Costa Rica

“In the end, for all the scrutiny either I or my papers seemed to receive, I could have had two heads and been traveling under the name 'The Scarlet Pimpernel'”

The Friday night before we left, we went "down the pub" to the Saloon on Calhoun, the watering hole nearest to our house. It was exciting to sit in familiar surroundings and eat and drink, knowing that we would soon be in surroundings as unfamiliar as we'd ever experienced. All of our preparation - packing, preparing documents, posting emergency information online where we could access it from anywhere, it had all been done. We knew we needed to set the thing in motion and hope that our preparations were sufficient.

In order to make sure we awoke at 4 a.m., we'd set our alarm clocks, cell phone alarms and the oven timer. The precautions ensured that I would awaken at 3:30 a.m. and not be able to get back to sleep. And so it was. Coffee had been made, the bags were packed and waiting in the kitchen, Chester's robo-kibble-dispenser had been readied. We stepped through the kitchen door - usually the threshold to the breezeway and the garage, this time the first milestone on a trip to Costa Rica.

Traffic was post-apocalyptically light - we made good time to O'Hare, a last-second swerve into the correct lane for the remote parking lot the only moment of drama. The remote lot lived up to its name - from the "F" lot, one takes a shuttle bus to the rail station in "E" lot where one boards an elevated train to the terminal. The international concourse was even less populated than I-94. We checked in at the Copa airlines desk and made our way along the aseptic public space to the security checkpoint where I was dreading the first of my encounters with the TSA personnel. Dreading because I had stupidly overlooked an error in my travel arrangements. My name had been entered as "Charlie Marsh" into the system and not as "Charles Dwight Marsh" which is how it appears on my passport. I'd been told that my correct name had been registered with the TSA but the proof of the pudding is, as they say, in the eating and I wasn't going to have any peace of mind until we'd passed at least the first security hurdle. In the end, for all the scrutiny either I or my papers seemed to receive, I could have had two heads and been traveling under the name "The Scarlet Pimpernel", so that was alright.

We boarded our 737 and took off, flying west over the Chicago suburbs and then turning south. Through the clouds I caught the occasional glimpse of the ground, roads, farm fields, but nothing recognizable until I saw that we were flying along a stretch of eastern coastline that I think was Cape Kennedy - interconnected launch pads and what might have been the Vehicle Assembly Building. The coastal cities I saw a few minutes later might JUST have been Pompano, Lauderdale and Miami and the chain of islands arcing to the southwest by rights should have been the Keys. Can't be sure, though. I think I must have nodded off over Cuba or thereabouts. A Ben Stiller movie was playing on the overhead monitors but I decided to pass the time with one of the Fleming novels I'd brought with me.

That we were descending into Panama City was broadcast throughout the plane in Spanish and English. Through the window we could see densely forested mountains and stretches of the Canal and lakes. Then we were out over the sea which was dotted with ships of all sizes waiting to transit the Canal - massive container ships down through relatively tiny pleasure boats, an amazing sight. On the ground and taxiing - we trundled back from the end of the runway toward the terminal past a utility building with one sad-looking palm tree leaning up against it. It reminded me of scenes in many films where a British aerodrome is made to look unconvincingly like a Cuban airstrip with the addition of just such a sad-looking palm tree.

Precipitous as was our sprint through the airport toward our connecting gate, I did have just enough time to establish that the Panama City airport was an astonishing venue for people-watching (and listening) - too many nationalities and accents to even begin to enumerate. As always there was one of those startling moments when a particularly exotic-looking individual suddenly proclaimed something in a midwest-American drawl.

Onto the next 737 and takeoff for San Jose. This plane was a bit blingier and had individual monitors on the backs of the headrests. Almost immediately, I found that all the movies were free and settled in to watch the first part of "Skyfall" the latest Bond movie. Fantastic! Watching a Bond movie on a plane flying from Panama to Costa Rica - how Bondian is that? The attendants came 'round with free chicken sandwiches. Copa Airlines immediately shot to the top of my favorites list. These days on an American airliner you're lucky to get away with a poke in the eye and a kick in the kneecap and not get charged a fee for it.

Fortune continued to smile - our bags were the first onto the carousel and the befuddled official who checked our papers seemed more interested in tracking down his missing ballpoint than determining whether our passport photos bore the slightest resemblance to us.

“The streets are narrow and crowded, the architecture an incredible array of styles and colors.”

We encountered our Mary directly we set foot outside the terminal building. It was wonderful to see her. I've seen Mary a handful of times in the last decade - always when our visits to DC coincided - usually at the holidays. Any doubts as to whether she'd assimilated were dispelled on hearing her rapid-fire exchange in Spanish with the clerk at the desk in the parking garage. She's now lived in Costa Rica for twenty-five years, but I'd only ever known here at University and while living in Northern Virginia so seeing her in her element took a little getting used to.

We bundled our chattels into the back of her little Suzuki and set off for her house in the hills above San Jose. Our route, as Mary explained, was to take us near the middle of San Jose and, as it sounded like our two full days with her would probably involve day trips into the countryside, this might be our best opportunity to see the city. Also, there was a city-wide arts festival going on and there was to be a concert that evening in the park, among other events. So, it was decided to spend the evening in the city.

The drive into San Jose afforded fleeting glimpses of hillsides jammed with multicolored houses, people waiting for buses at the side of the road, palm trees, flatblocks, all with the mountains looming in the distance. At a major intersection, Mary pointed out the old city airport terminal building, now a museum, at the edge of the park where part of the arts festival was taking place. We turned left onto one of the main city streets. San Jose is not a city of wide boulevards and uniform architecture. The streets are narrow and crowded, the architecture an incredible array of styles and colors. Brightly colored signs everywhere advertised shops and businesses and the sidewalks (and the streets themselves, in places) were thronged with pedestrians. Mary pointed out some buildings of note - the childrens' hospital and several grand old mansions that were relics of the old San Jose.

