So this is what hot feels like

Because we had packed up the night before, we were ready to go early. The Sheridans were going to come to our place, then we’d caravan to the beach. The Sheridans were a little later arriving than expected, so we didn’t leave till about 9:30. But it was comforting to know that we aren’t always the slow ones holding up the works.

We had no problems getting out of San Jose. The road through Braulio Carrillo National Park was gorgeous, lush and mountainous. We passed too many waterfalls to keep track of.

Bill’s car has the same propane conversion thing that Ramón’s car has, and there are only so many stations in the country that are equipped to fill up the propane tank. The last place he knew of was near the little town of Siquirres, so we stopped there for a fill-up. The guy there said they only fill up the tanks of customers that have had their cars converted by them. He told us of a place up the road that could do it. While the Sheridans went up to look for that place, we had a drink at a little bar/restaurant. The Sheridans were gone for a while, but they finally returned…with no gas! There was no other place that sold propane for cars. Cristina talked to the man again and talked him into selling them a tank of propane. In no time we were on the road again.

As we came down the mountain into the lowlands towards the port city of Limon, the weather got decidedly warmer. We did the totally gringo thing and used the air conditioner, which was lovely. We passed through Limon and turned south down the coast. I filled up my tank at a gas station in Limon. Bill and Jennifer bought some snacks for us all. Unfortunately, Jennifer turned her ankle and took a spill in the parking lot. She scraped up her knee, but she survived. We kept on.

We pulled off at Cahuita, our old Pacific beach stomping ground, for lunch. We found our little cabin that we’ve stayed at several times (1998 and 2001). It’s right on the beach, with some nice reefs and tide pools. We chose a little restaurant, called Miss Edith’s Kitchen, right beside our old hotel.

Bear with me, because I’m going to complain a little here. I’ve lived in Arizona, and more specifically, the Sonoran desert, for two years now. I lived in Florida for 23 years. I have experienced all kinds of hot. The sticky, oppressive, stifling heat that we felt at Cahuita while we ate lunch was probably in the top 5 nasty-hot experiences of my life. It was like being forced to wear a 3-piece burlap suit, first dipped in boiling salt-water, inside a health club steam room, with a heat lamp turned on for good measure. It was sick, and I’m not using that word as slang for “cool” like the young whippersnappers do these days. I played it off like it was no big deal, but I was thinking, “Please don’t let the whole 3 days be like this, or I will die.” I could tell Bill felt the same way. He was using napkins from the table to wipe the backs of his knees where the sweat was rolling off. I remember going to the bathroom, which was even hotter than our table, and looking in the mirror at my red, shiny, dripping face and thinking guiltily how much I just wanted to be in air conditioning. I chalked it up to Arizona causing me to lose my acclimation to severe humidity. I’ll admit it: I’ve become a humidity wimp.

Maybe my opinion was skewed by the heat (you think?) but the restaurant was not very satisfying. They had no beans (how can a restaurant in Costa Rica not have beans!?), it was overpriced, and of all places that could use a fan or two, this one had none. Since there were no beans, I got pasta with chicken. The chicken tasted like smoked pork to me and looked pink. The pasta was cooked with Caribbean seasonings, which was different but okay, although Sofia didn’t like it. But it was just too darned hot to enjoy a meal. And they didn’t take plastic (of course) so I had to use a good chunk of my precious cash.

After the meal, we checked out the adjacent tide pool area where a few small boats were moored. The kids found some cool shells. We headed on towards Puerto Viejo.

Thank God we had rented a relatively big 4x4 because driving the road from Cahuita to Puerta Viejo is somewhat like what I would imagine driving on the moon to be like, except with the gravity of Mercury. We endured potholes that I imagine the locals have probably named. When we finally got to our hotel, I wanted a t-shirt that said “My car survived Pepito and his 827 brothers.” The worst ones are the ones that are so big and full of muddy water that you can’t judge how deep they are. There were two like this just before bridges. All the cars on this road are zig-zagging around at a mere crawl, trying to find the smoothest path possible through this obstacle course. It’s funny how much satisfaction you get by navigating through a rough patch without hitting anything major. More often, though, there just aren’t any good spots and you have to pick the least painful looking pothole to hit. At one point, Isabella would laugh every time I swerved or hit a hole. That lightened the mood.

We arrived at La Isla Inn, our hotel. The ocean was beautiful and we were feeling pretty good. Unfortunately, the front desk guy knew nothing about our reservations and the prices were in the 80’s and up, depending on the room. He went and checked with the manager, who said they knew about the reservations but they knew nothing of all the kids and dog that we brought. The best she could offer was two rooms for $50 each per night. We knew we probably wouldn’t find anything cheaper, and certainly not as nice, so we agreed. I know $50 for a beachside hotel is dirt-cheap in the States, but this is Costa Rica! The only place we’ve ever spent that much on a hotel here is in the Monteverde cloud forest, where everything is expensive.

The rooms were nice and had a view of the ocean. We wasted no time in donning our beach garb and running across the road for a quick dip in the ocean. The water temperature was just right. Not so warm to be icky, but not so cold to be bracing. The kids had a ball. Isabella would laugh and smile the biggest smile I’ve ever seen whenever a wave would knock into her.

The surf here is very dangerous, with an undertow that’s so powerful it can be lethal (no exaggeration) so we were careful not to go out further than knee deep.

Our rooms were side by side on the second story and out front there was a long balcony with a long bench. After getting cleaned up, the Sheridans pulled out various fruits, vegetables, and snacks for a light supper. To contribute, Cristina and I drove down to the little supermarket to get a few things. I wanted to get some rice from a little soda, so we stopped at one. We got more than rice: we were taught a life-lesson for the low price of $8. We didn’t get a price upfront and after they had scooped the rice and given it to us, they told us the price was 4000 colones ($8). We complained, and they justified it by saying that all places will charge you about 1000 colones for one plate of rice, so we were getting a bargain for about 6 servings of rice. Yeah right. Lesson learned: always get the price upfront. If they refuse, move on.

After dinner, we got the kids to bed. We hadn’t brought any mosquito things to plug in or burn, so we borrowed one of the plug-in kind from the front office. Our rooms had fans and no a/c. I hoped the fans would be enough, but it was a hot, sticky night. And unfortunately we would be visited by many uninvited guests.