My favorite place on this planet so far is unquestionably Costa Rica. I had been once in 2017 on my honeymoon, and again in 2021, less than a year before my separation. Both trips were exquisite, but they were also shared with “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named”. In April 2024 I was finally going back, and I was bringing two of my best friends with me.

For years my mom has referred to me as her “butterfly”. Maybe I was finally growing into my nickname, breaking free from my chrysalis after a long and painful transformation. I was evolving into who I was meant to be, leaving even the best pieces of my past safely behind me by creating new memories that were entirely my own.

It was an uneventful flight into Liberia and after picking up the rental car, a sporty SUV with a logo I’d never seen before, Jackie, Julie and I headed south down the Nicoya Peninsula towards the small bohemian surf village of Santa Teresa.

The landscape changed from suburbs to countryside as we drove.  About an hour into our journey, we stopped for lunch at a little roadside restaurant, all of us ordering the classic Costa Rican dish of Casado. While our food was being prepared, we wandered outside the open-air restaurant, petting the four stray dogs occupying swatches of dirt. Jackie and Julie made a game of identifying the various trees and bushes using an app on their cellphones. It was fun watching their childlike wonder, as they experienced all of the new sites, sounds and smells for the first time.

We passed a few small towns as we continued down the peninsula, only one of which had a solitary broken stoplight. As the sun set, we began our ascent up into the mountains, then worked our way down a long and windy stretch of switchbacks towards the western coast.

Costa Rica driving is not for the faint of heart. Most of the roads throughout the country are two lanes wide with steep embankments on either side, sections of them are often unpaved, and it’s not uncommon to end up three vehicles wide, around a curve with no shoulder, all while avoiding animals, potholes and pedestrians. The organized chaos of it all astounds me and as uncivilized as it appears to us outsiders, there are surprisingly few accidents.

By the time we reached the hotel, my nerves were shot. We had been stuck behind several slow-moving trucks that I had to navigate safely around, and the headlights on the rental car left a lot to be desired. I was thankful for my friends’ confidence in me that I would deliver us safely to our destination. While most certainly terrified, neither of them had uttered a complaint.

After quickly checking in, mountain-goating up the steep gravel hill to our villa and tossing our suitcases inside, we wandered next door to a chic restaurant/bar/surf shop/hotel named Somos for an adult beverage. A band was preparing to play and we were anxious to celebrate our arrival in paradise.

Santa Teresa is sexy to me in every way. The people are striking, with their sleek bodies and dark, sun-kissed complexions. Even the heavier-set women carry themselves with such graceful confidence and sex appeal that they seem to glow. Temperatures in Santa Teresa are generally between 80-90 degrees Fahrenheit during waking hours, so no one bothers to wear much clothing. There is no sense of shame or modesty here, people are comfortable in their own skin, which is a gleefully contagious feeling. The place itself is exotic, where jungle and beach intertwine in a salty embrace. A few mile stretch of bohemian cafes, hotels and surf shops line the street. Reggaeton and salsa music fill the air as motorbikes and four wheelers with surfboard racks bump their way down the dusty road.  While most of the locals are fluent in English, Spanish is heard everywhere. I have always found something rhythmic and romantic about the sound of the Spanish language.

The three of us embraced this new paradise and danced the night away in a bar full of 20-somethings, grinning from ear to ear. My body may be 42, but my heart is ageless. Wiping sweat from our foreheads, we continued past the hotel to the beach access for a night walk, following a narrow dirt road that sliced its way through the jungle, popping us out on a deserted beach. The sound of the waves crashing was thunderous. Julie stripped down to her underwear and began wading knee deep into the tumultuous water. With no light pollution and no moon, the bioluminescent algae gave the wave-break an eerie glow. I fought back the temptation to follow Julie, not wanting to squeeze sandy wet feet back into my skinny jeans. Instead, Jackie and I stood in awe, gazing up at the beautiful alien sky which was peppered with unfamiliar stars.  

We rose slowly the next morning, mild headaches and brain fog. Eventually making our way back to Somos for coffee and breakfast. The food in Costa Rica is arguably the best in the world and our fruit bowl, breakfast burrito and avocado toast each looked like something out of an episode of Anthony Bourdaine: Parts Unknown.  

