A surfboard, motorcycle, and monkey would become my three
closest friends while I spent a month living in a tree house in Costa Rica.
Manuel Antonio was the perfect place for a 22 year old to escape after a
tumultuous breakup. The people there are
what helped me restore my faith in humanity, while the land helped me regain a
sense of direction. They locals had the kindest smiles paired with the simplest
gestures, and oh my - what an appreciation for the American dollar! On this
trip, I learned the importance of keeping a journal when a phone call to your
best friend would cost almost as much as a one night stay in a 4-star hotel. I
also learned that simple is always best. Not only because it’s the easiest, but
there is so much more time to enjoy things, rather than let them pass you by.
I would spend numerous mornings trying to catch my stride as
I walked down a loose, gravel paved, steep mountain to get to my favorite “writing”
rock. That’s where I would crack open the spine of a leather journal and take
note of all of the things I was grateful for. At that moment, those consisted
of hot wind whipping my hair, the tempo of crashing waves, sun ripened mangos,
and a pair of dusty sneakers. Other mornings I would sit on the patio of my
tree house, hiding my human food from the property manager, as he would always
shake his finger at me for feeding the animals. He may not have agreed with
this, but my monkey friend and I had an understanding. In exchange for his
scheduled belief of my innocence, I would let him eat banana muesli out of my
hand. Much like the people there – my
daily visitor embraced a simple and peaceful composure about himself.
A few hours on my surfboard with the locals and I was famished.
The blistering sun wasn’t being shy by that time, so hiding underneath the red
and yellow, beer promoting, Imperial printed umbrellas at the local grill
became a safe haven. The daily fishplate was brought to my table like clockwork.
Paired with sweaty glass bottle of Coca Cola, nothing could be more satisfying
after being tossed around in the ocean. I threw my salt soaked and sun streaked
hair into a ponytail and it was buen appetite for me. After lunch, I would jump on my motorcycle and
brave the curved roads of the mountains. Stumbling upon my next adventure was
never difficult. I found that my open days did not challenge me with boredom. I
had been so busy before this trip with work, that I was completely satisfied
finding a random mystery novel on the shelf at the local bookshop, and
hammering it out in 2-3 days.
The sunset was made up of colors from a palette that could
be called “paradise.” If you were to take the sky and pour it into a cup, you’d
end up with a tropical drink, and the sun would be a slice of lemon hanging off
the rim. Once the sun sank into the ocean,
the beach bars would fill up with loud salsa music and enough white linen to
fill up a department store. By the time I was done, I had salty sweat creeping
onto my lips and a craving for a late night snack. Back at the tree house, I
had a stash of vanilla butter crème cookies called Cremas. To the locals they
were just cookies – but to me they were gold. I’d wake up the next morning with
golden crumbs in my hair but a dip in the ocean would solve that. On my bathing suit clad journey to the beach
– I would stop by the local coffee shop for a raspberry latte followed by a
quick email update to everyone back home.
It would be too American of me to send emails while I drank my coffee.
Pura Vida meant enjoying every sip of the brewed foamy concoction without any
interruptions.
I swore to myself this would always be the place I would go
if I ever happened to stumble upon a mid life crisis. The air, the ocean, and
not to forget, the food, all brought me back to life. Four weeks later and I
was healed. The saying “Pura Vida” will always be tattooed on my heart.
Pure Life.
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