Wanting to conceal our luggage before arriving at the parking lot, Mary pulled into a side street and we got out to help cram the bags under the trunk lid in the back of the car. Paul discovered how narrow the traffic safety margin was when a passing car came dangerously close to smacking off the door as he opened it. After parking, we walked back to the National Theatre which we'd passed on our way. The building was closed for an event, but Mary talked the gate guard into letting us in to have a shufti at the lobby which was very grand indeed. The theatre is where the National Symphony, in which Mary plays violin, performs. It's a gorgeous building with an ornate facade adorned with three angel statues.

From the theatre, we walked to the Parque Central which is dominated by an interesting gazebo sort of structure with a domed, concrete roof and immense, arched supports. Mary told us that it was donated by Somoza, not the Nicaraguan dictator but his father. Opposite was the Catedral Metropolitana which we couldn't enter because a service was in progress. Instead we walked around the exterior and enjoyed watching the hundreds of green parakeets which roosted on the church's cornices and in the neighboring trees.

Walking west, we were shown a beautiful old school building by Mary and saw that illuminated stations of the cross were affixed to lampposts along what was presumably to be the route of a Good Friday procession. We continued past another park containing a huge climbing wall made of old tires and a strange building, illuminated by the setting sun, which looked to me like a poorly played game of Jenga, stopping in another plaza in front of another beautiful church, the Iglesia Nuestra Senora de La Soledad which was beautifully floodlit against the darkening sky. This, like many other churches and public buildings was decorated for Holy Week with a cross draped in purple fabric. Visible along a street to the north was the gate to Chinatown which looked exactly like all the other gates to Chinatown I've ever seen. It was somehow reassuring. Here we ran into some friends of Mary (an occurrence we soon realised was happily commonplace) and made arrangements by phone to meet another friend for dinner at a nearby Argentinian restaurant, La Esquina de Buenos Aires.

The restaurant was fantastic - wood-paneled with white linen tablecloths and wonderful antique advertising signs and photographs decorating the walls. The speciality was beef served in a variety of ways. I ordered a two-meat platter and a local craft beer "Segua" which had an intriguing image on the label - a beautiful woman with a horse's skull sticking out of the side of her head. Mary's friend Fernando enlightened us - the figure is from Costa Rican folklore and is a siren who lures married men into a lonely spot and then transforms into a demon with a horse's skull for a head and glowing red eyes. The meal was wonderful and was a great opportunity to catch up with Mary, hearing about the history of her involvement with the symphony and what her life is like in Costa Rica. We also very much enjoyed meeting Fernando and hearing about his work as an artist and the installation he was currently involved in.

“Several actors were engaged in some sort of pantomime on the stage which I couldn't quite get the thread of...”

After dinner, we were collected by another group of Mary's friends and driven back to the old aerodrome park where we walked among trees strung with lights and artists stalls toward the field by the soccer stadium where a concert by the lead singer of the Fabulous Cadillacs, an Argentinian band, was underway. Meeting up with still more friends of Mary's (I'm embarrassed that I wasn't able to keep track!) we sat on the lawn and enjoyed several songs under the searchlight-illuminated clouds.

One of our number informed us that there was some species of acrobatic performance going on somewhere else in the park - the consensus was that we should go and have a shufti so we picked ourselves up and set off through the crowd. To get there, we had to round the end of the stadium where we had a better look at the two immense arches that curved around either side of the structure and disappeared into the ground. I vaguely remember Mary telling us that it was built by a Chinese interest. There was no danger of missing the gymnastic exhibition - two huge construction cranes were being used to hoist aloft metal frameworks from which were suspended groups of performers, illuminated by fairy lights on their persons and spotlights from various places around the performance venue. Below them was a stage backed by a huge projection screen atop which sat several musicians. When we arrived, one crane was bearing a group dressed as dancers, the other a set of performers done up to look like musicians. The players were slowly carried in an arc over the crowd and, after a while, were moved to the back of the venue where they were lowered to the ground and replaced by others. In the course of the hour or so we stood watching, we were treated to the sight of a beautiful angel in white feathers, a dancer with flaming fans in her hands and a set of dancers with long red veils, one of whom suddenly descended on a line to the stage and cavorted with the other performers there in a costume with huge red wings. All during the performance, images were being projected on the screen behind the stage - live footage of the flying performers interlarded with computer-generated celtic knots. Several actors were engaged in some sort of pantomime on the stage which I couldn't quite get the thread of - a man playing a bodhran, an old man with a glass of beer. It was all a bit confusing, but visually very impressive. The lack of any visible safety precautions was more than a little disconcerting. At one point, the cable of one of the cranes became involved with some tree branches while lowering one of the sets of performers to the ground but nothing catastrophic resulted.

The show came to a close and we said goodbye to Mary's friends and took a cab back to the parking lot downtown where Mary had left the car. The route to the house took us outside of the city proper and up into the hills. We stopped at a supermarket to get some cash and buy beer and some other provisions. For beer, we purchased "Imperial" and "Bavaria Dark", both Costa Rican beers. The paper money, Colones, are gorgeous - multicolored with beautiful engravings and iridescent inks. My favourite was an underwater scene with a shark and coral. The denominations made one feel very rich indeed.

“We enjoyed beers together on the rooftop patio looking in amazement at the lights of the city spread out below us.”

It was strange to finally enter Mary's residence. The house was designed by our friend Mark, a childhood friend of Mary's who is an architect now living in Boston. I'd done some work on his website for him and formatted many photographs of the "House in Sabanilla" for the project. It's a beautiful place - open, white spaces, tile floors, skylights, hidden closets, and a wonderful series of jewel-like multicolored little windows in the stairwell. We enjoyed beers together on the rooftop patio looking in amazement at the lights of the city spread out below us.

The next morning, Mary gave us a lovely breakfast with papaya, mango and banana arranged beautifully on a plate. We scoffed the lot before getting into the car and setting out for the Poas volcano park.

