Something I heard a lot when I was younger is that every man should travel, at least once, alone. I ended up doing so and... wow.
Back in my college days, I decided to study abroad for a year. I had studied Spanish, and it made sense to stay with a Spanish-speaking country rather than start from scratch somewhere else. I looked into Spain, Argentina, Mexico... the big, obvious countries. But then I saw something different: Costa Rica. Now today, Costa Rica is a world-famous tourist mecca. But at the time, in the early 1990s, it was one of the most obscure parts of the world, on no one's radar. When hearing that I was thinking of studying there, more than one person "corrected" me by saying, "It's pronounced 'Puerto Rico.'"
Well, fuck that shit. I liked the idea of going to the "end of the earth," and figured if nothing else, I could impress my friends for having survived living in the rainforest. I signed up for the language program and shipped out.
It was great. My program was pretty small, about 20 of us, and I quickly pulled together a mixed gang of friends. Costa Rica was an unspoiled paradise. It felt like we were off the grid, and seeing the real world--and because there were so few visitors, we were essentially a novelty wherever we went.
My gang and I skipped town for weekends away when we could, going to distant places and at one point camping out literally in the rainforest. I was proud to have been the only one who correctly assembled my tent, and consequently, stayed dry for the weekend.
Toward the end, another one of guys talked about a quick trip he had taken to a place called Puerto Viejo in the far south east of the country, not far from the Panama border. I gather today the place is quite hopping, but back then it was literally at the end of the road. As remote as remote could be. I tried to get the gang together to go there, but after the soggy camping disaster, folks wanted a place with more infrastructure.
So, remembering the notion that every man should travel alone at least once, I decided to go there myself for a couple of days over the weekend.
And getting there... was an adventure. You had to go via bus--a retired school bus, to be exact. Along the way, the highway out there went from being a paved road, to a dirt road, to being an... aspirational road. I got there to find a lovingly ramshackle village that had only had electricity for a couple of years. But it was the most shockingly beautiful place I had ever been.
And pretty much, I had the place to myself.
I learned that it had a minor reputation as a surfer's paradise--home of the so-called salsa brava. But it was the wrong time of year, so there were next to no visitors. There was an open-air restaurant that served as a makeshift nightclub on Friday Saturday nights, but other than that there was not much to do. Restaurants were essentially people's houses; you walked in and they whipped up something for you in their kitchen while wrangling their kids.
I found a guy who had a few small rooms to rent. It cost me about $2.50 per night... and that's about what it was worth. There were six total rooms, divided by 1/4-inch particle board partitions that didn't reach to the floor or the ceiling. There was one shared bathroom. Because there was no one there, I essentially had my pick of the rooms, and grabbed one that at least had a decent window.
Well, OK. Here I was. Traveling on my own.
The trip in was long, and I got in just before dusk. I grabbed Friday night dinner from Miss Cicely's house--her family immigrated from Jamaica and she served me the best tropical dinner (and yes, my only choice was to order "dinner") I've had in my life. Damn, I still dream about that. Afterwards, I wandered around and found a local pool hall that seemed lively. I joined in, grabbed a drink from a guy at the counter who offered beer, rum... and for the truly adventurous, local fire-water called guaro. I stuck with beer.
Slowly I got into things. Cool music. Cool vibe. The place was social and friendly, but totally laid back. I was the curiosity, so everyone had to play me, asking relentlessly what America was like... and what American women were like. Over drinks and I swapped stories and heard local gossip, and was told where to get the best weed--and the going rate for how much to bribe the police if I got caught.
It was... nothing, really. But it was fan-fucking-tastic.
Tired and somewhat buzzed, I stumbled back to my room, hoping to rest up to hit the beach bright and early. Even with the window, that tiny room had little air, and I settled in for a sweaty sleep on top of the sheets.
I must have drifted off for a while, but was abruptly awakened by voices. Damn. It seemed I was going to have company next door.
Somewhat to my irritation, I realized both my bed and the bed in the other room were pushed flush against the particle board partition.
Worse, I realized it was a guy and a girl, who were feeling frisky, on the other side of a particle board partition.
Worst of all, I realized they both spoke English, meaning I was going to hear everything, in exquisite detail, from a guy and a girl, who were feeling frisky, on the other side of a particle board partition.
Oh fuuuuuuck me. It was like I was in fucking bed with them.
From what I could tell, he was American and she was Australian. They had met up earlier that night, and wanted a fling. I could respect that. Hell, if I hadn't been so beat, I'd be doing the same thing. I quietly hoped they would be... efficient.
Of course they weren't. What happened over the next three FUCKING HOURS was a cat-and-mouse game of Romeo trying every trick in his arsenal to finally seal the deal with Juliet. And she kinda wanted it, and was willing to mess around, but kept freaking out at the last minute. And he'd try a different play, move the ball forward... and she'd freak out. Again. Again and again and FUCKING AGAIN. I felt like I knew way too much about what revved each of their engines. It took every bit of control to keep from yelling out, "Jesus fucking Christ... just DO it and roll over and go to sleep already!"
Finally, Romeo gave up, and I heard Juliet gather up her stuff and quietly slip away. FINALLY.
