The last two times David and I had reason to travel by plane, we said no more, never again. This flight travel, too, is fraught with annoyances—canceled flight, delayed flight, tension over making the connection; and then me being seated next to a man whose body flows into my space and who hacks, sneezes, and sniffs from beginning to end. And again, we say never again.
Exhausted, we land in San Jose at midnight. Dressed for the cold weather we left behind, and attacked by the sudden humidity, I yank the black high-necked sweater over my head, forgetting that, over the sweater, I’m wearing one of my favorite necklaces, which falls to the floor in the area of carousel five, never to be seen by me again. Later, upon realization, I’m distraught. “Let it go,” David advises. But still, I must make an effort. I am put on interminable hold by the airport security and the airline we flew in on. As I forgive myself for my carelessness, I imagine the joy whoever ended up with my necklace will take in it—a thirty-inch white gold chain interspersed with gemstones and a heavy white gold pendant set with two modest pale emeralds. A fortuitous find for someone who will appreciate it as much as I did. I tell myself to be happy for the person who now wears it. And I am done mourning.
It’s the practice of Tauck to employ local guides, and Angie, our guide for the first couple of days, doesn’t disappoint. She’s cheerful and her syntax is delightful. Also, one of my favorite forms of humor is stating the obvious, and her way of doing this is charming.
In Costa Rica,” she says, “we have bars at the windows, and barbed wire and spiked fences surrounding our homes—WHY? Because there are bad people who will come into your house and take your things.”
Another one: “When Christopher Columbus first came to Costa Rica, the first thing he saw was the coast—WHY? Because he arrived in a boat.”
We walk down three hundred and ninety stairs to see a dramatic waterfall. Then we go to a coffee plantation to see how coffee is made. I’m skeptical because, well, pick the bean from the tree, grind it up, and strain it—what else could there be? In the end, producing coffee is a time-consuming and involved process. The beans aren’t huge to start with and, after several peelings, drying, then roasting, the interior portion used in making coffee is tiny. A cup of cappuccino requires forty-five hand-picked beans. The coffee guide is entertaining, though he’s overly invested in teaching us the Spanish names for every step of the coffee process, making us parrot words we don’t understand several times. If we can barely say hello in his language, why would we retain the name of the slimy sweet substance beneath the first peel of a coffee bean?
What to take with me every time we leave the ship is a conundrum. For instance, our chosen excursion for today is the zip line followed by a tour of a cacao farm. The plethora of necessary accessories calls for a backpack, which I did not bring—a head covering, a rain jacket because there’s always a fifty percent chance of rain, an extra pair of shoes because this is a wet landing, and sunglasses, which will be put on and taken off again according to the clouds and shadows. Luckily, I have pockets and I will be strategic in their usage.
The zip line canopy tour: We wear hard hats, so no need to worry about sunburn. With the impersonal touch usually reserved for those in the medical field, young men fit us into harnesses. We are then escorted to a struggling tractor and hauled up a mountain. Though terrified of heights, I’m participating in this activity—WHY? Because sailing over a rain forest sounds enchanting. With a tranquil mindset, I will fly over colorful birds, make friends with howler monkeys, and wave at a sloth who’ll wave back. In the end, there’s a reason for the word “zip”. Nine times, I’m hooked up, told to lean back and lightly hold the cable with my strong hand; then I’m instructed to bend my knees and cross my ankles, and a man I don’t know releases my suspended weight, and gravity does its thing. So focused am I on doing as instructed that there is no looking down or around. No monkeys, no sloth. Afterward, David declares that it was fun. I’m proud that I didn’t scream, but fun? Nah, I was scared the whole time and my knees were weak and trembling when I was done. It was simply one of those nonsensical things one does so they can claim they’ve experienced it.
The next day we go on two rain forest excursions—the first is a snail-paced foot-drag, with twenty-three people following a guide. Every once in a while we’re told to look upward; and, with necks stiffening, we are joined by other tours until there are seventy people gathered around to view a patch of fur in the crux of a high palm. Do you see it? A sloth! Is it, though? Something brown in a tall tree; it’s more likely to be a coconut, but there we stand, pretending to be amazed. The next tour is a wondrous hike beside rapidly flowing water and framed by thriving foliage that’ll pin you in place if you remain still for too long. Four of us tourists, with three guides. We keep a snappy pace with our walking sticks. We sweat. There is a ludicrous heated showdown between two of the guides—what amazing beasts have you sighted? How close did you get? How many countries have you led tours in? Literally, a toe-to-toe competition. How fun.
Today we are at sea, traveling from Quepos to Playa Muerto. We will use the time to go to a yoga class, indulge in a sauna, reorganize our cabin, and do some laundry. Next? A day in an indigenous village and then on to the Panama Canal.
This made us laugh.