“Many of the Roman soldiers were actually children, some of whom looked as young as ten.”

On the way to Poas we stopped in Barva, a town in the foothills where Mary said we'd enjoy seeing the Palm Sunday procession. Parking near the endpoint of the procession, a church on the town square, we made our way along a residential street to where the participants were lining up for the event. The town was pretty with houses painted in contrasting bright colors and the components of a public art project - sculptured heads of animals and people on posts displayed at intervals along the streets. I noted the presence of much razor wire and metal gates, protection against break-ins which, as Mary said, were fairly common.

The preparations for the parade were really quite impressive. Scores of participants were dressed in elaborate costumes - saints, Roman soldiers, people in clerical vestments. The saints, in brilliantly colored robes held staffs decorated with their names and palm fronds. The Roman soldiers had impressive helmets, leather armor, billowing red capes and carried spears. The profusion of soldiers I found a little confusing as I don't understand that to be a significant component of the story from scripture. Consulted after the fact, my pastor Andrew said he thought perhaps they were wrapping in some of the passion story from later in the week. Many of the Roman soldiers were actually children, some of whom looked as young as ten. I imagined a children's book called "The Littlest Centurion". Strange. Jesus was represented not by a living person but by an effigy which was held on the back of a donkey and supported by a group of gentlemen in white shirts and red ties. The mood seemed rather solemn, which also surprised me. There was not a "loud hosanna" to be heard. I began to feel a little self-conscious taking photos.

After watching the procession go by, we walked back to the square and took up positions behind the fence surrounding the church to see the procession arrive. The church had a simple, elegant facade in brilliant white with a pretty stone arch gate festooned in palm branches. We were all startled by a sudden blast of sound from the church bells. The procession arrived in due course, making its way past the corner pub with the "Imperial" sign up to the church gate. The crowd made it difficult to see which of the participants actually went into the church. All or most of the Roman soldiers dispersed along the streets in town.

Mary and Paul and I spent the next few minutes exploring the park opposite the church. I found a wonderful, strange column surmounted by a Januskopf and decorated with masklike faces on all four sides. My favorites were a devil face with the word "macho" inscribed below it and a delightfully terrifying clown face with a scabby, deteriorating finish.

“There were signs near the edge of the crater which warned visitors to immediately leave the area should they have difficulty breathing...”

Back in the car and off for the volcano park. Directly we left Barva we entered an endless series of switchbacks on the way up into the mountains. The scene varied constantly - we'd round a corner and another vista would be revealed, hills and terraces, pastures and forests. Mary pointed out farm fields covered in protective netting - "strawberries or ferns" - one right next to the road was producing ferns. The covered fields reminded me of the illicit poppy fields from "Live and Let Die".

On and on up into the hills. Mary pulled over at a spot where the road widened as it went round a corner and there was room to stop and admire the view. To the south, the landscape fell away sharply into the valley. To the north, the hilltops were shrouded in cloud, not a good sign for crater visibility. A battered pickup truck with some sort of contraption in the bed arrived at the turnout. Mary informed us that it was a shaved-ice operation and suggested we partake of the local tradition. It really was shaved-ice - after taking our orders, the driver of the truck took a whacking great block of ice out of the freezer on the truck and started shaving away at it with some bladed instrument. The shaved ice was flavored with fruit and milk syrups and then sprinkled with powdered milk which gave it a dreamsicle sort of flavor. We ate our treats while admiring the amazing view.

Onward and upward to Poas. In the lot where we parked there was a sign which warned that sudden evacuation of the area might be necessary in case of violent volcanic activity. Mary parked the car facing outwards. I was reminded of Michael Smith's song "Last Day of Pompeii": "...and now that I'm a goner, all that lava rushing 'round the corner..." A concrete footbridge led between two immense concrete arches to the park facility which contained a souvenir shop, restaurant and bathrooms. We descended stairs to the path that led up to the main crater and began walking uphill between high embankments heavy with flowering plants, ferns, and an amazing local plant known as "poor man's umbrella" whose leaves were as big or bigger than the name suggested. The "poor" in the designation referred not to the availability but the holes in the enormous leaves, we were told.

We were disappointed to find the crater shrouded in clouds. At lip of the crater, one could look over the railing and see the ground fall sharply away into the mist, clumps of foliage dotted here and there. Shifting wreaths of mist occasionally revealed a tantalizing glimpse of the distant far wall of the crater, but in the forty-five minutes or so that we stood there we never really got a good look. There were signs near the edge of the crater which warned visitors to immediately leave the area should they have difficulty breathing - another reminder that these volcanos are by no means completely dormant. Mary suggested we take the forest path that led to a more ancient crater further along the ridge. The forest was dense, with overhanging trees, vines, and bromeliads. The path opened up to a terraced viewing area at the edge of the crater contained a greenish lake. The scene was incredibly exotic, the view of the lake and the densely foliated hills framed in the huge leaves of poor man's umbrella. I thought of the lake in "Goldeneye" which concealed the radar dish for the satellite weapon (yeah, I know - always back to Bond).

After admiring the view of the crater, we continued along the path which, according to the map, would eventually take us back to the park building and parking lot. More ferns, more bromeliads, and some wonderfully alien-looking purple flowers - I kept falling behind Paul and Mary because I was stopping so often to take pictures. Rounding one corner, I saw the largest shelf fungus I'd ever seen - the size of a trash can lid, it projected horizontally from the trunk of a tree. The occasional sign gave information about specific flora - one type of tree has a "strategy" for remaining unencumbered by vines - it periodically sheds all of its bark.

Back at the park pavilion, I hung about outside while Mary and Paul explored the gift shop. While there, I was buzzed by an inquisitive hummingbird which, for a moment, hung motionless in the air not three feet from me.

“We noticed a funny thing when we compared the photos - each of us was looking at his or her own device.”

