Reaching Isolation
After enduring another long, frigid winter in New York, I found myself pale, sleep-deprived and craving some much-needed time away from any kind of glowing screen, which is how I found myself embarking on a ten-day solo trip to Costa Rica.
The specific destination of choice would be Santa Teresa which, per my cursory research, was a small but bustling beach town on the tip of Costa Rica’s Nicoya Peninsula. Offering jungle-backed shorelines with consistent swells, the town was a well-known hotspot among surfers and yogis, and yet as someone who has neither surfed nor is barely able to downward dog, the choice seemed admittedly off-brand. I suppose the short of it was that I was excited by the prospect of spending the entirety of my days outdoors, being fully unplugged and picking up a new hobby or two.
But getting there was a trek. My itinerary specifically involved two flights to even get to San José, the capital of Costa Rica. From there, I took an alarmingly small plane that dropped me off at Tambor Airport, the closest local airport near Santa Teresa (which turned out to be a strip of tarmac in the middle of the jungle). I finally wrapped the last leg of the journey with a 30-40 minute car ride to my hostel.
Having only planned up to my arrival at Tambor, I was lucky enough to have met a woman on one of my flights who, after providing much needed moral support during a turbulent ride, let me crash in her van for a ride into town. As it turned out, she was staying at the hostel right next to mine—an early testament to how small this place really was. I would learn on our drive over that she was a recently-retired tech engineer from Montreal now building her own live game show company. I made a note to attend her launch event which would be taking place in New York in the coming summer.
Dust and Danes
Clouds of dust hung suspended over the dirt roads only to be blasted through by passing ATVs and mopeds; the drivers could’ve been straight out of Mad Max with their sun-bleached hair, bulky goggles and bandana-clad faces. Between the humidity and the gritty, bustling street scene, it felt like I was back in Southeast Asia, and it felt good.
Roads were lined with a combination of hostels, cafes, clothing boutiques and surf rental stores. I would quickly discover that things were not cheap here—and this is coming from someone who is shamefully accustomed to coughing up at least $17 for a cocktail—which I could only assume was the result of the sustained flow of expats and tourists year-round. Whatever the reason, it made me all the more glad in my decision to stay at a hostel that was conveniently located near town, where most of what I needed would be within reasonable walking distance.
I quickly took note of the flocks of European tourists that crowded the streets, all of whom were tanned, fit and beautiful, as if the entire town was one big Danish surf and modeling convention. As for the dress code, clothing was minimal by requirement, where visitors could be seen romping around in tiny bathing suits and boho-chic wear, some emerging straight from the beach with surfboards on their heads and salt water still dripping from their hair.
Slow Living
Aside from losing and then miraculously finding my phone, which took a two-hour Find My iPhone chase on the back of a moped and the translation assistance of a drunk local, I had myself a slow and blissful ten days. I caught my first wave, performed plenty of Vinyasa flows, hiked to nearby waterfalls and learned how to crack open a coconut with a machete. Daytime activities were followed by a generous nightlife offering, where I had my pick from standard sports bars to sweaty discotheques. Lora Amarilla, also known as La Lora, was one of the town’s main dance venues. Between the neon lights, low rise ceilings, fog machine and watered down ‘jungle juice’, a night there felt like partying in a muggy fraternity basement. In other words, not the best experience, but an experience nonetheless!
On one particular night, some friends from the hostel and I checked out the town’s off-the-grid jungle raves. This entailed a 40-minute ride on the back of a pickup truck through dimly-lit dirt roads surrounded by thick foliage, which had me questioning if I was set to be the newest victim of a trafficking scheme, until the path finally opened up into a large field with several towering stages, blinding lights and pulsating EDM music.
Suffice to say, the town seemed to have a little something for everyone. On the days I felt like doing nothing, I could be found horizontal by the hostel’s pool area, which acted as the primary social hub for guests. It was here that I ended up befriending other travelers from all backgrounds, including a recently-graduated engineer from London, an actress-turned-traveling-nurse from Munich, an ex-navy worker from Sweden and a group of Berliners on a girls reunion trip. I even met a fellow West Villager who was temporarily bopping around Costa Rica taking advantage of her company’s newly-implemented remote work policy.
On the Subjectivity of Fulfillment
On the island, the phrase “pura vida”, translating to “pure life”, is loosely tossed around and often used as a form of greeting or a sign of well-wishes. Perhaps most demonstrative of this mantra were the sunset viewings, where every evening at around 5:30pm, everyone in town stopped what they were doing to migrate to the beach. There, locals, expats and tourists gathered and lay in the sand to watch the sky light up into incredible hues of pink, yellow and purple, while seasoned surf pros dotted the horizon catching the last of the waves before it got dark. It was an incredible spectacle that felt both surreal and serene in the way that only nature’s best could really accomplish. When the sun finally set and the show was over, I’d stroll off the beach in a happy daze, envious of those who considered this a part of their daily routine but also grateful to know that places like this existed.
At risk of sounding like a preaching travel blogger who ‘found herself’ after spending just a few days in a foreign place, I will begin by saying that I did not in fact find myself. What I did discover, however, was a newfound appreciation for the outdoors and an abrupt reminder of the subjectivity of fulfillment. As someone who lives in a place that normalizes an ongoing need to be progressing in some capacity, this trip was a reminder that happiness and fulfillment do in fact look different for everyone. In this beach town in particular, where electricity blackouts are quickly solved by candle-lit dinners and days are planned around the surf, simply being outside, offline and in the company of others—often barefoot and half naked—makes a pretty damn good day.
Aerial Hitchhiking
Of course at some point I had to return to reality. I wrapped up my last morning with blueberry pancakes and an early walk to the beach, then packed and said my round of goodbyes at the hostel before heading out to Tambor. But upon arrival at the airport, I was abruptly informed that my plane would be delayed for at least an hour due to maintenance issues, which a seasoned traveler next to me translated to likely mean a two to three-hour delay. If this were true, I would most certainly be missing my connecting flight back to New York.
With zero energy left to protest, I succumbed to the humidity and napped on my luggage for an hour and a half, dramatically accepting the fact that I would never make it home, until I received a saving grace in the form of two American brothers—Matt & Mike—who offered me a spot on their chartered plane. As it turned out, flight delays like this were pretty common and, for whatever reason, it was easier to call yourself a plane than a cab. While the vessel would be even smaller than the one I took on my way over, I swiftly accepted seeing this as my only feasible way home and, why not cross aerial hitchhiking off the bucket list? With that, we cracked open a round of beers for the sky and headed back to San José.
Original film photography below.
