Funny. You would think that taking two rights around a block would lead you back to where you came from. Yeah, real funny. It’s even more hilarious when you’ve been walking for two hours, going on three, with no idea how to get back to your Costa Rican hostel.
I’m laughing now with an ever-encouraging-vigor, right through my fake smile as we pass another intersection without street signs, trying to be the epitome of confidence as my girlfriend enthusiastically waits to hear from me: “we’re here.”
This supposed “quick walk…to get our bearings” of downtown San Jose, Costa Rica, seemed innocuous enough in this couple travel adventure, or is there another name for this... But I did one grave mistake: assumed. Assumed that I know where I’m going. Assumed that I can rely on my assumed photographic memory that recorded my last trip to Costa Rica. Assumed that overseas streets are the same like home.
Luckily it’s early in the day, and luckily I had foreshadowed an impending candy-coated lost status to Briana.
“You can’t enjoy a country without actually getting lost in it.” I, the seasoned traveler, awe-inspiringly announced.
That’s the entire fun, right? The journey of self-exploration mixed in with sufficiency and survival adaptability…
It has been about an hour and a half that we’ve been in Costa Rica. Our bags unpacked, the christening of our room well christened, and our money divided into two parts: few twenties to take with us to change and the rest hidden in [open air quote] THE BESTEST EVEREST SPOT WHERE NOBODY WOULD DARE TO LOOK [close air quote] (for some reason I think a garbage can is more secure than the hostel’s safe).
Everything was settled. Time to enjoy Costa Rica on foot.
The guy at the front desk gave us a map that resembled a paper placemat. He showed us where we were and where we wanted to go: Paseo Colon. Easy enough. The hostel is about five blocks away from it. Only thing is that when he labeled the hostel as a black scribbled dot with a line sprouting from it, reading the G— Hostel, I didn’t bother to turn my head around to get oriented with the staff’s POV of map and San Jose’s layout. I assumed he had pre-orientated the map for us.
We found out the hard way – and three hours later…
We hit up the bank fine. Found it fast because we had passed it by in taxi when we were being dropped off at the hostel from the airport.
The bank—a high-security experience. The entrance looks like a quarantine housing with a two glass sliding door partition that allows a person to enter with the push of a button. The door closes behind you and you wait behind another glass door until you are accepted in by the guard that asks you to open your bag. After admittance an employee greets you warmly, asks your purpose and hands you a number. You wait—sitting down—for your number along with the teller’s number to be displayed on the television above (10-6). We were ten, six was the number of our cheerful teller.
After the exchange, we left to be greeted with our first Costa Rican shower. It was a light, constant drizzle. I checked the map and off we went giggling under the rain off to explore San Jose.
Everything seemed familiar from my last trip. So I assumed I knew where I was going. I remember that store, and that street, and that piece of garbage on the curb. It’s all coming back to me. She’s impressed with my memory and I’m impressed with it as well.
Then we pass about forty of the same stores, and streets, and pieces of garbage on curbs that I begin to confer with the map more frequently. Though everything is still looking very familiar to me.
“Look! I think that’s the main street.” I say repetitively about every busy street I see from a distance. <<<Ssshhh, This is me in denial.
I try to be in control of the situation. Take the lead and give Briana an opportunity to experience her first trip abroad, one that I hope will be filled with wonder and excitement; plus, this trip also offers an opportunity for us to reconnect after some very big disconnecting... But the way it’s developing it hasn’t offered any of the above possibilities.
She seems calm enough. I’ve been anticipating feeling the brunt of her trademark frustration: screaming, yelling, hair pulling (mine not hers). But there wasn’t any. It seems like things can be different overseas…
“I should’ve worn my sneakers.” She says, telegraphing her pain as she grimaces. Great! I told her not to wear the sneakers, told her we won’t be going that far.
Two hours later—thanks to me—blisters are welcoming her.
The sun is coming down and I have no idea where we are. We end up at a street rotary which looks very familiar…but I gave up on my memory, shot it for treason. There are four streets connecting to it. Which ones do we take? Who knows? Where is it on the map? No clue; there’s about six rotary looking things on it. This is not a fun rotary.
“So, yeah…I don’t know where to go…but I think it’s down this way,” shut up Mike, you have no idea what you’re saying.
“Why don’t we ask someone?” Briana says calmly noticing her travel guide is fighting pride and stupidity.
“Ok. Asks those cops.”
“Me?”
“Cops like girls.”
“Fine. Give me the map.”
She’s awesome.
About a half an hour later, we find the pool the cop was talking about, took a right on it (almost taking a right at another pool), and found our way back using the paper place mat map—the street numbers, the streets that have number signs, finally match the numbers on the map.
Made it back to the hostel, exhausted and relieved.
First day travel gifts: blisters, pictures, video of us following a kid, and a new found patience for our my faults.