While negotiating the switchbacks on the way back down from the park, we saw many cars pulled over on the downhill side of the road, the occupants sitting near them on the ground having picnics and enjoying the view. Adjacent to one car I saw two pairs of feet which indicated that their owners were very close to one another indeed. I wondered aloud whether they were having a "sex picnic" and that became the term of choice for subsequent pull-over sightings. Further down the mountain, Mary suggested we drive to a nearby waterfall. Almost immediately after making the turn, we were spang in the middle of an immense traffic jam which, we learned from the driver of a vehicle creeping by in the opposite direction, was owing to the national strawberry festival being helding in a nearby town. After another half hour in near-gridlock I can tell you that all of us felt like giving the strawberry festival the raspberry.

The roads leading to the waterfall were brand new, with bright markings and smooth, black surfaces. It was for a very unhappy reason as we learned from Mary: a landslide had severely damaged the area a few years before with significant loss of life. All the roads in the area had to be rebuilt. Exiting the car by the side of the road just uphill from the waterfall, we noticed both an acrid smell and a wisp of smoke coming from the hood of Mary's car. Opening the hood, we couldn't see that it was coming from the engine. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be from the brakes. It stopped almost immediately, but it was clear that all the braking on the switchbacks coming downhill had been the culprit. We discussed the merits of downshifting while walking the few yards to where the waterfall, an impressive forty or so feet tall, splashed into a pool at the outside curve of the road. Another incredibly exotic scene - the waterfall emerged from a narrow cleft and arced in a beautiful veil in front of a rock face adorned with ferns and poor man's umbrella down into a rocky pool. Paul and Mary and I took a few simultaneous selfies on our several devices. We noticed a funny thing when we compared the photos - each of us was looking at his or her own device. To open a large view of the falls in a different window, click here.

Walking back to the car we were startled by a sudden blast on an air horn and the sight of a tractor trailer barreling down the hill toward the tight bend in the road where it went over the bridge in front of the falls. With the smoking brakes incident fresh in our minds we were nervous as to whether the truck would be able to stop in time - it did, but it made for a tense moment.

Looking for a place to have a meal, we stopped at a resort complex just above the falls, but they weren't yet open for dinner. Instead, we drove a little farther to a likely looking restaurant closer to the top of the hill. There we had a pleasant meal in an airy dining room with a pleasant view of the now mist-shrouded forest across an adjacent valley. My heart bled for our waiter who dropped Mary's meal just as he arrived at our table. The destruction was so complete, we had to move to an adjacent table. The meal was delicious and included a bewildering variety of foodstuffs, including a delicious sweet plantain. Hummingbirds darted among the feeders hung just outside the expansive windows.

We got a teensy bit lost driving back to Mary's. From the restaurant, there wasn't a very direct route and we had a couple of minor mishaps with the GPS on Mary's phone which had only a fitful connection. It seemed that every time we made a turn we saw ANOTHER sign pointing to the Poas Volcano Park. After a while it became a joke.

Now it was fully dark and our route took us through neighborhoods where little could be seen except where an infrequent streetlight illuminated a driveway, a storefront, a section of alley. I glimpsed a man standing absolutely still in a side street, his back to us, his face illuminated by a cell phone. A young man sat on a slab which bridged the drainage channel at the mouth of a driveway, his only motion that of his head which he turned to watch us as we went by. A couple sitting on another driveway bridge, holding hands.

Back at Mary's we once again enjoyed a nightcap (Imperial and Bavarian beers) on her rooftop patio, marveling at the city lights below and the palm trees silhouetted against the night sky.

“It was hard to say whether the cloud moved past us or simply dematerialised but the crater was suddenly revealed.”

Another lovely morning at Mary's - breakfast, again with delicious local fruits. Mary's cat Alpha emerged from her litte hideaway, a shelf inside the chimney just above the fireplace! Mary described how she will go directly out through a lower opening in the gate across the patio but, when returning, will climb all the way up the gate and down the other side. Strange creatures.

Off to another volcano! Today's destination was Irazu, a volcano which had erupted in 1963, causing loss of life and property. The weather was fine but a bit cloudier than the day before. As Mary said, there's no way to gauge how conditions will be at the crater - it could be raining at the base and clear at the top.

On our way to the park, we passed near Cartago, the original capital city. Mary mentioned a basilica in Cartago which was a destination for pilgrims, describing how a great many people participate every year with varying degrees of religious devotion - some making the journey in an appeal for healing or in gratitude for same, some walking with groups of friends, mainly as a social event.

I saw many more crosses draped with purple fabric on display outside of many houses, shops and public buildings. A statue of Jesus loomed over a crossroads - I snapped a picture out the back window as we sped by. I found the colorful storefronts appealing with their riot of colors and profusion of printed and handpainted signage. Away from Cartago, we entered a series of switchbacks as we started to climb toward Irazu whose peak could be seen above us.

After an hour driving through beautiful varied countryside with rolling hillside meadows dotted with huge, spreading trees which cast shadows betraying the undulations of the ground, we arrived at Irazu. The empty, lunar landscape of this crater was a stark contrast to the verdant setting of Poas. The parking lot, visitors' center and approach to the viewing area lay in a barren hinterland between a more ancient crater wall and the depression where more recent activity was taking place. Instead of the solid wall of cloud we saw at Poas, the clouds here were drifting in more defined shapes with clear air between them which promised fleeting views of the caldera. We walked over to the wooden fence at the edge of the dropoff. To our left, the barren, stony flats receded into the fog - small groups of people betraying their distance by their distinctness. Fence, crater, plain, cloud - the place had an eerie, oversimplified geometry.

Watching the masses of cloud moving across the crater, I thought of our national anthem: "as it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses". Suddenly, we could see the entire crater. It was hard to say whether the cloud moved past us or simply dematerialised but the crater was suddenly revealed. The immensity of the flatlands behind us was instantly diminished by the space that now yawned in front. From the fence we leaned on, it was a few feet to a line of foliage (including poor man's umbrella) then the far wall of the crater 2,000 feet further away. There was an amazing variety of color and texture in the crater wall - some areas were streaked in red, some covered in foliage, some covered in loose, grey stone. Looking into the crater, I tried to imagine the forces that produced it and picture what it must have looked like when, for example, the floor of the crater subsided after an eruption.

