Return to NYC - Spica's last apparition
On September 1 I returned to New York as planned, tired and ready for the next phase of life.
In the Holiday Inn at San Jose Dad and I had set the alarm for 5:30. We checked out, grabbed the free hotel breakfast, and then went outside to the cab stand. The driver wanted an excessive $14 for the airport ride, so I had to threaten to walk away before he would agree to $12, the customary fare. We were too tired to feel any pleasure at having mastered any bargaining techniques.
At the airport Dad and I said a short goodbye. His flight was at 8, while mine was at 12:50. I changed money, and paid the steep $26 (cash only) airport departure fee.
The flight to Fort Lauderdale was uneventful. From my window seat I could watch the Nicaraguan cost scroll past, up to the border with Honduras, then the Caribbean Sea. We crossed Cuba and a line of thunderheads, skirted the Keys, and landed amid a mild late-afternoon Florida thundershower. The flight to New York passed in darkness, but I was able to spot the conjunction of Venus and Jupiter setting in the west, just next to the star Spica. In school days I'd always watched for Spica in the evening as a harbinger of summer: when Spica was no longer visible in the evening sky, it was time for the school year. In this case, my last Spica sighting of the year represented the imminent start of a job search and the end of my travels.
Landing in New York we flew over the U.S. Open. I recognized Blake's yellow shirt from the games Dad and I had watched in Manuel Antonio. We weren't quite close enough to see the ball on the court.
The taxi back to Anand's apartment was $29, including tip and $4.50 toll. Anand was there to greet me, and let me know of the latest deterioroation of the situation in New Orleans.
It was as close to "home" as this blog would get: this is the end!
Final bus
Dad and I spent our last day in Costa Rica dealing with our return to San Jose. We had breakfast in the cafe and then relaxed in our room up until around 11:30. Then we paid our bill and took a taxi to La Fortuna. The volcano was covered in clouds, so there wasn't much scenery to look at.
In La Fortuna it was a bit of a wait before a bus came along offering a ride all the way to San Jose. Unfortunately the bus was a rickety affair, belching smoke and immensely hot inside, evidently heat from the engine or exhaust coming up through the floor in the rear of the bus. We were able to move forward and away from the heat after an hour on the trip, but unfortunately our new seats were right behind a middle-age Dutch couple that spent much of the trip making out and cuddling - annoying both Dad and me. On another front, Dad was worried that he might not be able to handle a four-hour ride, but he did just fine. The only real difficulty was putting up with the Dutch couple's antics and surviving the stop-and-go habits of the typical Central American bus: At one point we departed a major bus station only to stop for another five minutes to pick up more passengers directly across the street from the station building.
To give a better idea of our progress, it took a full 4.5 hours to travel only 96 km, including a 25 minute stop at an intermediate bus station. To be fair, some of the slowness was due to the winding roads through the scenic Cordillera Central mountain range.
On our arrival in San Jose's Coca-Cola neighborhood we hailed a taxi to the hotel - with a grumpy driver who disliked my asking him to put on the "Maria," the name given by the Lonely Planet for the taxi-meter.
We checked into the Hotel Aurola Holiday Inn, then walked a couple blocks over to the Pizza Hut for dinner. The waitress at the Pizza Hut smiled at me in recognition when we walked in: I had been going there regularly for almost two months, after all.
After dinner we walked to the supermarket to buy some Costa Rican coffee as a souvenir for Marlene and Tony Beltramo, longtime Missoula neighbors of the Hove family who would be picking Dad up at the airport on Thursday night.
I was looking forward to being home. It had been a good trip, but an exhausting one, more tiring than my Asian trip. Yet despite my always saying that every international trip involves at least one costly or embarassing mistake, I hadn't made any major mistakes that I could think of. No lost cash (India), no unneeded rug purchases (Turkey). No mistakenly reserving an expensive hotel in the wrong town (Italy).
