Costa Rica: It has been much better since this

The trip to Costa Rica was a disaster. It all started with only getting four hours of sleep because I had a fun night of dancing with my new friends at a club to bid farewell to Mexico. Sleepily, I gathered my last odds and ends at Silvia’s house and then a nephew took me and my friend Elena, who had the exact same flight time as me, to the airport. In addition to my two stuffed bags, I was carting a cardboard box with a beautiful handle constructed from three pieces of packing tape. I was originally going to try to mail this goody box from Texas during my layover so it would be domestic charges, but when I called the airport (thank you skype), the comatose guy dully informed me that there was no place to mail it. Time for plan B.
We left for the airport with plenty of time for traffic along the way and to find the post office and mail the package. I guess I didn’t realize just how big the airport was. Elena and I asked directions to the nearest post office and we were off, rolling bag in tow. We walk for a bazillion miles until we reach the post office. Closed. Damn! How can it be closed on a Friday morning??? I tell myself not to panic and we set off looking for another. Several consultations with stragglers we could catch led us to a mailing boutique of sorts where I placed my box on the counter, not on the scale, mind you, and asked the lady how much it would cost to mail my box to the US. She asked me what was in it, and said, without weighing it, 1200 pesos. 120 dollars. I told her I would keep looking, thank you very much. After seeming years of searching, I finally find an open post office and the sloth in a Michigan jacket running it. He tells me it will cost me $38 dollars to mail the package to the US. I ask if I can buy insurance and he assures me that it is safe. Even still, I ask, is it possible to buy insurance just in case? No. Ok. I quickly write my address down for him and he painstakingly copies it down as if it the first thing he has written in his entire life. I restrain myself from strangling him as that would just slow down the process. A decade later he motions for me to pay. I hand him my credit card and he says no, cash only. Seriously? With Elena watching my stuff I bolt from the post office to a nearby ATM and SMACK come face to face with three police officers with huge guns. They’re changing the money and I can’t use the ATM. It is a pretty common sight in Mexico, but it terrifies me every time. I sprint past bewildered travelers in search of another ATM and my heart is racing as I find one. I enter my pin, ask for money and am told that the account is invalid. I brought my credit card, not my debit card. Aaaaahhhh! I sprint back to Elena, exchange my cards, sprint back to the ATM and actually get cash. Hallelujah. The package is in the mail, and with some miracle, it will be at my parents’ home before me.
Now we’re late. We race back to the international terminal only to discover that Elena is in the correct international terminal, but I am not. Just my luck; the other international terminal that I need is a cab, train or bus ride away. I say a hurried good-bye to Elena and am fighting stressed tears as I race in the direction of the other terminal. Did I mention that I have 100 pounds of luggage? I find the train and a scrolling sign informs me that I have five minutes before the next train. I am hoping I’ll make it. I hop on the train, dash from the opening doors when we arrive and sprint towards the desks. An information guy in a wheel chair asks me if I need information and I snap that I don’t. Reflexes from walking in the street and stress; I check myself and try to be polite. He kindly informs me that continental is to the left and I race towards it. Before I get in line, I have to weigh my rolley duffle. Two pounds overweight. *&@$!!!! Could this morning get any worse? I am still trying not to cry as I unzip the straining zipper and my luggage contents vomit onto the carpet. I search for the books I had conveniently placed on the bottom and squeeze them into my already super heavy backpack. My duffle is now regulation weight. At last, I scan my passport, get my boarding pass and try to pull myself together as we are waiting to board.
The flight was fine. The lunch was interesting. Somehow my vegetarian request was switched to vegan; shouldn’t be too strange. My lunch arrives and it is a sandwich. I open it up to see what I’ll be dining upon and see broccoli, green beans and other Asian vegetables. And a piece of lettuce for good measure. I am eating cold Asian veggies, no sauce, on a bun. Who comes up with this crap? The American Cattle Association? Obviously not anyone who is planning on eating it.
I hop off the plane in Texas and almost instantly hear tapping on the glass. It is Adam, one of my two friends joining me on this leg of the adventure! He is already here and has staked us out some seats in a waiting area. I am very happy to see a friendly face, but I am whisked along the corridor towards customs. My mood is lifted by the sight of Adam and the patriotic music playing as I wait in line. Apparently it doesn’t matter that this is just a layover. I still have to fill out the customs form, go through customs, go back through security (third time my bags and person were scanned on this day) and finally end up right were I started, just on the other side of the glass. Whew. We quickly vote of some Starbucks and a pretzel and catch up for a while. We have four hours to kill before our flight to Costa Rica.
It is finally time to board and we settle in for the three hour flight. Our seats aren’t together, so I tell Adam I’ll see him in Costa Rica and crack my latest John Grisham. The hours pass quickly, I doze a bit, and before too long we’ve landed. Ashley was supposed to have landed a half an hour before us and the plan was for us to either see her at our gate or at a coffee shop. Since we’re not smothered in Ashley hugs when we walk out of the gate, I’m assuming that we’ve moved onto plan B. Adam and I walk through customs, get our passports stamped and line up to get our bags scanned. Again. Grrr. Adam hurriedly whispers that he has a banana in his bag that he didn’t claim on his customs form. I decide that it couldn’t possibly be a big deal. I was wrong. As soon as Adam’s bags go through the scanner, a stern looking lady asks Adam if he has any fruit in his bag. He divulges that he does in fact have a banana. She confiscates it. We wonder later if he would have been aloud to quickly eat it and decide probably not.
We leave customs and suddenly are struck with thick humidity. We’re outside! Tons of people are waiting with signs, taxi drivers are surrounding the tourists. Where is the coffee shop? We walk through the crowd looking for Ashley and soon realize that she isn’t there. What happened? I ask the guard blocking our reentry to the airport if he could check on her flight. It is late, she isn’t here yet. Thank goodness we haven’t missed her. Now we’re hoping that she’ll do exactly what we did and walk through customs assuming that a café will be there too. After a half hour or so of waiting, we finally see her. Ashley claimed that us calling her name was the most beautiful sound she had heard. We have hugs all around and go in search of a taxi. After some bargain hunting, we get a fare we can live with and follow the driver to his car. The interior light was blue. Interesting. We cruise through the humid night listening to American disco. He arrives at a dark alley and tells us our hostel is up the hill. I don’t believe him and don’t budge from my seat. He asks a guy on the sidewalk if it is the hostel and he points down the street. The driver was only off my 20 feet, but they made a big difference. We got buzzed in, checked in and fell onto our bunk beds. A quick email home for all of us and we fell asleep quickly.