I ran along the fence to an area where one could go a little ways uphill to see if I could get a view further down inside the crater. The angles didn't really work - it only took me that much farther away. We enjoyed the view until more clouds rolled in, after which we began walking back towards the car. On our way to same, we encountered members of a motorcycle club. Mary chatted them up and learned that they were a Latin American club with members from all over the Americas.

After a visit to the gift shop, we got back in the car and started heading out. Someone noticed a driveway going further up the mountain - Mary (quite the adventurer, we were learning) decided to see where it went. The road was in appalling condition - raddled with potholes that threatened to engulf the entire vehicle. Mary was having to strategize as to which inter-pothole isthmus to take - the occasional scraping sound told us that we were bottoming out.

After a very few minutes we emerged into a wider area which must have served as a parking lot for a weird concrete pavilion that stood near the edge of the crater. The structure had the look of something made up on the fly - all curving walls, rails and stairs. The ground level was a maze of disturbing little spaces, one with a graffito of La Segua spray-painted onto the wall. The upper part seemed designed to give visitors a view of the crater. The whole scene had an eerie, forgotten feel to it. I'm not sure if it was then or later that Mary said that obsolete buildings aren't necessarily pulled down if there isn't some immediate other use in mind for the land.

After negotiating the potholes in reverse, we stopped at another set of sad, neglected buildings - a schoolroom with a adjoining outdoor picnic area consisting of a group of round, concrete picnic tables. I thought of the novel "World War Z" and imagined the place as the setting for one of that book's many international vignettes. It seemed just the sort of place where one might encounter the walking dead.

Out of the park and back into the switchbacks that would take us back down into the valley. The view downhill was better 'cos one has a better view of the vistas that open up with each turn in the road. I was sitting in the back and had a wonderful view of mist-shrouded trees fading into the gloom as we went through a bank of clouds.

We were all feeling a bit peckish by that time and Mary suggested a roadside restaurant decorated with patrons' business cards. The "Linda Vista" lived up to both its name (the view was incredible) and Mary's description (every available surface was covered either with business cards or foreign paper currency). In the bar area there was a display of newspaper stories and photographs concerning the Irazu volcan and the destructive eruption of 1963. We marveled at a newspaper photo showing people standing unconcernedly only a few hundred feet from a billowing wall of ash cloud.

The meal was fantastic - a huge variety of foods arranged colorfully on a white plate: beans, chicken in a savory sauce, plantains, rice and a local fruit or vegetable that was wonderfully sweet. Mary said what it was but I can't remember. Rather like a sweet potato. To drink we had delicious, milky fruit smoothies. I think mine was mango. Paul tacked his business card onto the wall just below the window near our table. Strange to think of it being there, perhaps for years and years from now.

Back outside the restaurant I saw once more a family who I originally thought were setting up a picnic by the side of the road against the fence. I now realised they were putting up some sort of Holy Week observance, perhaps a station of the cross. We passed them once more on our way down into the valley.

“...it was customary for people making pilgrimages in either supplication or gratitude for the curing of an illness to leave as an offering a metal charm depicting the afflicted body part.”

By accessing the InterWeb on a phone, we learned that a local attraction (a zoo?) was closing within minutes and was therefore off the list for the day. Mary suggested we visit the pilgrimage basilica in Cartago. As we were parking on a street adjacent to the church, Mary pointed out an older man who was hanging about the parked cars. She told us that it's common for someone to informally "watch over" the cars parked along a street and that it's expected to give the "attendant" some money to help ensure that no-one interferes with the vehicle. Hm.

After taking a few pictures in the plaza outside the church, we approached the doors. I'd registered something unusual about a couple of figures in the main aisle of the church as I'd walked past the door the first time on the way into the plaza - they seemed very short and weren't making very quick progress. I now saw that it was because they were on their knees and inching very slowly toward the altar. I guessed that these were pilgrims of the devout rather than social variety. It was immediately clear that this was not the place to be the visibly clicky-snappy tourist. We advanced only a few steps beyond the portal and stood quietly in the side aisle just inside. I surreptitiously took a couple of photos of the nave which was beautifully decorated with painted designs in bright colors with gold on wood.

Mary led us back outside and around the back of the church to the little pilgrimage museum underneath the apse. She told us how it was customary for people making pilgrimages in either supplication or gratitude for the curing of an illness to leave as an offering a metal charm depicting the afflicted body part. The little museum was created, in part, as a repository for all the little offerings people had brought over the years. There were many wall-mounted glass cases, each devoted to a different category of offering: a case entirely filled with little hands, another with feet, another with items depicting modes of transport - buses, planes, cars, presumably in reference to accidents or requests for safe travel.

One exhibit was devoted to Cartago's manifestation of the Virgin Mary, Nuestra Senora de Los Angeles. The story goes that a young peasant girl found a statuette of the Virgin and took it home. The next day it was missing but she found it once more where originally discovered. The miracle was repeated, even when the figure had been locked in a box by a local priest. After being destroyed multiple times during its construction, the basilica was relocated to where the statuette had been found and was completed, indicating to the people that that was where it truly belonged. The statuette is now enshrined within the basilica and the Senora de los Angeles is now the patron saint of the country.

After making the round of exhibits in the museum, we visited the gift shop across the street which, in addition to the usual merchandise available in such places (saint figurines, ornamented candles, etc.) one could purchase replicas of "La Negrita" (a nickname for La Senora which refers to the dark stone out of which she was carved) and a huge array of little body-part charms.