Also on the positive side, I had met my goal of taking three weeks of language classes, the highlight of the entire trip - especially meeting Lisa (Priya's buddy), Sally (the wine connoisseur), Evelyn (the energetic dancer), Stephanie (the event planner), and the other Lisa (from DC), plus the fantastic teachers at Intercultura. Finally, I had visited a few of the places seen by my Mom on her visit in Sandinista days, and more importantly had gotten the chance to explore the politics of those years with the teachers at Intercultura during our classes. With Lisa and later with Dad I had even had dinner at a restaurant featuring an old gun-running plane intended by the Reagan team for the Contras.
Lightning, fireflies, and lava
Our sole task of the day consisted of switching to a new hotel closer to the Arenal volcano and further west. During our visit to Volcan Poas three days ago some women had advised us to stay in a hotel west of the volcano to see lava flows, though in the morning the volcano didn't seem to be active at all.
After eating at the Rancho la Cascada restaurant we packed up and found a taxi with a rather beat-up interior to take us to the Arenal Lodge, 20 km west of Fortuna and just to the west of the volcano. The driver charged us $12, a reasonable rate I thought, and talked to us about his hobby as a railroad watch collector after I mentioned that Dad had worked on the railroad.
We checked into the hotel with no difficulties, getting a "junior suite" for $94 plus tax, a reasonable rate for our beautiful, wood-paneled room overlooking the Arenal volcano. Drinks and meals in the restaurant were carried more hefty charges - our lunch alone was $36. While eating we spotted a couple of huge green macaws, red tanagers, a lot of black vultures, and a big black weasel. (Bird identification was a cinch, thanks to the Costa Rican bird book propped on a music stand in the restaurant.) In the distance Arenal often had a bit of cloud on its summit, but streaks of steam and gas could be seen coming out of its flanks.
"Dawdling would be a generous term for our activities of the day," I said to Dad as we stared at the volcano from our balcony. It was dusk.
"Maybe we should ask at the desk when they last saw lava on the volcano," suggested Dad.
Just minutes later I spotted a streak of yellow spilling out along the ridgeline of the volcano. As it grew darker the streaks of steam seen earlier resolved themselves into tumbling streams of yellow, orange, and red lava, often stretching from the summit down to almost the valley floor. The streams of lava could cover the distance in just a few seconds. Dad suggested they must be huge, car-sized lava boulders tumbling down the hill, but I thought some of the beads of color looked more like a fast-flowing liquid, or like a seam opening up.
Overhead the clouds flashed with lightning, and in the trees and bushes bright fireflies blinked - a bright white light neither Dad nor I had seen in fireflies before. And it wasn't just a light show: some kind of bird or frog made a continuous noise that sounded like a very sonorous version of water dripping (we called the animal "the dripper"), and a second creature would occasionally interject with what I called "the kazoo."
Crossing the country to Arenal
On Monday our travel tasks included flying back to San Jose, getting cash, then going on to La Fortuna in the north of the country via two buses for a total of around four hours by bus.
It was a glorious morning in Manuel Antonio: lots of blue sky, blue ocean, white surf, and bright green jungle. We packed up and had breakfast at the hotel restaurant, where the staff universally addressed us in English. With each encounter with an English-speaking waiter my frustration with the phenomenon grew. I missed the opportunity to practice Spanish, of course, but more important was the shattering of the always-fragile illusion of being able to fit in, to belong, to benefit from learning a foreign language, and to be a little bit of a different (if not more sophisticated) person by speaking one. Not to mention the fragile illusion of being in an actual
foreign country.
We caught the regular bus back to Quepos and there found an overpriced $4 taxi to take us to the airstrip. There was a crowd of around a dozen people waiting, and Dad quickly surmised we would have a larger plane on the return journey. The 19-person airplane was a lot less exciting than the small plane we had arrived in: it had both a pilot and a copilot, and we couldn´t see all of what they were doing because of a small partition between cabins. Still, the view of the shore stretching all the way north to the Nicoya Peninsula was gorgeous.
Back in San Jose I instructed our taxi driver that we didn't want to hear any English during our trip into the center of town. I reasoned that if we were going to pay inflated taxi rates it might as well earn me some practice. The driver asked about our respective homes and was shocked to learn it was five hours flying time between Montana and New York.