Feeling rejuvenated, we loaded into the SUV and headed for Montezuma Falls. In the daylight, we were able to see the Gulf of Nicoya as we bobbed and weaved our way east, sun sparkling on the water. At the trailhead parking lot, a teenage boy approached us shouting in Spanish. I know enough Spanish to get by in most situations, but he was so angry and speaking so quickly, I couldn’t tell if he wanted us to pay (which we gladly would have) or move the car. All I knew was he was swearing at me incessantly. I tried several times to communicate but got nowhere, so after flexing a little of my own Spanish “cual es tu problema?” We loaded back up and moved approximately 20 feet to the other side of the fence. I made sure to stare the ornery brat down as we walked by him to the trailhead. He was clearly not feeling the pura vida.

The hike to the waterfall wasn’t particularly challenging, but we took our time crossing the river and following its bank, scanning the trees for birds and other wildlife. Reaching the falls, we waded into the refreshing water. I swam in my water shoes towards the falls, trying unsuccessfully to pull myself onto the rocks at the bottom and ripping off almost every single one of my acrylic nails. Giving up, I made my way to a steep embankment and climbed up the rocks, then plunged 20 or so feet down into the pool below me. I sat watching a remarkably handsome Tico easily make his way onto the rocks under the falls, then help his buddy up. Julie, who was positioned beside me, encouraged me to ask him for a hand up, but I resigned the idea that if I was going to make it up those rocks, I was going to do it on my own. Swimming back over to Jackie, the three of us admired the view, both of the majestic falls, and the extraordinarily good-looking Tico.  

On the hike back, a local man named Jason had set up shop near the trailhead and was selling coconuts. We watched as he lobbed the top off, encouraged us to take a sip, then filled the void with rum. Coconuts in-hand we made our way down to the little town of Montezuma, loitering on the beach, patronizing the eclectic and elaborate shops, then stopping for a light lunch at a beachside café.

Later that afternoon we decided to check out some tidal pools on the rockier, southern section of beach in Malpais. After almost breaking my foot trying to rock climb in flipflops, I cut my losses and decided to behave in a more civilized fashion, hobbling alongside Jackie and Julie through the pools, fascinated by the tiny fish and crabs that had found residence there.

As we hiked up the hill back to our villa, we heard clumsy movement in the trees and the unmistakable sound of howler monkeys. While docile vegetarians, howlers SOUND like a large jungle cat or some kind of scary monster. Jackie teased Julie not to get too close, hence they eat her face off. Her look of genuine fear had us laughing until our stomachs hurt.

Giving up on the monkeys, we headed down to the beach for a hazy sunset, watching the surfers dance gracefully in the waves to a song only they could hear.

Given how high-energy Somos had been the night before, we were excited for another wild night of music and dancing.  A random, solo stranger from New York City shared his table with us and we made small talk as we watched a sweet, smiling young couple who looked more like brother and sister than lovers play folk music.

Much to our surprise, the music wound down early and things began closing up. While tempted to venture further into town, we were exhausted and decided to retire for the evening. Thursday night had been lit, but apparently Friday was much more mellow in this funny little beach town.

The coffee maker in our room wasn’t working properly, so morning trips to Somos were a must. While there, I signed up for an afternoon surf lesson, then we drove to The Bakery for another delicious breakfast. As we ate, we began discussing tattoos and diligently researching design ideas. Realizing there was a 5-star tattoo shop right above our beloved Somos, we returned to book an appointment for later that evening. With a couple of hours left until my surf lesson, we wandered back downstairs to order drinks and enjoy another local band. Sipping my mimosa, I couldn’t help but notice the exotic looking, and absolutely gorgeous percussionist. What is it with my attraction to tattooed musicians?

I hadn’t so much as flirted in ages and the thought terrified me. My last fleeting love affair, more than a year prior, was with someone I had considered a long-time friend. That incident had left me with something more akin to a chupacabra in my stomach than butterflies. While visiting him, he had a manic episode and began ranting about how worthless I was in every single way. Taking its toll on my human heart, I had quietly and tearfully packed my belongings, then downed three Red Bull as I drove eight hours home through the night.