I can't remember if the gentleman "guarding" our car was there when we got back in for the drive home. While on our way out of town, Mary suggested we stop to look at the Santiago Apostol church just off the main plaza, which was another church destroyed by earthquakes so many times during its construction that the builders finally gave up and left their latest attempt unfinished - only the outer walls exist. It was made into a beautiful walled garden which, sadly, had already closed for the day when we arrived, but we were able to get a good look at it through the gates. Perhaps it was owing in part to the gloomy weather, but I found it a delightfully spooky place. While not technically a ruin (the building never having been finished) it has the romantic, melancholy quality of one. The tops of the walls were silhouetted against the rainclouds and the breeze stirred the purple fabric draped over the cross that had been installed for Holy Week at the center of the facade wall. The plantings inside were beautiful - ornamental trees dotted the space and flowers decorated planters sunk into the bases of what would have been supporting piers for the nave.

Back into the car and through the busy streets of Cartago - I caught a glimpse of a scene I would have dearly loved to photograph: through the tall doors of a fabric warehouse I saw a worker on a ladder retrieving a bolt of fabric from a high shelf in a wall that was a riot of color from all the different hues of cloth. I did get a picture of three women standing in the rain waiting for a bus.

Another visit to Mary's rooftop veranda - we sipped Imperial and looked out over the lights of the city. Back downstairs, Mary enlisted us into a game of "Settlers of Catan" which neither of us had ever heard of but which we've heard about ever since. It's a fun simulation game in which the players vie for commodities on an island visited by trade ships. Alpha kitty visited our game occasionally.

“I thought of Bond in ninja garb, stealing through the exotic, deadly garden of Doctor Guntram Shatterhand”

I was sad the next morning. It felt like the trip was over. It had been wonderful to spend time with Mary and I was sad to leave her and her lovely house.

We had to be at the airport at 11 to meet our ride to Herradura. Mary suggested we visit a rehabilitation zoo on our way (actually the zoo was just past the airport on one of the main roads). The words "rehabilitation zoo" conjured up depressing images of concrete, chicken wire and empty eye sockets - I have to confess to not having felt very enthusiastic. I was overjoyed to have my misgivings completely swept away - the zoo was amazing. The facility was beautifully landscaped and maintained - lush plantings bordered the walkways, the enclosures were spacious and the animals looked very well cared for. It was readly apparent why a few of the inmates were there - there was a toucan that was missing part of its upper bill, for example. The zoo was dotted with signs promoting environmental awareness. For us, it was a great opportunity to see up close a number of native species of which we would later have the chance to catch only a fleeting glimpse during our planned visit to a rainforest park near our hotel. Paul and I both marveled at the toucans which seem so utterly alien in color and shape. While the birds, monkeys and crocodiles were fascinating, what really grabbed me was the flora - one viewed the animals through dense, lush foliage punctuated by outlandish, alien-looking blossoms of every color and shape imaginable - hibiscus, bromeliads, crotons, bamboo, palms, ficus. I thought of Bond in ninja garb, stealing through the exotic, deadly garden of Doctor Guntram Shatterhand in (the book) "You Only Live Twice".

“...then, suddenly, we made a right turn out of the real world and into the artificial, manicured environment that was our resort hotel.”

After only a very little second-guessing and casting about, we found (or were found by) our tour representative at the airport. We said farewell to Our Mary who had been waiting in the car curbside. I watched as her little car approached the end of the passenger drop-off lane and turned the corner around the terminal building, taking her back to the bustle of San Jose.

Our driver, Roberto, was very friendly and told us that he was originally from San Jose in a neighborhood near the airport, but that he now lives in Jaco which is actually quite close to Herradura and our hotel. Jaco, he said, had a kind of rowdy, frontier atmosphere - from what he said a visit sounded like an interesting, if not a relaxing proposition.

The drive took a little more than an hour and took us for a while along the "old" road from San Jose to the coast. We then took a cutoff route between the old and new roads. The cutoff took us across a series of hills and through pleasant-looking villages. One switchback curved around the end of a beautiful little valley with a waterfall. More Holy Week displays were visible - crosses draped in purple fabric.

The "new" road did indeed show signs of recent and ongoing construction. The walls of the cuttings were coated with concrete which formed undulating contours where they followed the surface underneath. The ends of white PVC drainage pipes protruded through the surface of the concrete in a spiky, random sort of way. After descending for a while, we began getting glimpses of the ocean through the trees on the right side of the road. More frequent glimpses gave way to beautiful views of bays and headlands as the road wound closer and closer to the shore.

Then we were on level road with the hills on our left and wetlands to our right. Roberto asked if we wanted to stop on a bridge that spanned a river where one could see crocodiles. The bridge was very crowded with stopped vehicles and people walking back and forth - we demurred as it looked like it'd be a big production. I did manage to see a croc from the van as we reached the far end of the bridge. From the bridge it was only a few miles to our hotel. We took the turnoff into Herradura and drove along a local street lined with shops, scrubby vacant lots and many pedestrians, some trundling carts laden with beach gear. Then, suddenly, we made a right turn out of the real world and into the artificial, manicured environment that was our resort hotel. The contrast between the two wasn't as stark as I'd seen elsewhere, the Virgin Islands, for example where the glittering cruise terminal was surrounded by a veritable shantytown, but it was still stark. After threading our way among golf course-like lawns and colorful plantings we pulled up in the courtyard of the Marriott Los Suenos (dreams) resort.

We said goodbye to Roberto and wheeled our bags through the pleasant lobby with its vaulted ceiling and massive white columns. There was a grand piano in the lobby which I eyed longingly. I thought about playing it at some point but never screwed up the nerve. Like the only other resort hotel I'd ever stayed in (Puerto Vallarta) the corridors were open to the weather, I suppose to obviate the need to air condition them. Our room had a beautiful view over the swimming pool to the beach and the bay beyond. It was the work of only a very few minutes to get into our pool things and go back out the door.

