 25 years ago at the Centre International des Etudes Françaises in Dijon with other international students studying French.  Glenn had managed to maintain several of those friendships ever since.  I had had long talks with him.  I had had many drinks with him.  I had sat in cafes with him, among friends, discussing the world, language, politics.

This was a guy who had been a successful journalist and producer for the BBC World News, but had funny stories about what a terrible anchor he’d been on the local news near his home in Blackpool.  He had a successful career for the World Health Organization, and lived in Geneva, Switzerland, but swore he “still had terrible French.”

This was a guy that after reconnecting on Facebook many years ago had come to visit me out of the blue in Champaign in 2010; he enjoyed touring the campus after having been an exchange student here in the late 80s.  I made dinner, and he made it a point to get to know my family; later we went to a local beer pub.  We took photos and he met some friends of mine.

This was a guy who offered me his fabulous apartment in Geneva last summer; we were to meet up before his trip, then I could stay while he was traveling.  I was welcome to invite friends, the ever-generous Glenn insisted.  I ultimately missed the opportunity, however, by over-scheduling myself in other locations.  A regret.

This was a guy who had the sunniest disposition of anyone I’ve ever met.  He knew a lot about the world, but was never jaded by his experiences.  His sense of wonder, his sense of humor, and his throaty laugh, were contagious.  The sparkle never left his eye.  He had a suitcase full of stories, but was also a good listener.  He was a consummate professional in journalism and media, but knew how to really enjoy himself outside of work.

And, in the middle of a long day’s journey into night, his light went out.  I grieve for his family—a twin sister and niece and nephew who were extremely close with him—and I grieve for his partner Claudio. (I hope to one day meet them all and tell them in person.)  I grieve for our mutual friend York who introduced us, who maintained a long-distance friendship with him steadily for 30 years.  I grieve for his colleagues, friends, and professional contacts; tributes have been made in the media showing how respected he was and how missed he will be.  I selfishly grieve for myself, for not taking advantage of the opportunity to meet up with him one more time.

There are lessons for me, though, that I’m sure Glenn would want us all to learn:  grab life.  Eat life with gusto.  Learn, love, listen, explore.  Enjoy what you do, and if you don’t enjoy it, change.  Live with passion.  Treasure your family.  Keep your sense of humor.  Travel everywhere on your bucket list as soon as you can, and sell your car if you have to.  Have fun.  Squeeze every bit of happiness you can from every single day, whether it’s your first, your ten-thousandth, or your last.

Ending the trip, beginning the reflections

Last summer I had the luxury of periods of travel punctuated by down time at my in-laws’ house to write about what I had just experienced.  Travel blogging is more of a challenge when there’s no real break, except hours in a rental car trying desperately to avoid carsickness on roads that wind and climb and drop and bump and toss.  It’s totally worth it to get the beautiful scenery, but my hat’s off to anyone who could sleep in the car on a Costa Rican road.

Already our time here is drawing to a close.  We leave in two days.  Last night we returned to the Central Valley.  Today is our friend Michael’s birthday.  We hope to help him celebrate, and maybe fit in a tour of his meadery, and possibly a coffee tour.  As for blogging about the past few days, I will have to save that exercise for when I return home.  I have plenty of photographs and stories, and a long-ish essay planned for facing one’s fears head on.

Until then, I leave you with this photo of some of the scenery around Tilaran and Lago Arenal.  Pura vida!

Creepy crawlies

Not a lot of time to post, and some blog entries I have in my head may have to wait until we return home.  We left our rental house in Manuel Antonio on Tuesday, found a fabulous little bed and breakfast for Tuesday night in San Ramon.  Arrived midday Wednesday in La Fortuna, close to the Arenal volcano.  Went ziplining this morning and lived to tell about it.  I promise to post a more in-depth account soon!  With pictures!

As a side note, and I'm sure this is obvious to most, but there are lots of bugs in Costa Rica.  I know what you're thinking; duh, my friend, it's mostly jungle.  Well, sure, but it's been so long since I've traveled in a jungle-y area, I'd forgotten about how those bugs are so...well...invasive.  Costa Ricans don't have much use for screens, doors are left wide open to encourage the breeze, so there are spiders and beetles and mosquitoes and other little flying creatures and big ants and small ants and three or four million different kinds of moths and sand fleas and gnats and caterpillars and centipedes....well, you get the picture.  They're in the sink, in the shower, in your bed, crawling over your feet, floating in your drink.  We all look like we have chicken pox on our legs from the bug bites; my friend Heidi calls it "mosquito pox."  I'm frankly too overwhelmed to be grossed out.  They are, after all, part of the grand ecosystem.

And then, in the middle of the night, I've been hearing some very weird chirping noise, kind of like a small bird, coming from the corner of our bedroom.  Upon closer inspection, I've found a strange little creature moving across the wall at lightning speed.  A cute little gecko.  And I actually saw one eating a mosquito!  Yay for geckos!

I'd write more in this post, but I need my hands to scratch my itchy legs....

The mid-point

Sunburns, bug bites, migraine (not mine), beer fest, colds and sniffles, monkeys, beach, seafood, mishaps….

The past few days at Manuel Antonio have been a mixed bag, but overall pleasant and relaxing.  We arrived late Thursday, and our three families settled into our house.  We ordered pizza for dinner and the kids jumped into the swimming pool. Friday we went to Michael’s friend’s restaurant, Café Milagro (and I bought some of the owner’s delicious coffee to bring home), for a delicious breakfast; the rest of the morning was spent getting groceries for the house at the local Maxi-Pali (owned by Walmart, believe it or not). 

It's so hard to wait for your food!