Prior to that disastrous encounter, I had spent ten years in an emotionally, verbally and financially abusive relationship with a narcissistic alcoholic. I will spare you the gory details, but to say my marriage ended badly is like calling WW2 a minor scuffle. For more than two years, I had endured relentless stalking and harassment, having been denied a restraining order twice. Just prior to this trip I had busted him fraudulently charging $3,000 on a credit card I thought I had canceled. He was an octopus to the face that would not let go. A bad case of herpes.  

Sometimes I long for true companionship, but it’s difficult to miss what I never really had. As a result of my poor decisions and horrific taste in men, I have absolutely no idea how to flirt and do my best to avoid it at all costs. I’m like an awkward child, stupefied and clumsy. My friends, however, were not letting me leave without introducing myself to this percussionist and they grew louder in their insistence that I go talk to him.

“Don’t make it weird!” I begged but realized it was futile. They were going to get his attention for me, if I didn’t do it myself.

I sighed deeply, stood up, and made my way to the stage as the band began packing up their equipment. “Ummm, great job. Do you guys have an Instagram account?” I asked the bassist, purposely NOT addressing the one I was secretly crushing on. They did not, however the bassist took my phone and eagerly found each of their personal accounts for me. I thanked him and made my way back to my friends who cheered me on.

As I stood outside, the percussionist made his way out with the last of his equipment, loading it into a vehicle. He smiled at me and I felt my throat close up. Why am I so fucking awkward???

“We’re playing tonight at Kooks” he said, “If you want to come”. I nodded, told him I’d talk to my friends and perhaps we’d see him there after our tattoo appointment. With that, I made my way back to the table, finished my mimosa and then eagerly marched to the surf shop to meet my instructor. It was almost 3pm and time for my surf lesson.

Alan, a long-haired Tico surfer and my instructor, was incredibly patient and kind. We spent the first 20 minutes or so discussing technique, stance, positions and timing. I tried to absorb everything he was saying but even on the sand, I knew my popup didn’t look right. I was definitely not mastering his cobra and chicken leg technique.

Wading out into the surf, he showed me how to navigate the waves. I was going to be surfing the whitewater but even in the shallows, the waves were vicious, and the current was incredibly strong. For more than an hour he coached me. I caught at least seven or eight waves, but riding the slower surf put me off balance and I had the bad habit of turning my arms into windmills rather than lowering my center of gravity and adjusting my weight. Each time I made my way back out to Alan, battling the current, he would gently correct me and tell me to get back on the board. I was growing incredibly tired but there was no way in hell I was giving up. I would rather drown than concede.

Nearing the end of my lesson, I caught one solid ride, feeling myself move with the wave, shifting my weight appropriately to turn to the right. It was one of the most exhilarating feelings I’d had in as long as I can remember. Grinning ear to ear I hopped off the board and heard cheering, Jackie, Julie and a small cluster of strangers were proudly celebrating my success. When I looked back out into the surf, Alan had his hands in the air, celebrating with us.

I followed Alan back to his truck, passing a makeshift bar at the beach offering pina coladas served inside of pineapples. Alan told his buddy, who apparently owned the joint, to make me one while he quickly rinsed with a portable shower behind his truck, then chopped the top off a coconut, offering it to me. I handed him his borrowed rash guard, gratefully accepted the tasty beverage, then made my way back to the hotel room, a coconut in one hand and a pineapple in the other.

Returning to the room, both of my dear friends were quick to begin lecturing me. They had talked at the beach during my lesson and decided that whatever happened later that night at Kooks, I was NOT to go home with the adorable percussionist and if I needed “privacy”, they would sleep on the balcony or in the hammock. I burst out laughing. I didn’t even recall the guy’s name, and they were trying to pimp me out! I assured them that while their concern was appreciated, I would damn well do what I please. All that said, I had no intention of going home with anyone but them.

