Travel = Adventure

December 17 2009

And here I am in an airport again. And oh yeah – I love airports. I feel like I’m home already, in a sense. In an airport everyone is out of place and it brings a great sense of comfort. I forgot how wonderful it is to be in a crowded place and to sink into the background, where no one will even look twice at you. Oh, the safety and comfort of being ignored.

I have been nervous about this flight months before it was even booked. Long gone are my days of carefree wandering – in the past five years I have developed a For Real Fear-of-Flying. I have been emotionally preparing for this first flight home since late July when I arrived in Costa Rica. I used to be able to pack in 20 minutes flat. For this trip I spent 3 days of making and remaking piles on my dinning room table.

The plan this time was to NOT pack light. I had borrowed a suitcase to move to CR and wanted to return it, which means I had to find stuff to put in it. This meant that I’d have to take a taxi into Santa Elena instead of walking, like I normally do. Which involves figuring out how to get a taxi to my house at 5:30 a.m. I no longer live in Manhattan - I can’t just step into the street at any hour on any day and get a cab in less that two minutes.

I asked around for information, got a couple of taxi company phone numbers and was assured that it was actually more reliable to call at 5:30 a.m. then to make a reservation the night before. I was doubtful, but had nothing else to go on.

This morning I woke at 4:30, showered, ate and put some last minute items in my bags. At 5:30 a.m. I called a taxi. This would get me to the bus about 45 minutes early and would not be the first time my obsessive I-Must-Be-Super-Early trait has saved my butt.

5:30 a.m. – I called the cab company and listened to it ring and ring as I replayed co-workers’ reassurances in my head that yes, you can get a cab at any hour, and yes they’ve done it before. I called a different company. And then the first number again. And again. I tried some random numbers that sounded familiar, then cursed out loud.

5:35 a.m. – I took my small bag with a zipper and flew out of the house to the hotel next door. They are a hotel, they are always open, right? Then can help me get a cab, right? The reception area was locked and dark. I raced down the hill to a more luxurious hotel and ran up the driveway to the dark and locked reception. There was a man who saw me and said, tentatively, “Hola”. I must have looked like some kind of lunatic running around a deserted hotel in the early dawn hours. I explained my situation and he unlocked the door to the reception, turned on the lights and ushered me inside.

5:40 a.m. – By now I was trying not to cry and held my hands below the desk because they had started to tremble, but was still optimistic. As the hotel worker called taxi agencies I reminded myself to get his name so I could send a thank you card when I got back. Because he would be able to get me a ride, right?

5:45 a.m. – He had called four different companies and gotten no answers. “Que raro” he said, shrugging and explained that “a noche hubo fiesta” and the taxi drivers probably didn’t want to work early. He finally hung up the phone and shook his head.
“Do I have any other options?”, I asked, still looking for him to be some kind of miracle worker.
“No, sorry” he responded. He didn’t have any more numbers to call.
I took a deep breath and pressed my hands down flat on the front desk.
“Well, than you very much for your help,” I said and walked out as calmly as I could.

These were my options:

Option #1: Walk into Santa Elena with what I had on me at the moment (iPod, book, diary, computer, wallet, passport, fancy pens), hop my bus to the airport and go to NYC with no clothes, camera or gifts.

Options #2: Go home, repack a small bag of necessities (you know, underwear) and walk quickly into Santa Elena for my 6:30 bus.

Option #3: Go home, call a friend with a car, beg a favor and get a ride down to Santa Elena with my suitcase for my bus.

Option #4: Sit down in the mud and cry.

Option #5: If I miss the bus to San Jose (US$5) I could pay a cab more money than my flight cost to drive me 3.5 hours to the airport.

Now, before I tell you what I did, I’m curious – which do you think I chose? Looking back on the situation it is obvious that I chose the option I did, but I wonder if it is as obvious to the rest of the world.

My thoughts in that moment:

Option #1: Super sad. All the time packing, all those gifts, sitting on the floor of the entryway to my house for three weeks. Que lastima. No camera. No computer charger.

Option #2: It would take too long to pack and walk to Santa Elena. The walk, quickly, usually takes about fifty minutes and I only had 45.

Option #3: Same as #2. No guarantee that I’d make the bus. If I couldn’t convince anyone to get out of bed for me, I was left with no back up plan.

Option #4: Very, very tempting.

Option #5: This was a back up emergency plan. I could do it, but it would be a hassle, I would be pissed and broke. I make less than US$500 a month, ya know.

I chose Option #1, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to get a taxi when I called at 5:30 but I prioritized – was I going to the states to bring stuff or to spend time with people I love? Oh yeah – perspective.

I turned at a half speed-walk, half run downhill towards Santa Elena. This was NOT the plan, but at least I’d make my bus and flight.

5:50 a.m. – I hear a motor approaching me from behind and slow to a fast walk. I don’t’ want people to think I’m deranged. The motor slows as it gets close. I looked up to see a man I have never seen before on a motor bike. In Spanish:
“Wanna ride?”
“Where are you going?”
“Santa Elena.”
“Um…yeah, that would be wonderful.”
This is not something I would normally do. Not only did I have no idea who this guy was, I couldn’t even see his face because of his helmet. A helmet – what a great idea. Oh well. I hoped on and we zoomed off down the hill, bumping over pot holes and sliding around in the mud. My hope was to get to town quickly enough to grab a cab up to get my stuff and back down in time to catch the bus.