Not necessarily in this order did we get a bite to eat at the pool cafe (fish tacos and margaritas), read on the chairs among the trees between the pool and the beach and then stake out a claim at the edge of the pool. The pool was amazing - only ten feet wide or so, it wound like a canal among sunbathing platforms, plantings, pavilions and under footbridges. It only occurred to me while I was writing this, long after the trip, that the pool was designed that way to maximise the amount of "coastline" available to guests. Duh. We relaxed on the steps leading down into the water which was wonderfully refreshing after the heat and confinement of the drive from the capital. Paul and I took turns wading over to the nearby swim-up bar for margaritas and cans of Imperial. Iguanas roamed the grounds. We saw one on the roof of the cafe, several on the lawns, and one lurking under the shrubs at the edge of the pool. They seemed incredibly exotic to me - to people who live there I suppose they're commonplace, like squirrels or chipmunks are to us.

We had dinner that night in one of the hotel restaurants. It was quite nice - we sat outside on a terrace overlooking the pool. I think we agreed that we liked the fish tacos from the poolside cafe better. Concerning those tacos, Mary told us that what's called a "taco" in Costa Rica is really more of a meat and cheese chimichanga topped with vegetables and sauce. The meat is wrapped in a tortilla and then deep-fried and the shredded lettuce, tomato and sauce are put on top. Again, the meal was pleasant enough, but we resolved to explore the dining opportunities at the adjoining marina complex the following night.

One thing the hotel did really well was breakfast. The next morning we went back down to the restaurant for the buffet which was really very good. My favorites were the local variations on a benedict - egg on bread with wonderful sauces and vegetables.

“We clambered on the rocks examining clusters of some sort of shellfish and looking into crevices where the surf clashed and growled.”

The day's planned activity was to rent kayaks and paddle around in the bay. Unfortunately, the gentleman renting equipment on the beach had only tandem kayaks so "kayaks" became "kayak". I hadn't been in a tandem in a long time and it didn't take long for me to remember why. Not a fan. I've grown used the autonomy and control in our singles. Paul had never been in one - I suggested he take the forward seat.

Off we went. It was a little choppy, but nothing too daunting. We made for what looked like an island just off the point at the opposite end of the bay. As we got closer we saw that it wasn't an island but was joined to the mainland by a low, narrow spit. The "island" had very steep sides and was heavily wooded. We beached our boat in a little cove overhung by trees and flanked by rocky outcroppings. The sand was like that on the mainland - dark brown when dry and darker, almost black when wet which showed the pink seashells to good advantage. I thought of Ian Fleming's description of Honey's collection of shells on the black sand of Crab Key. We clambered on the rocks examining clusters of some sort of shellfish and looking into crevices where the surf clashed and growled. An attractive little boat called "La Sirena" chugged past the point. We got back in our kayak and struck out for the hotel.

Early on, we encountered "La Sirena" again and had a shouted non-conversation with her occupants. I really do wish I'd learned more (be fair, any) Spanish before the trip. It got a bit choppier on our way back. Fortunately we were moving with the waves - occasionally we had a brief "surfing" moment which are always fun. We passed an impressive pair of boats - one looked to be some sort of research vessel - Louisiana registry. Riding at anchor alongside was a big fishing yacht with a tuna tower. It just goes to show that one-half doesn't know how the other three-quarters lives. Paul's disembarking was far more dignified than mine - we turned to one side while riding a wave into the beach and nearly flipped. I was turfed out, but Paul managed to stay on.

After another afternoon of reading under the trees and lounging in the pool we showered and dressed and walked over to the marina complex just north of the hotel. The hotel was just part of a much larger resort area which included several blocks of condos, a golf course and the aforementioned marina. To get there we walked across the lawn at the north end of the hotel, across a little bridge where a stream emptied into the bay, past one of the condo developments and through a wonderful arbor which made a sort of leafy tunnel of the path. We walked past a nautical pub (The "Hook Up"), an Italian restaurant and a gelateria before settling on a sushi place at the far end of the shopping area. There was something faintly ridiculous about ordering sushi at a resort in Costa Rica. It made me all the more glad that we'd gotten such an amazing "insider" experience with Mary. The meal was great. We stopped for gelato and ate it during the walk back to the hotel.

“Following his pointing finger we saw two exquisite little tree frogs, black banded with bright orange, crawling along a fallen tree trunk.”

The next morning we went to the hotel's activities office and arranged for a rainforest walking tour. After getting outside of another delicious breakfast in the dining room we went to the main entrance to wait for our tour van. The van arrived and it became clear that we were the only people on the tour. Our guide, a burly jovial fellow, introduced himself as "Ronald" (Paul thought it was perhaps a more northern-friendly version of his real name) and we set out for the Carrara rainforest park which was only twenty minutes away along the road back to San Jose. After a brief stop at the park's administrative office to register our presence, we were dropped off by our driver at a trail head just off the coast road. Ronaldo led us into the forest while explaining what the tour would consist of. He had with him a telescope mounted to a tripod which he said he'd be setting up for viewing whenever we eouncountered anything of note and that he could take pictures through the scope with our cameras and phone. Almost as soon as we'd entered the forest, he stopped suddenly, said "shh" and looked around with a quick, catlike motion. Paul and I traded a glance, thinking that this was a bit of drama put on for the tourists. Ronald asked if we could hear a buzzing sound - we could not. He looked around, down among the plants at the edge of the path and then pointed toward something. Following his pointing finger we saw two exquisite little tree frogs, black banded with bright orange, crawling along a fallen tree trunk. Again he asked if we could hear a sound and only then was I able to hear a very faint, electrical-sounding buzz. That he was able to pick out that tiny sound and locate those little animals amazed me. Any remaining doubts as to his credentials was banished.

For the next couple of hours we walked quietly along the path, stopping every few feet to look at something through telescope. Ronald found many beautiful and interesting things for us to look at and took pictures of them through the telescope. We had several opportunities to see scarlet macaws which were perched midway up the trees, preening their feathers and calling noisily to each other. They're such improbable looking birds with their prismatic plumage. They reminded me of those tricolor popsicles - "bomb pops" that we used to get from the ice cream truck. My favorite sighting of the day was an exquisite little bird that Ronald told us was an Orange-collared Manakin. Through the telescope we saw it sitting almost motionless on a branch at about eye level - it had a yellow body, black cap and wings and an intensely orange throat.