At the tattoo shop, my buddy Stephen with the pink hair who had eagerly scheduled our appointments earlier that day, greeted us. He was clearly the apprentice and would be doing my tattoo. The presumed shop owner with 24 years of experience would be doing the other two. Stephen was meticulous in his preparation and positioning of my tattoo. At one point, part of the pattern he had so carefully transferred onto my arm washed off and had to be redone. After about seven attempts to get it perfectly straight, I could tell he was getting nervous, waiting for me to say something snarky. I looked him in the eyes and thanked him for caring so much and taking the time to ensure it was done correctly. He perked up immediately and got back to work. Jackie and Julie’s tattoos were both finished in the time it took for Stephen to complete mine, but I relished every moment of it. We listened to reggae, shared our favorite artists and I am completely in love with my tattoo. Stephen beamed as he took pictures for his portfolio.

Back at the room, the three of us joyfully compared tattoos; Jackie’s hummingbird, Julie’s music note and my nautical compass, then quickly freshened up and began the long walk to Kooks. After several imbibements, I had decided that walking was the most responsible way to get there, however I had clearly misjudged the distance.

About 30 minutes later, three sweaty women meandered into the bar as the band played their last few songs. We enjoyed the music, ordering drinks and dinner. When it was time for round two, the band had wrapped up and was sitting at a table near the bar. I ordered them a round of Imperials (Costa Rican beer) along with our own, asking the waitress to discretely deliver the four cervezas to their table.

Jackie and I stood outside as several band members walked by and began loading their equipment. They graciously thanked me for the beers; clearly the waitress had not been shy about sharing who had bought them. The percussionist made his way over to me and we awkwardly chatted. It had been a long time since I had spoken Spanish, a language I had once studied but was decades out of practice. I desperately reached for the right words to ask him about himself and his family, all the while he responded in flawless English. We embraced, wishing each other good night and with the mutual hope that we’d see one another again.

The next morning was checkout day, and we had a six-hour drive to La Fortuna. We rose with the sun, desperate for coffee, so I walked to Somos for three final cups of our beloved bean-juice. Pulling the SUV to the top of the hill, we loaded our suitcases then stood for a moment, whispering our final goodbyes to Santa Teresa and the little stray cat that I had informally adopted during our time there.

Beach jungle gave way to small town, then to city. We stopped at a coffee shop just outside of Liberia, sleepy from the drive and in need of caffeine. Miner, the gentleman who owned the place, was a gracious host who smiled broadly as he made our lattes. He told us about a book he was writing on his theory of Costa Rican history as it relates to the world, noting that Costa Rica is the navel of civilization and archaeological evidence links his country to both ancient Egypt and the Norseman. We discussed philosophy, religion, spirituality, and the state of the world, while each choosing a unique trinket from the gift shop to bring home. Miner’s lovely wife snapped a photo of us, and we exchanged contact information, promising to buy his book once it was released.

City turned to rolling fields, wind farms and eventually rainforest. We stopped again at the Macadamia Café for lunch, enjoying another epic meal, basil lemonade and an unmatched view of Lake Arenal. Back en route, I had to hit the brakes hard as a line of cars abruptly stopped to engage a band of coatimundi meandering alongside the road. After snapping photos with the rest of the tourists, we continued down steep switchbacks into the heart of the rainforest.

Prior to this trip, Jackie and Julie had only ever met one time. Each of them a precious, exemplary human with a heart of pure gold. I knew that once they spent time together, they would become lifelong friends, but watching it actually happen made my heart so full that I felt it might burst. In three short days our trio had found pure comfort and peace with each other, we were perfectly in sync. After sharing one large room for three days, we were almost sad checking into our new villa with three separate bedrooms.

After picking up groceries at the Super Christian, we spent the evening in our glorious hot tub, nestled among the clouds. We laughed. We cried. We embraced the very essence of our femininity and formed a bond that I simply don’t have words to explain. We shared our hearts and souls with each other that evening, laughing until our bellies hurt, sharing our deepest fears, and tucking ourselves in, puffy eyed from crying.

Rain beat down throughout the night, the sound soothing and peaceful. I had reached out to two friends I had made previously in La Fortuna, Danilo and Arley, and we decided to brave the weather and go to The Springs Resort where they worked. We wandered trails, basked in the glorious springs, rode inner tubes down class one rapids, and gleefully hugged my beloved Tico friends. Danilo was our river guide, and Arley was our tour guide at the ecological park. I wanted to invite them to hang out with us but was beyond thrilled to find out that each of them was expecting a little one within the next few months and had a family to go home to.