For lunch we ate at El Presidente, a restaurant aimed at American tourists judging from the old copies of newspapers with historic U.S. headlines (such as the death of FDR). Naturally the staff spoke English to us. So I ordered fish 'n' chips.
After arriving at the Atlantico Norte bus terminal at 1 we quickly acquired two tickets on the express bus to Ciudad Quesada. It was a comfortable two-hour ride up into the foggy mountains and down the other side. There Dad and I had a chance for a pit-stop before boarding our less-comfortable bus to La Fortuna. Fortunately the bus wasn't full for the entire 90-minute trip, so Dad and I were each able to stretch our legs a little.
In La Fortuna there was a decent room available at the Hotel San Bosco for $40. The view of Arenal volcano was obscured by clouds, though the sunset was beautiful nonetheless - in fact, I was looking at it as I typed my blog entry for the day.
An early wildlife tour in Manuel Antonio
Dad and I got up at 6 and went up to the top of the hill to await the local bus to Manuel Antonio. The town itself was fairly deserted, but there were two young guides waiting at the national park information booth. We secured the services of the English-speaking guide named William, then paid the obligatory 100 colones/passenger fee to float across the tidepool near the park entrance. For me it was a familiar walk along the pleasant circular trail, shaded by the jungly trees all around. William was glad that I had enjoyed my earlier tour with Jayner, but he wasn't able to spot as many animals as his colleague had - whether due to Jayner's superior skill or the absence of animals. Nevertheless we spotted:
- both two- and three-toed giant sloths, including one in motion;
- Capuchin monkeys;
- Jesus Christ lizards;
- black lizards;
- a heron;
- blue hummingbirds;
- black and red crabs;
- grasshoppers and butterflies in tropical colors;
- and the moon.
Afterwards we went for a well-deserved breakfast at Restaurante Lobster before retiring for a nap and a bit of porch-sitting back at the hotel. A steady rain started up at around 11.
For lunch we decided to return to the Black Cat. The lunch came to around $32, a bit pricey we thought, though we had ordered alcohol and an expensive dessert item. Prices in Manuel Antonio were generally quite high, particularly at the tony area at the top of the hill where El Avion, the Black Cat, and our hotel were all located.
For dinner we returned to the hilltop and tried out El Avion - the restaurant built around the cargo plane intended for supplying arms to the Contras. I had to ask the waiter to speak in Spanish for practice - it seemed to pain him, even when delivering the local specialty, "chicken with r ... er, arroz con pollo." However he didn't charge Dad for a cup of coffee and allowed him to take home the laminated drinks menu with the history of El Avion printed in English on the back.
A short hop over the clouds to Quepos
After a satisfying and inexpensive breakfast at the Holiday Inn, Dad and I decided to take a taxi to the municipal airport in Pavas, a short ride. The taxi driver was eager to talk, pointing out the house of former Costa Rican president and Nobel Peace Prize-winner Oscar Arias, and mentioning that Arias might run again for the presidency in 2006. He was interested if Bill Clinton might run again, so I explained that wasn't possible, though his wife might make a run.
The local airport had only one waiting area and just a couple of flights, all small planes. While we were sitting a woman came up and asked if we were in the market for real estate in Guanacaste province. It seemed that a large proportion of Westerners were interested. Disappointed, the woman returned to her seat and spent the next couple of hours talking on her cell phone.
At 1:15 we were subjected to a cursory bag search and hand-wanding before being personally directed to the waiting aircraft by the pilot, a chubby guy of uncertain ethnicity. When I asked if Dad's suitcase had made it to the luggage compartment he walked me around to the back, opened up the baggage door and pointed it out. There was just one other passenger, though the plane could have seated 10, or 12 including pilot and (hypothetical) copilot.
The pilot started the two engines one by one. I was so accustomed to WWII and low-grade air crash movies that I half expected the engines to backfire dramatically and then belch clouds of blue smoke before starting; but they started up on the first flick of the switch without drama. Next he taxied us out to the end of the runway and, after a single communication with the tower, we took off into the light cloud cover over San Jose, getting a good view of both the slums around town and the nicer homes on the mountains. There were a few bumps but it was hardly turbulent.