Further on, we saw a Trogon, a larger jay-like bird perched on a brand overhead. Ronald pointed out a pair of bats clinging to a tree trunk high over our heads. We had a brief glimpse of a toucan as it flew across the path and disappeared into the foliage beyond. On our way back to the road we saw a magnificent boa constrictor disappearing into a hollow log, its iridescent bronze scales reflecting the sunlight. All through the walk we saw a variety of exotic blooms rising from the undergrowth along the path - weird stairsteppy red growths, orange and blue bird-of-paradise-type blooms and one delicate cluster of translucent mushrooms on an overhanging branch. The forest itself was gorgeous, with philodendron-choked tree trunks, clusters of ferns, trailing lianas and palm fronds which gently clattered in the breeze and striped the path with shadows. In one group of trees I saw scores of bromeliads growing from the branches. The sunlight shining through banana leaves created slashes of intense green against the shadows of the forest.

On the drive back to the hotel we were given containers of local fruit - watermelon, mango and melon. Just the thing after a long, hot walk. What a treat to have a private tour! We made sure to tip particularly well. I had a stab of that discomfort I sometimes feel while travelling - the realisation that people who provide services in such places depend on the curiosity and generosity of tourists to provide for themselves. Tourism is, necessarily, exploitative to some degree.

The afternoon was a not unwelcome carbon-copy of the previous two: reading on the lounge chairs and lounging in the pool. I'd have been happy to return to the sushi place for dinner but we decided to try "The Hook Up" instead. It's amazing what a difference can be made by where one sits in a restaurant. We were seated in a corner of a mostly empty dining room but changed our minds and moved to a high table for two in the bar against a railing above the walkway to the marina. From there we enjoyed our food and drinks while watching the boats gently rocking at their moorings and seeing people crossing underneath on the way to and from the dock. During the meal, we remembered Mary telling us how she once drove to the coast to meet some friends who were sailing down from the US and crossing through the canal into the Caribbean. It was pleasant to think about what it would be like to be visiting that restaurant as a stop on a long sea voyage. We returned to the hotel along that same path that went through the arbor. As we climbed the staircase to the 4th floor we could see at every landing geckos disturbed by our motion, scrambling for cover behind the lighting fixtures.

“It was promising to be a stormy afternoon - dark clouds were piling up against the mountains.”

We spent our last morning at the hotel having a final bash at the breakfast buffet, taking pictures of the place and sitting by and in the pool. It's strange experiencing a place knowing you'll never return. It's not out of the realm of possibility - I certainly hope to visit Mary in Costa Rica again but the likelihood of our spending time at the same hotel is very slim. We'd want to mix it up and try someplace difference when it came down to it, I suppose. Perhaps we'll try the Caribbean side next time. Anyway, I always get a little sentimental leaving a place. Knowing that my photos would be my only way to re-experience it, I made a point of getting some pictures that I hoped would capture the feel of the place. On a staff member's recommendation, we climbed the stairs to the little tower at the center of the pool facade of the hotel. We're glad we did - it had a gobsmacking view of the hotel grounds and the bay beyond.

We packed, we checked out, we waited in the courtyard for our van. I tried to fight the feeling that the trip was over and that time should pass as quickly as possible until we got back home - that's an anti-live-in-the-moment attitude that I have to resist. Conversation with our driver was difficult - we neither of us understood each other well enough to really communicate. I tried to enjoy the view out the window. We took the same route back to San Jose - some of the perspectives were different - there was a magnificent view of a winding valley which I imagined to be part of one of my old sci-fi shows with some futuristic craft flying through it.

I forgot to be nervous about my papers when we went through security - there wasn't a problem anyway. Paul and I had a last Imperial in the concourse bar while enjoying a view of the mountain ridge behind the city. It was promising to be a stormy afternoon - dark clouds were piling up against the mountains. While sitting at the gate a woman emerged from the duty-free shop and did a double-take when she saw us. In a delightful English accent she greeted us and then, after several seconds, realised we weren't who she thought we were. It was a funny little episode - after she excused herself we imagined her to be one of the women from the next room in our hotel in Rome back in 2011, that night when the news broke about Amy Winehouse's passing. Is the world a grand performance only for our benefit? Was that occurrence a result of there being a limited number of available actors?

Our flights back were unremarkable (a good thing) although our sprint through the airport in Houston was a nail-biter. We had under an hour to retrieve our bags, go through passport control and customs, recheck our bags and get to our gate. I was struck by how immense and sterile the transit spaces are in Houston. We strode and sprinted through a succession of vast, featureless white chambers.

Strangely, with all the aspects of our travel that could have gone wrong - paperwork, flight times, equipment, connections, etc.) the one real snag we hit was after we were on the ground at O'Hare. After finding our way to the airport rail transit station (which was VERY poorly marked), we learned from an announcement that the train was currently not running but was expected to start up again "any minute". After a half hour of "any minute" announcements we resolved to give up on the train and take a cab to where we were parked in "F" lot. 25 minutes (and dollars) later, we were loading our bags into Ravvie (Paul's RAV-4). Hats off to Paul for making that drive after midnight. I made a point of staying awake in case he needed help with same. He did great and we pulled into our driveway at around 2 a.m.

At our destination we wondered whether we should have booked an additional day - on arrival back home we were grateful that it was only Friday night (Saturday morning) and that we had the weekend to decompress before going back to work. How grateful I am to Paul for being such a great travelling companion and how grateful we are to Mary for arranging such a wonderful introduction to her country. The trip was a perfect blend of activity, exploration, and relaxation. Writing, for me, is like pulling teeth - for me to have written this much about a trip means that it was an experience that affected me greatly. To paraphrase Monty Python: if you've enjoyed reading about it half as much as we enjoyed living it, then we enjoyed it twice as much as you.