After picking up more wine at the Super Christian, we went back to the villa, exhausted. Julie had painful bug bites on her behind and went to bed early. Jackie and I sat outside, listening to wild birds sing their evening love songs.

That evening, as I sat with Jackie on the back deck, a deluge of emotion overtook me. For the past two years I had been actively convincing myself and everyone around me that I was ok; that I had not sustained trauma from my abusive marriage, horrific divorce, or post-divorce love affair. As far as everyone knew. I was happy and thriving and free. That rainy night in Costa Rica, I finally admitted to myself and my friend how badly I had been wounded in ways that I had never allowed to heal, and how much I blamed myself for letting it all happen. I cried my heart out in my friend’s arms. All the while, realizing the upcoming anniversary of her husband’s (and my dear friend’s) death was just around the corner. I felt guilty for being sad. Guilty because my problems were so minor, comparatively speaking, and also because my problems were self-inflicted. There sat my beautiful, strong, vibrant, and magnificent friend, telling ME everything was going to be ok when SHE was experiencing something much more tragic. She patiently soothed me as I wiped snot from my face, and in the end, I think that evening was a turning point for me. I imagine we can only truly heal from what we are honest enough with ourselves to acknowledge, and I was finally awake and ready to face it.

I am not sure what time we went to bed or how much I drank, but after a restless sleep I awoke puffy-eyed and exhausted.

After a few hours of lingering in the villa due to the incessant rain, we decided to brave the elements and drive to the La Fortuna Waterfall. During a brief lull in the weather, we made our way down 500 steps to the magnificent, powerful and glorious falls. As we stood in wonder, the rain began again. It came down in torrents and we quickly tucked our phones and valuables into safe places, laughing at our fortune and beginning the hike back to the top.

Wet to the core, we piled into the SUV and drove into the little town of La Fortuna for lunch, committed to making the most of our final day.

As we sat sipping frosty beverages and enjoying lunch at the Lava Lounge, I announced that I was undoubtedly going to cry (again) when we left the next day. I had cried more in the last six days than the entirety of the past year. This place was making me emotional! Jackie looked up at me, noting that she didn’t technically need to leave, and she really didn’t want to be home on the anniversary of Rickey’s passing. Julie had family in town and had to go back, but it took approximately 30 seconds for Jackie and me to conclude that we were staying.

“Do you want to stay in the rainforest, or go back to the beach?” I asked.

“Beach” she answered immediately.

“Do you want to go somewhere new, or go back to where we were?”

“Let’s go back to the place we know”

It was settled. I cancelled our flight, rebooked us for Saturday, made a reservation at the same hotel we had just left in Santa Teresa and extended our rental car for an additional three days.

With unyielding rain and no sign of stopping, we headed back to the villa to enjoy our hot tub one last time. After a group meditation, then an hour of struggling with the wifi, Amazon Prime, and paying for the same movie twice, we all fell asleep twenty minutes into watching The Secret of NIMH.  

The next morning, as we made our final rounds through the house, Julie and I discovered the incredible acoustics in the dining room and sang Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds in harmony before departing. At the Liberia airport, our trio locked in an embrace like we’d never see one another again. In the past six days, we had become one. We had a flow, a rhythm, an unspoken energy. We knew what each other was thinking. We had cried together. Laughed until our insides hurt. Shared experiences we couldn’t put into words. While Jackie and I were happy to stay, it felt like we were losing a piece of ourselves as we waved goodbye and drove off, leaving Julie to fly home to her family.

Given I was pretty much a seasoned professional in Costa Rican driving at this point, I easily navigated the windy roads back to Santa Teresa. Upon arrival, I received a series of text messages about tornadoes and hail hitting my home in Florida. I anxiously called my son, who of course didn’t answer, then called my friend and neighbor. After confirming my loved ones were safe, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The percussionist had been messaging with me and we had agreed to meet at the hotel pool that afternoon. I sat, soaking up the sun, hearing his shoes crunching over gravel as he made his way up our mountain goat trail. I waved him over and said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t do or say anything stupid. We talked for two hours about family, friends, work, life, travel, goals, etc. The more I learned about him, the more I smiled inside. When he told me that he had backpacked across his country from coast to coast, I beamed. He was like me!  An adventurer!