Michael and Ale

Beckett enjoying his breakfast

Sophia, obviously not enjoying the interruption

Tati, always a good sport

Ray and Gaël, who was apparently dying of hunger

The best breakfast award goes to the mango crepes with blackberry sauce

We drove past the marina in neighboring Quepos where Michael’s beer fest would be held on Saturday.  We let the kids relax by the pool and grilled some meat for dinner. 

A Michael in his natural habitat

Saturday Heidi was laid up with a killer migraine, Michael jumped into the pool with his phone in his pocket, Patrice started to get a cold, and the kids were crabby.  Something was definitely in the air.  Ray, his son, and I drove to Quepos to visit the beer festival and watch the Costa Rica vs. Netherlands game.  The terrible heat was oppressive, even overlooking the breezy Pacific.  But the beer and beer-style mead were amazing.  

The heat didn’t allow me to sample much, but I definitely enjoyed the atmosphere and meeting this new breed of microbrewer in Costa Rica.  Craft beers have really taken off during the last few years, and Michael and Ale have discovered a niche market of mead, using their own honey and completely local products such as purple corn from the Nicoya Peninsula, and hibiscus, mango, and passionfruit from their back yard.  The result is light and refreshing, with an interesting and complex finish.

Ticos and other enjoying the game

Did I mention it was hot?

We left just before Costa Rica went into overtime, and stopped by the local small grocery to get a few things.  We watched the last penalty shots from the checkout line, and when they lost, it was like a funeral.  We quietly paid and left.  Later that afternoon, Heidi wasn’t feeling any better, and Ray took her to the local hospital to get checked out while we looked after all the kids.  By the time they got back, we had two hours for Patrice and me to go and enjoy the festival.  We tasted beers, listened to a band doing covers from the 70s and 80s, then a Costa Rican drum group with dancers.  We helped Michael tear down the tent, packed everything up, and returned around 11 p.m.  What a day!

Sunday we decided to take it easy and visit a beach.  By law, no beaches in Costa Rica can be private, so although there was a fancy hotel right there, and they took us down from the parking lot to the beach in golf carts, we had full access to the beach.  The surf was high and slightly dangerous, and the hotel lifeguards were watching like hawks.  But the kids couldn’t resist the urge to get knocked down over and over by the huge waves.  We had a nice lunch with a view of the small bay, and we saw the famous Manuel Antonio wildlife—capuchin monkeys and a three-toed sloth.

Breathtaking views

Ceviche in a coconut for lunch

Love these little guys

A little out of focus, but cute nonetheless

Today marks the beginning of our second half of our trip.  Just for a bit of more disappointing news, we found out from our guidebooks that Manuel Antonio park is closed on Mondays.  We had planned to avoid the crowds by going on a weekday today, but unless we try to go early on our way out of town tomorrow, we won’t get to enter the park.  Ugh.  But I’ve learned from many years of travel to just get over the disappointment as quickly as possible and move on to the next adventure.  Which is right around the corner.

Moving

Hard to tell from the photo, but these fellows were enormous

Moving.  Glorious, misty vistas.  Oil palm tree plantations.  Bad roads full of motorcycles, beat up cars, roadside restaurants, vague signs, big trucks belching diesel fumes.  A long bridge over a muddy river where egrets sat on the banks alongside fat, languorous, prehistoric-looking crocodiles.  This was our day today.

This morning we awoke in a neat, clean little hotel owned by Minor, a jovial, moustached Costa Rican who had picked us up yesterday at the bus station in San José after our bus trek from Turrialba.  We had left Ray and Heidi’s rental home yesterday morning; the landlord and his family had all come to see them off with a tearful goodbye and help us load up the taxi to the Turrialba bus station.  My son said goodbye to all the neighborhood dogs.  Ray and Heidi had packed up six months of belongings and memories the previous weekend, and Ray had taken half of them to a friend’s house in San José on Monday while Patrice, Heidi, and the kids hiked down the mountain to the local swimming waterfall and swimming hole, and I wrote the previous blog entry.

Clear, cold mountain pool

Monday and Tuesday were rainy and relaxing, and we tried to hang laundry that we knew wouldn’t dry in time.  I even spent part of Tuesday trying to iron them dry, but to no avail.  Tuesday evening we made a slow pilgrimage to their favorite local restaurant, Doña Rosa’s, stopping off at their friends’ houses along the way to visit the mini-zoo of a neighbor, drop off clothes for a school sale, and deliver gifts to school friends.  At the restaurant we enjoyed the local cuisine at its finest (chicharrones) with a gorgeous view of the valley with the dam and reservoir below.

Waiting for dinner

 

So Wednesday we traveled to the San José hotel by taxi, two-hour bus ride, and shuttle.  We settled in and took a quick taxi to an Italian restaurant in Heredia that is well known in the area.  We woke up this morning to a grand breakfast of eggs, sausage, fruit, rice and beans, and tortillas.  

Ray and Patrice went to the rent-a-car place to pick up our car for the next two weeks, and then had to buy plastic bags and ropes to tie our bags to the roof.  We scrunched in and headed to Manuel Antonio.  We met our friends Michael and Ale with Ale’s cousin Tati and their two kids Beckett and Sophia at a roadside restaurant overlooking the Pacific.  We arrived in Quepos, then climbed up the mountain to Manuel Antonio and our rental house.

Costa Rica is about the size of West Virginia, but lacks the kind of road infrastructure that makes it easy to travel.  The distance from the capital to our rental house in Manuel Antonio is around 180 km, around 110 miles, but it took us around three and a half hours to get here.  Roads are winding and congested.  Fortunately, the scenery is magnificent!