After 20 minutes we had arrived at the Pacific shore. The low forested hills of Manuel Antonio formed a scenic headland surrounded by the flat surrounding land made up of endless rows of oil-palm plantations. From the airplane the airfield looked like little more than a helipad surrounded by forest, but as the pilot swung the plane into its approach the field resolved into a single long strip of asphalt in the jungle. Without ceremony he put one wheel on the ground, then the other, and, after a longish pause, the front wheel as well. When we arrived at the end of the runway the pilot opened his door and we followed him to the back of the plane to get our "checked luggage."
Dad said it was his first small plane ride since a bear-spotting trip in Alaska. For me it was the first since two private plane rides with my uncle Gordon, when I was just a kid.
The airport shuttle cost a whopping $5, but took us directly to the Costa Verde hotel on the hill near Manuel Antonio. The hotel reception was built out of an old railway car - a nice touch, but it was cramped inside. As for our room, it was in a cabana overlooking the ocean below and the ridge of high-end resort developments along the Manuel Antonio-Quepos road.
For lunch Dad and I walked up the hill to the Black Cat (Gato Negro) for a rather expensive meal overlooking El Avion, the restaurant built out of the old U.S. airplane once intended for arms shipments for the Contras. We had several hours to relax and watch tennis back in the room before having dinner at the hotel restaurant. We were lucky in that a heavy rain started after our arrival but ended just before we decided to leave. While we were having dessert one of the waiters pointed out some monkeys moving around in the dark trees just off the balcony. We only saw a couple other guests in the restaurant - surprisingly few for a Saturday night in the U.S. vacation season. Yet the restaurant had hired an electric guitar player who worked away at covers in a variety of genres, including an incredibly bad version of Beethoven's Ode to Joy.
Volcan Poas on the tourist bus
Dad and I got up at 7, showered, snacked, then boarded our 7:50 tourist bus for Volcan Poas. The passengers were mostly English-speakers, and the guide gave us a continuous lecture about Costa Rican geography and people, pausing to translate every phrase into both English and Spanish. It took an hour to finish picking up all the customers at the various hotels between San Jose and Alajuela. Then, just as we were heading off the main road toward Poas, the guide informed us we'd be making a half-hour stop at a coffee plantation. That was bad news for Dad and me, since we had hoped to be at the summit of Volcan Poas before the inevitable arrival of the late morning clouds - and the clouds were already rolling in.
The coffee plantation reminded me of a California wine estate tour, complete with tasting room, balcony providing a view of the rows of dark-green coffee trees, a close-up look at the plants with their unripe beans hanging on every branch, a quick stop at the roasting machine to see how that process works, and an obligatory pass by cash registers and the opportunity to buy anything from T-shirts and Costa Rican souvenirs to ... actual coffee. At least half the customers opted to buy something.
Nevertheless, it was a pretty stop, with lots of blooming heliconia flowers and a good view across the plantation hills.
Next we had another half-hour of road to cover to reach the summit of Poas, which by 11 was mostly enshrouded in fog. Our bus parked a kilometer from the top and we walked the trail the rest of the way to the lip of the crater. There we had our surprise: a clear view across the two-kilometer-wide barren crater, with its steaming sulfur lake and billowing steam plumes coming out of fumaroles here and there on the crater wall. From the viewing deck one couldn't smell the sulfur, but the fumaroles sounded like cars passing along a highway - sort of a continuous rushing noise.
The road back wasn't as long - only about 90 minutes. Dad fell asleep part of the way. Back in San Jose I stopped the driver in the center of town so Dad and I could walk to someplace nearby for lunch: the Gran Hotel de Costa Rica, the elegant grande dame of central San Jose's historical district. At the upscale restaurant under the arcade Dad had a cheeseburger and coffee, while I had arroz con pollo and a milkshake - he was pleased with his meal, but my chicken was dry and not to my taste. Still, we enjoyed the view of pedestrians scurrying in to shelter during the downpour that started while we were having lunch.
In the afternoon I finished making the reservations at the Costa Verde in Manuel Antonio - our studio would cost $102 per night. We planned to leave the following afternoon for our short flight to Quepos on the Pacific.
