One Angle Into the Real

My older daughter wanted more of the “real” Costa Rica.  We’d been in a nature lodge in a remote part of the country for our first four days in country.  I think Nicaragua had struck her as real.  Everyone at this lodge was lovely, but alas, that was the point, she wasn’t connecting with anyone beyond service personnel and capuchin monkeys.  Our first morning then, in San Jose, immediately helped to acclimate.  The street signs in this town chirp when they change from walk to don’t walk.  Don’t be fooled by this ornithological verb.  The sound is unerring and grating.  At three in the morning, when one can’t sleep, the sound is a water torture noise, amplified beyond reason.  Fortunately la gente from the “real” San Jose came to the rescue.  At five in the morning, a man began to shout something sharp and unintelligible, every few minutes, over and over and over again right below our window.  I figured he was selling coconuts, or left over St. Valentines Day roses.  My wife insisted he was insane.

A hired car down to our next location in Quepos cost the same as a plane ticket so we decided to give the local bus company a try.  This would be set me back less than a visit to either of the museums I visited the previous day.  We flagged a cab driver who insisted on five dollars to take us to the Tracopa bus station.  I told him it sounded expensive, reflexively, though it’s what you’d pay to go from fourteenth street to fifteenth street in Manhattan.  We had quite a bit of luggage out there in the street that he wasn’t intimidated by, so rather than chance it, I told him, he had a deal. 

The Tracopa bus station is certainly one angle into the “real” Costa Rica.  We got there for 9:00AM bus.  It was sold out and we’d need to kill the next two plus hours enjoying the capital bus stop scene.  Ahh, I felt a bit like being back in some Colombian bus station from twenty-five years back.  There were seats, and they were clean, but we were next to a freight train track, and busses and people were coming and going so it was loud, and hot if colorful.  “Is there any . . .?”  “Nope.  No wifi.  Read a book.”  “Can I get some potato chips?”  “No.  Here.  Get some fruit.”

The bus itself was reasonably comfortable but soon it became clear that there would be no air conditioning on board.  The kid behind me called someone on a cell phone.  His English was broken, irksome and it soon reminded me of the awkward Spanish I’d been subjecting other people to.  Every sentence was a struggle for him, but as it was in English I couldn’t tune it out.  It took me longer than usual to realize that I had my headphones in my pocket.  What a simple luxury it is to be able to tune out one’s surroundings. 

The gent at my hotel had suggested that we should stay on this bus, beyond Quepos and give the driver the name of the hotel.  Cool.  Claro.  But the bus driver didn’t recognize the name of our joint.  Now we had some real drama for our real day.  My wife wanted claro clarity, my kids were confused.  But our driver was amenable to stopping whenever I said aqui and told everyone it would be OK, as the entire bus emptied, except us and the guy with the painful English.  I recognized one hotel name, and then another.  We’re getting close. And when he stopped and asked someone, who said we’d overshot it,  I took a close look and decided to believe him.  He was right.  Soon a cab was driving us back the requisite four hundred yards to a gate, and a guard, where I could park the family for the final few days, with reality, once again, at bay.