Much to my disappointment, he told me that he had to play that night unexpectedly and needed to get going. I stood and we embraced in one of the most soulful and intimate hugs I think I’ve ever had from a man. We held on, almost to the point of being awkward. A new Spanish term I had recently learned from Julie is Apapachar. While I believe the word is used in Mexico, not necessarily Costa Rica, Apapachar loosely means “to hug someone with your soul”, and that’s precisely what this felt like. He was playing at Kooks again that night, so Jackie and I decided to listen. After his set, I saw him briefly, gathering his gear, then he disappeared and I never saw him again. We exchanged a few messages online, but I either grossly misread the perceived connection, or perhaps sometimes we meet people for a fleeting moment, and that’s all it’s ever meant to be. Whatever the case, I’m learning to appreciate and accept small gifts for what they are, even if they can’t last. (I will add that I’m going to feel like a complete dumbass if he ends up reading this).

Researching must-see places in the area, I had read about Catarata El Chorro, rumored to be one of only seven waterfalls in the world that plumet directly into the ocean. Jackie and I spent the next day exploring the falls and beach. Even though we were on the bay side of the Nicoya Peninsula, the waves beat at the shore with ferocious intensity. We explored caves along the rock wall and encountered a capuchin monkey on our way back to the car. Parking was limited at the trailhead to the falls, and we had pulled up alongside some bricks and what looked like garbage from the local hotel. Upon our return, I saw that a motorbike had parked directly behind me, completely blocking me in. Knowing it could be hours until the owner returned, I shrugged and began muscling the bike out of my way. It was heavier than I anticipated, and I almost dropped it on its side, but recovered and was able to scoot it back about 20 feet beside a tree, out of the road but allowing me to exit. We then headed back to Montezuma, wandering thought the shops, buying our final trinkets and souvenirs.

Santi and Manu, the same duo who had played at Somos our first evening in Costa Rica, were playing again that night. Once again surrounded by beautiful, sweaty twenty-somethings, we danced like no one was watching.

Our final day in Costa Rica fell on the one-year anniversary of Jackie’s husband’s passing and there was a somber feeling among us. We agreed to spend the day low-key enjoying the beach and pool, not wandering far from our villa. We were also incredibly dehydrated and in need of fresh juice and energy shots, which were thankfully in abundance. I had hoped to rent a surfboard, but by the time I was feeling better, the conditions were sloppy. The surf improved dramatically at sunset, but by then all of the rental boards had been packed up for the day. We contently enjoyed pina coladas that we shared with thirsty honeybees, and breathed in the last moments of our vacation.

Every evening in Santa Teresa, tourists and Ticos alike gather at the beach for surfing and the sunset. It’s like an alternate reality from my own tribe at home and our nightly sunset migration. The smell of Marijuana was thick in the air, mingling with the salty breeze. The cicadas hummed in a strang yet comforting rhythm, alongside the sound of four wheelers and motor bikes. A man walked the beach selling homemade banana bread for anyone who had the munchies, and we felt an overwhelming sense of peace and exhaustion.

We sleepily dined at an Italian restaurant that night, going into a carb coma so quickly that we barely made it back to the room.  As we mentally and emotionally prepared for our departure back to the real world, there was a sense of sadness hanging over us, but also a deep sense of gratitude. I knew that adjusting back to “normal” was going to be both abrupt and difficult, but I promised myself I would be back as soon as humanly possible.

Costa Rica makes you believe in magic.  There’s a euphoric sense of comfortable bliss that washes over you…. something that has to be experienced to be understood. It gets inside of your soul and makes you be honest with yourself in a way that can only be described as deeply therapeutic.

With this savage, wild heart that longs for adventure and freedom, I have had to learn to juggle my intense need for travel while keeping one foot firmly planted in the professional, domesticated world.  At times, I envision myself with war paint and a spear, naked on a deserted island. For now though, I had to go back to my little townhouse in Florida and start a new job, so I could afford to visit this sacred place again very soon.

Goodbye for now, Costa Rica. Forever Pura Vida.