A Promise to myself
On December 31st, 2021, I boarded a plane with a backpack and a camera. I was headed to Costa Rica.
Earlier that year I had promised myself that I would leave American soil and live abroad for (at least) the entirety of 2022. I originally called it my “Year of Art.” I dreamed of it as a year to learn, explore, incubate, and then eventually produce art. My intention was to craft an art-infused life, with the goal of actively including creation and cultivation within all aspects of my life. A small task.
As I tried to decide where to go, what to do, who to be, I had plan after plan fall through. I spent months looking for an Au Pair position abroad, but was continually shut down due to the pandemic. I had offers in Israel, Ireland, Italy, turkey, Japan, etc., but each time I attempted to move forward, the borders closed, visas were denied, and the deadline of January 1st loomed.
As December 2021 arrived, I committed to a role in the home of an Israeli family with 3 boys, bought the ticket, sold all my belongings, and prepared to fly. I humorously imagined that the atmosphere of covid had diffused. Only, then the entire country of Israel shut down due to the omicron variation.
Something you absolutely must know about me is that once I have made myself a promise, it takes extreme circumstances to convince me to break it. I had promised myself that I would spend 2022 outside of America, and there was no way, short of breaking laws, that I would remain in America and break my promise.
So naturally, I started looking at plane tickets from Portland, Oregon, to absolutely anywhere in the world. I suddenly found a roundtrip ticket to Costa Rica for a month. Two hours later and a deep dive into the maps and solo-traveling prospects of Central America, I had a ticket and a “plan.” My plan mostly consisted of two points:
Fly to Costa Rica
Be in Costa Rica.
(I am truly a meticulous person.)
Deferring my ticket to Israel, I bought a secondhand osprey backpack from craigslist for $90. Within two weeks, I had landed in San Jose, Costa Rica to spend 1 month solo-traveling “off-the-grid” and with open-expectations.
After a few sporadic hours delving into the internet’s costa rica offerings, I felt pretty confident that I would be able to survive and enjoy my month there.
I had a backpack, camera, and a laughable sense of determination.
Was I nervous? No. Was I excited? Probably.
I landed in San Jose and immediately decided to walk my way to the bus station. It wasn’t far, I thought, and besides, I don’t really want the taxi drivers to think they can rip me off. So I walked. Immediately faced with a seemingly impassable freeway intersection. I turned around, tried the other direction. Still nothing, just freeways and a screen shot of the low resolution map that I had the foresight to save on my exit from the wifi zone. And before you ask, no, I did not get a SIM card or consider purchasing a cell-phone plan. I am a traveling purist.
Wearing my favorite green dress (technically created for someone 3x my size) I loved how it flowed and flopped. Unfortunately, the wind also loved how the dress flowed and flopped and had no mercy for me or my uncovered legs. Every step I took, I was met with cars honking, embarrassment, and the complete inability to cross the freeway without exposing everything to everyone. I remained stuck beside the San Jose airport with only cars full of laughing men as my confirmation that I had arrived in a new place.
My pride was stunned as my sense of childish survival kicked in. I sauntered back, pretending that I was not wildly embarrassed, and lamely asked for a taxi ride to the bus station.
The driver didn’t speak English.
I did not know Spanish.
I also had forgotten to get cash with which to pay for the trip. Obsessed with the idea that he was trying to take more money than normal, I spent 5 minutes haggling and looking as skeptical as a soft blonde who is in over her head could look. Eventually we agreed on a price and I got in the vehicle to take my first steps as an adventurer.
The driver brought me to the bus station and dropped me there with a kind smile, knowing that I had no idea what I was doing.
Looking to those moments now, I find it odd that I was not overwhelmed or shocked by the newness of the endeavor. I had never been in a new culture alone before, I had never solo travelled before (and rarely travelled at all). In actuality, I had never done most things, yet there I stood, feeling peaceful and fully nonplussed, while looking idiotic with my large smile and even larger backpack.
Marching to the bus counter, I asked in beyond broken Spanish “Dond’estas La Fortuna” (Roughly: Where is La Fortuna?)
The teller laughed at me, before trying to explain. For what felt like an hour, we both failed: I at understanding and him at hiding his amusement. Through the smudgy thick glass, I could see him dramatically and emphatically stand up from behind his little hole of an office, swiping papers and used coffee cups to the side so he could exit the tiny door. Coming out, he hobbled his way to the main door and pointed to a wall. He signaled to me to stand there along the line of people. I somehow still didn’t understand. Finally growing impatient and annoyed at my incompetence, he called over a man who was running back and forth yelling at people and passed me off to be directed by him.
This man asked where I was going in broken English. I responded in equally broken English—and with immediate regret—that I needed to go to La Fortuna and which bus might I take to get there?
In the same manner as the previous attendant, he pointed to the wall, with the added words: stand…get on the bus…come…get on. Short, sweet, to the point. I finally understood what they had clearly told me over 3 times now.
I obeyed. At least, I tried. The first bus that came was overfilled far before it had arrived to San Jose. By the time my spot in the line came up it looked more like a fully inflated blimp with limbs hanging out and heads trying to breath from the windows. Surrounding me were mothers holding groceries and their children, old grandmas hobbling with school children, and a small group of men who were trying to show off their cars to each other by revving engines and smoking cigarettes on the hood.