Dos and Don’ts Of A Weekend Trip To Charleston, South Carolina.
I need to tell you more about my trip to Charleston.
My first impression of Charleston was that of a well-dressed woman wearing really old underwear. Read the rest of this gem…
What’s Up, My Nicas (Part 2)
As Katie already mentioned here, our trip to the Nicaraguan shore and back was chock full o’ crazy times.
A lot happened in three days (96.5% of it fun) and I could rattle off a lengthy play-by-play of the entire weekend but if we were to skip the polite banalities and be honest with each other here, I think we’d come to the mutual agreement that (a) I don’t want to write all that jazz and (b) you don’t want to read all that jazz.
So, let’s just skip ahead to the part of the post where I break the trip down by the numbers, mmkay?
Mmkay. So here goes…
7 – Number of people in our Nicaragua-bound band of misfits.
175 – Approximate distance, in kilometers, from Bagaces, Costa Rica, to San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua.
2 – Number of hours it took our bus to reach the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua.
1 – Number of hours it took us to actually cross the border.
8 – Degrees Farenheit the temperature rose as soon as we stepped foot onto Nicaraguan soil.
1 – Cost, in US dollars, of the tasty Nicaraguan beer, Toña (pronounced “TOE-nya”–do not disrespect the beverage by saying its name wrong).
21:1 – Exchange rate for calculating Nicaraguan córdobas to US dollars.
π = (ℓ)-1(t)1(ℓ /t)1 – What the currency exchange rate formula may as well have been, considering my cripplingly bad math skills.
15 – Cost, in US dollars, of our hostel per person, per night.
4 – Number of hostel beds available for our party of seven. (Katie and I shared a double bed and Donovan kept the mosquitoes company in a hammock out in the courtyard.)
10 – Amount of time, in minutes, it took to walk from the center of San Juan del Sur to our hostel.
8 – Approximate number of times someone tripped and fell during the 10-minute walk.
9 – Average rating, on a scale of 1 to 10, of the meals we ate during our three-day tour.
60 – Approximate percentage of San Juan del Sur’s population that were gringo ex-pats with nappy dreads milling around the coffee shops and trying to hock puka shell necklaces on the sidewalk. 30 percent were actual native Nicaraguans (a.k.a., “Nicos” and “Nicas”). The other 10 percent were us.
1 – Number of near-fatal accidents involving a seven-foot-high ledge, unreliable depth perception and poor life choices.
3 – Amount, in US dollars, of the best dang mojito I’ve ever had.
4 – Number of trips taken to the ATM for the last time, seriously.
12 – Estimated median age of the three producers of Survivor we met while eating at a pizza joint in town.
4 – Number of times I tried to get them to tell me which cast member they hate most.
1 – Number of heartfelt renditions of Bette Middler’s “The Rose” Katie was able to tolerate before evacuating the karioke bar.
1,542 – Number of beers consumed over the weekend.
0 – Number of times we swam in the ocean.
28 – Number of immigration forms filled out coming and going across the border.
0 – Number of people in our party who had proof of the exit visa that Costa Rica’s border patrol suddenly decided to start requiring for re-entry into the country.
140 – Amount, in US dollars, we were advised by a Costa Rican border patrol clerk to pay for false documentation to cross back into Costa Rica.
3 – Number of times someone suggested just running for it, man, before Becca managed to charm the clerk into grudgingly giving us all temporary visas.
30 – Amount of time, in seconds after we boarded the bus that it left for Bagaces.
No shoes or shirt? No problem. No exit visa? You’re screwed.
All in all, it was a great trip to Nicaragua and we got to spend it with an awesome group of folks.
And perhaps the most important–yet highly underrated–part of what makes any trip great is: Being able to go home.
Livin’ La Vida Costa
Well folks, as Katie mentioned earlier, we made it into Bagaces safe and sound despite our best efforts to get kidnapped and sold on the black market.
We showed up on our host family’s doorstep late Monday night exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like animals at the county fair. And, for some reason, they still let us in. Partly it’s because they’re the nicest people on Earth. And partly it’s because they knew we wouldn’t last an hour out in the Costa Rican wilderness on our own.
There seems to be a vast assortment of wildlife just waiting for a couple of clueless gringas like us to try to befriend it–and, considering my appalling lack of survival instincts, I probably would’ve been mauled by parakeets and lizards by the time I reached the end of their driveway.
Anyway, we’ve been extremely busy since we got here (hence the embarrassing lack of posts from me) getting to know our gracious host family, learning what we’ll be working on while we’re here, scoping out the area, settling into our super-sweet digs, and maintaining a code-red level of alertness for all potentially sting-y/bite-y things.
So busy, in fact, that we haven’t really had time to take any pictures. Gulp.
But we will. And toot-sweet. Promise.