As we bumped and slid down the mountain I told the moto bike driver my story. I asked if it would be ok with him if we could flag down a taxi if we passed one. Five seconds later we pull alongside a taxi van. I hopped off the motorbike and asked if we’d have enough time to go up and then down the mountain before 6:30. The taxi drivers said yes and I crossed in front of the van to hop into the passengers side seat. The moto bike driver had pulled in front of the taxi to get out of the way of on coming traffic and was twisted around in his seat, looking back at me to see what would happen. I yelled, “Gracias!”, blew him a kiss and waved as I reached for the door handle.

BLEW HIM A KISS?!? Yeah, I know. I don’t think I’ve ever blown anyone a kiss in my entire life and I really wonder what it says about me that this is how I choose to express gratitude to strangers when I’m in a hurry, but I didn’t stop to think about it. If I made the bus I’d have eight hours on planes and in airports to ponder this.

5:53 a.m. – I explain my situation to the taxi driver. He taps the dashboard clock and assures me that we have plenty of time. He turns the van around and we headed back up the mountain towards my house where my giant suitcase was waiting patiently for me. The roads were muddy and broken and I understood that this man didn’t want to bust an axel, but I don’t’ if he really had to drive so slowly.

Turns out the driver is the brother of the woman whose funeral I went to the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Small world. He is super tranquillo and I find myself calming in his presence. We talk about the school, his nephew who volunteers in my classroom and the differences between living in Monteverde and San Luis.

6:03 a.m. – We arrived at my house. Fabio, the taxi driver, helped me lug my bag into the car. I climbed back in and was ashamed to see that I had left muddy boot prints on the passenger side floor. We headed back down the mountain chatting about the festival of lights, which he explained as a Welcome to the Christmas Season festival. I asked him about the devil horns and he laughed, saying that everyone has their own way of celebrating. He described to me the extravagance of the Festival of Lights parade in San Jose.

6:08 a.m. – I thought the ride down the hill would be faster than uphill, but I was wrong. I guess I should be thankful that I am with a careful driver.

6:13 a.m. – I thought that driving on paved road would be faster than dirt road, but I am wrong. I guess I should be thankful that I am with a careful driver.

6:20 a.m. – I climb out of Fabio’s taxi at the bus station. He asks for 2,000 colones but I refused and give him 6,000. I am told later that I have drastically overpaid and I am glad. This is what I wanted to do.

6:27 a.m. – the bus to San Jose arrived. I climbed aboard along with a teacher from the school, a family from the school and the father of one of my students. We left Monteverde and I actually felt a little…sad. I passed the first hour and a half of the trip not looking at the sheer cliff outside my window and taking deep breaths to conquer my carsickness.

8:05 a.m. – we stopped for a pit stop and I chatted it up with the father of one of my students.

8:30 a.m. – we reboarded. The father sat next to me and we pleasantly passed two hours chatting about life – his kids, his family, life style, education, etc.

10:20 a.m. – I got off the bus at the airport. I looked up and there is the teacher I work with who going to her son’s wedding. She kissed me on the cheek, wished me a happy holidays and flagged down a cab. I headed into the airport thinking that my travel worries were over.

10:25 a.m. - At this point I had no idea what airline I was flying with, let alone what flight I was on. I figured out that I’m flying U.S. Airways but I see no such airline at the airport. I asked and was told that they don’t open the gates to check in until 11:30 or 12:00. I sat, put on my headphones, and took out my diary.

12:15 – I closed my book, gathered my things and took a tour. There is still no U.S. Airways. I asked again and was told no, there is never U.S. Airways here. I asked again and was directed towards the airline offices, one of which is a U.S. Airways office. I asked again and they reassured me that the desk would open at 12:30. I thanked them and left.


I must admit that one of the reasons I love airports so much is because I see it as an excellent excuse to eat really crappy food. My all time favorite airport crap food is crispy, greasy Chinese food eaten with splintering wooden chopsticks. Today, in the absence of Chinese, I leapt at the chance to order a burger, soda and fries from Burger King I gawked when I saw the prices -$7 was the least expensive combo meal! I almost turned and walked out, but remembered that I had two more hours of waiting, four hours on a plane, an hour of layover, two more hours of plane, then more time waiting for luggage and driving to Brooklyn. I got the $7 combo and sat down to enjoy it.

Half way through the burger I had to stop and think twice – what the hell was I eating? It was gross. I took another bite just to make sure, and then tossed it. I can’t remember the last time I finished a burger. I can’t remember the last time I tried to finish a burger and didn’t fell like crap afterward.

And here is another thing that is total crap: A few minutes before boarding began on my flight out of San Jose they gave a reminder announcement that no liquids are allowed on the plane. If we had bought a bottle of water or any other type of beverage we needed to please, drink it before boarding the aircraft. I paused – surely they couldn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to bring water in my water bottle that I just filled up at the drinking fountain here in this fine airport. I asked and the woman kindly clarified that yes, I actually did have to drink all the water before I got on the plane. What happened in the 4.5 months that I’ve been away? What the hell am I gonna drink on the plane? Sigh…

Update – Ji says it’s a Juan Santa Maria San Jose International Airport policy. I say it’s a dumb one.