In the meantime, you’ll have to settle for my first impression of Costa Rica, which is: It’s beautiful, humid, breathtaking, unpredictable, buggy, wild, quaint, laidback, green, quiet, noisy, and rugged.
And here Katie and I are, living all up in the mix.
On any given day, we see birds and volcanoes and horses and cows and huge thunderstorms and green fields and dogs and friendly locals in old pick-up trucks who wave and honk hello as they nearly run us off the narrow dirt roads. And that’s just on our mile-long walk to and from work.
Still, by far, the best commute than I’ve ever had.
Does FEMA Make Housecalls?
So, I started packing for the trip this morning. Seeing as how it’s less than two weeks away, I figured it’d be prudent to start now so that I don’t, in a last-minute panic-blind frenzy, end up with a suitcase containing 20 pairs of shoes, a waffle iron and no underwear. And, frankly, I’d rather not spend my first week in a Costa Rican jail facing public lewdness charges for trying to mime ‘Where can I buy underwear?’ to the locals.
Besides, my Puritanical beliefs require me to wear old-timey pantaloons to hide my shame from the ever-vigilant eyes of God. And those suckers are a nightmare to shop for.
So, as I said, I started packing this morning and would like to pause for a moment to share with you a photo that accurately reflects my mental state right now. (Okay, that, and I didn’t feel like doing any more packing.)
Somewhere under there is a kitchen table. And possibly another cat, because I haven’t seen the other one all morning…
Mind you, this may not look like a travesty just yet, but keep in mind that (a) I’m a neat-freak to the point of being emotionally crippled by mess and disorder, (b) I started packing less than an hour ago, and (c) this is just the dining room.
Believe me when I say that in the bedroom lurks a massacre of clothing, toiletries and unspeakable, butt-clenching horror. But I refuse to show it to you because what also lurks in there are a few small, mildly annoying mystery stains on our bedspread that have since become one large, gruesome mystery stain after I sprayed stain remover on them. So, the boudoir is off-limits until our bed no longer looks like the scene of a ritual animal sacrifice because I’d rather not have any of you jumping to any conclusions about what sort of kinky shenanigans go on in there.
Man, I hate packing. Whether it’s for a weekend trip or a two-month-long excursion, it’s always accompanied by the same irrational fear that I’m going to forget something important and irreplaceable and be royally screwed for the rest of the trip.
Holy crap, Katie and I leave in ten days. TEN DAYS.
That’s not nearly enough time to become fluent in Spanish.
That’s not nearly enough time to become a well-read expert on Costa Rican geography, history, politics, economy and culture.
That’s not nearly enough time to tone my thighs and abs and cultivate a warm, golden brown tan so that I can cavort playfully in the surf in a skimpy gold lame bikini like they do on Sports Illustrated covers.
I’m fully anticipating total anarchy mixed with periodic insanity and bouts of uncontrollable crying before all’s said and done.
(How fun am I??)
I’m Not Coming Back (and You Can’t Make Me)
Just thought I’d stop in and let everyone know that I have decided to forego the Frederick apartment and Costa Rica trip and pretty much my life as I know it to live out the rest of my days with my in-laws in Cape Cod.
I haven’t run the idea by them yet, but I’m sure they’d be cool with it. I mean, who wouldn’t want an unemployed 28-year-old shacking up with them for all of eternity?
They shouldn’t have a ‘Welcome’ sign if they don’t mean it.
I love visiting Chuckles’ folks. Aside from being two of the nicest, most laidback people on the face of the Earth, they’ve managed, over 17-odd years, to transform their property into a heavenly piece of mellow, stress-free paradise.
Here’s how a typical morning goes when we visit: I wake up around 9 a.m. to find freshly ground coffee waiting for me in the kitchen. Amen. Then, I shuffle (because that’s the only way I know how to transport myself in the morning) out to the porch where I’m greeted by the warm sun, a cool morning breeze and this…
…and these…
…and these.
And then I proceed to lounge around in my jammies in a drooling, zen-like trance for the better part of the morning until a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs, fluffy waffles topped with fresh fruit and homemade Kahlua whipped cream, and a Bloody Mary that’d make you slap your mama magically appears in front of me.
And then I silently give thanks that, for some insane reason, Chuckles’ parents keep inviting me up to mercilessly sponge off their polite hospitality. Obviously, these people haven’t learned enough about me yet.
Seriously, I’m not even kidding when I say that being here is the best high you can get without a dealer on speed dial. Everything about this place is quiet and peaceful and homey and just so frickin’ picturesque, from the flowers Jude planted out front…
…to the vegetable garden Rick cultivated out back with his 10 green thumbs…
…to the stone patio they recently put in by themselves…
…everything about this place screams, “CHILL THE FRICK OUT, YOU NEUROTIC HEADCASE.”
And sometimes I need to be bossed around a bit, you know?
“Dude. You’re, like, totally harshing my mellow with that camera.”
I’m Too Sexy for my Hep Shots
Since Erin is busy gettin’ busy with her hubs who made it home yesterday, I thought it might be helpful to address some of the questions I’ve been getting about my level of preparedness for this upcoming trip.
Do you remember how my prep work for our trip to Hawaii entailed attempting to get bikini-ready by faking a tan and trying to work out?
Well, my preparations for our (much longer) trip to Costa Rica are panning out a bit differently.
The truth of the matter is, in my attempts to resurrect my feelings of carefree youth by quitting my job, booking a ticket to a foreign country, increasing my alcohol tolerance level – the works – I’ve started to realize that in light of this upcoming experience, I’m going to be regressing a hell of a lot further back than I ever wanted to go.
You see, I’m not just reverting – I really am a baby.
I’ll explain:
Language
The most glaringly obvious sign of my unpreparedness is the fact that I don’t speak a lick of Spanish. Okay, fine. I learned the words “platos” and “cerveza” from some of the guys I worked with at a restaurant, but that’s really about it.
Enter Rosetta Stone. I’ve been working my way haphazardly through the lessons over the past couple of weeks, but I’m going to have to pick up the pace if I want to do anything more than tell people, “The cat is black.” El gato es negro. And there’s a good possibility I screwed that up.
Let’s face it – it’s unfair of me to expect people to speak my language while I’m living in their country. But with my computer’s microphone not cooperating, the best I can expect in the end is to sound like a 2-year-old. But I can deal with that. Oh, and I’ll need to be spoken to the same way. “No, Katie – caliente!”
Money
Once I (finally) graduated college and joined the real world (I may have had a couple of missteps along the way), I thought I was free of the back-of-the-mind burden that comes with living paycheck to paycheck.
Well, it turns out that the idea of living with no paycheck at all is a bit more daunting.
Of course, I would not have quit my job if it would’ve meant losing the house or becoming delinquent on my student loan payments – I’m not an idiot. But still, it was kind of nice having my “cushion” of pay every couple weeks. It was nice to be able to spring for the fancy $10 bottle of wine, ya know?
But you know what? A little bit of life experience holds more value to me right now than a new car or hardwood floors. Besides, my ’99 Chevy Tracker only has 140,000 miles – she’s still got a lot of life in her.
Health
Do you remember the plethora of immunizations/vaccinations you needed to get when you were little?
They usually came in the form of a shot administered to your arm, thigh, or my personal favorite, your butt. Well up until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t really remember these shots. I’m not really a queasy person when it comes to needles or blood, but let’s just say that a Typhoid vaccination injection is not one of the key ingredients to a kick-ass party. The shot for Hepatitis A and B wasn’t too bad, except for the looming thought that I need to have it repeated two more times.
By the way, here’s a text excerpt from several hours after I got my immunizations, one in each arm. (For some reason the nurse wouldn’t honor my butt request):
Me: I am now immunized against Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, and Typhoid. My arms hurt. They hurt so good. :)
Erin: Lucky! I want MY arm to hurt! (Haha, and why not Hep C? Guess they knew they’d be wasting their time. Slut.) ;)
Ahh, I love traveling with loving, trusted friends.
Culture
So I just want to clear a little something up from this post, in which Erin described some of the lovely ailments her doctor told her to look forward to experiencing during a trip to Costa Rica. Anything we might acquire while there would likely be due to us being travelers (aka. babies) in a foreign country.
See, our bodies are used to little buggies in the water here, but American little buggies are different from the little buggies in the Costa Rican water, which can lead to something known as travelers’ diarrhea. It’s not because their water is unsafe – unless we decide to drink directly out of a river, which wouldn’t be smart no matter where we are in the world.
We’re lucky enough to be staying with a really great family (more on that later), and we anticipate many, many good times to be had in the sweltering jungle heat between bouts of the craps. Which, it turns out, can be caused by more than just exposing our unacclimated bodies to the elements. According to our host:
“LMFAO, you will most likely not get the craps unless you drink a lot of Guaro, the Tico moonshine, the water is good to drink right out of the tap in the whole country. It is no hotter than Frederick Maryland in the summer, or NC. There is a possibility of being wet during this time of the year and you could be very wet, like Seattle wet, with the small difference that there are dirt roads everywhere and you will most likely be wet and muddy. But it’s nothing that an icy cold cerveza can’t take care of.
Just wanted to clarify that your doctor’s are quacks and if I am wrong I will buy you both a beer!
Adios from the malaria filled, steamy, sweaty, hot world of Guanacaste Costa Rica!
Hahhahahaha”
Okay, so maybe we won’t be adhered to the toilet with explosive diarrhea (darn). Maybe we won’t be able to fry eggs on our foreheads. Maybe our bodies won’t be so bloated and water-logged that friends will send us boxes of gas-X and ShamWows. There is just the slightest, teensy-weensy-tiniest chance that we were exaggerating our hardships just a bit. But hey, we’re writers – that’s what we do.
