This is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to a friend who asked me for information about visiting CR, as she’s traveling there herself this weekend. I figured I might as well put my two cents out on the interwebs as well, in case anyone is googling for advice. I know I was before our trip, and I had a hard time finding sources that weren’t advertisements. Keep in mind these suggestions are only relative to travels during the rainy or “green” season (May to October).

Her request:

Hi LiLu,

I wanted to touch base with you and ask for some advice about Costa Rica!

I am headed down on a totally last minute crazy trip this Saturday morning. It’s a really quick trip, but I am meeting up with people in San Jose and we want to go to the beach (obvi). Do you have any suggestions of beaches that are a few hours from San Jose – close and easy? We don’t need any surfing-specific areas… just pretty beaches with fun bars!

Any ideas???

Super Lovable and Darling Friend

And my response:

Dear Super Lovable and Darling Friend,

I would advise you to spend as little time as possible in San Jose- perhaps you’ll like it better as you’ll be with friends, but I found it to be an absolute hell hole of a city (and I LOVE cities). Unfortunately, the beaches closest to San Jose on the Pacific Coast won’t be worth your time. It’s the rainy season right now, and they’re basically submerged in water- there’s been hurricanes and landslides, and people are flooded out of their homes. You’ll be much better off driving (or, preferably, taking a bus- there are NO street signs anywhere in the country and navigation is quite difficult, and rental cars are expensive) the four hours to Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, on the southeast (Caribbean) coast. I promise you will not be sorry that you did. The beaches there are gorgeous, and the also-lovely beaches of Cahuita (25 minute drive north) and Manzanillo (30 minute drive south) are breathtaking, sunny, and full of activities. Cahuita and Manzanillo have the best snorkeling of the whole country, and don’t miss Maxi’s restaurant (you can’t, as it’s the only one) in Manzanillo. Both towns are very small, though, so you’ll want to post up in Puerto Viejo. Lots of great bars and restaurants there- get the snapper, it’s local. We stayed at Cabinas Casa Verde for $48/night (if paid in cash, off-season price)- the hotel was clean, comfortable and absolutely gorgeous.

The brand-new rock formation pool didn’t hurt either, and the whole hotel is lanscaped so that you feel as if you are living in a jungle- you won’t find better accommodations for the price.

Also, you DEFINITELY want to buy a map before you head down. My Lonely Planet (which was also very helpful to have along on the trip) told me to do this, which I read as I was desperately trying to navigate us from city to city with the pitiful map we were given at the car rental place. When we tried to buy a better one, we were informed by the Tourist Info lady that it was one of the best available in the country. But you can order a much better one ahead of time, if you get it before you go.

Hope this helps!

LiLu

Mama said share.

It really, really, REALLY is great to be home. Unfortunately, I don’t even know where to begin… so I suppose, in a somewhat unpredictable stroke of logic, that I’ll begin at the beginning.

Last Friday morning, we flew into the airport just outside of San Jose, and like two idiots, planned to spend the night there and experience the nation’s capital city before getting an early start the following morning. BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG mistake. If you ever go to Costa Rica, head straight to your next destination from the airport, no matter how tired you are. Especially if you’re tired. Nothing will drain you like San Jose. TRUST.

Here’s what it looked like driving in:

San Jose is a living nightmare of a city, multiplied by 4000 times if you’re a tourist. Multiplied by 19000 times if you’re a tourist in a rental car. I have no words for how dreadful our time spent in this city was. If you’ve ever been to the dust bowl that is Mexico City, imagine that. (Everyone else, imagine Adams Morgan, only everyone hates you and you’re covered with an inch-thick coating of grime, cigarette smoke and pollution. To breathe is more painful than to not.) Everything is a clusterfuck of cars, trucks, scooters, and pedestrians, and everyone has the right of way. Now imagine all the roads and sidewalks are 1/4 of “normal” size. Now imagine that within your first 10 minutes in the city you see this, urinating and/or masturbating, on the side of a building, for the entire time that he is within your sights:

Yes, that is a Santa Claus hat. No, I have no explanation for it, seeing as it was 75 degrees and sunny. This was, however, a different bum from the one we encountered a few moments later, who asked us for some spare change. Because I hate coinage, knew that the colones in my pocket were worth fractions of pennies, and wanted to feel cultural and interact with the locals, am a very generous human being, I gave him the small handful of the silver coins weighing down my clutch.

Without even looking, his closed fist felt the weight of each and every coin, discerned its value in less than a second, and inexplicably, without even looking in his palm, he spit a U.S. $0.25 back in my face and walked away. Stunned, we looked at each other, trying to be offended… but mostly we were just really, really impressed. I mean, you can’t argue with that kind of skill. The man was clearly much better at his job than I am at mine.

If you read the comments prior to our departure, we planned to head north to the hot springs of the Volcan Arenal, (please forgive the lack of Spanish punctuation; frankly, my dear, I don’t have the energy); followed by a day in the cloud forests of Monteverde, and then on to the Pacific Coast. SOMEHOW, mostly through an inconceivably unknowingly very, very stupidly) venture headfirst into the worst of it.

By the grace of el bebe jesus christo, we stopped at a Tourist Info booth in San Jose and asked for directions to Arenal. The very sweet lady (the first truly kind- to us- person we had met in Costa Rica) laughed at us, showed us the many, many newspapers documenting the devastation that was the western half of the country, and told us to head for the Caribbean coast immediately. The mountain range dividing Costa Rica prevents the horrific weather of the rainy season from reaching the eastern coast, and as she put it, the beaches there were “Sunny, sunny, sunny.” Please imagine this phrase with a magical and lyrical incantation to it, as we spent the subsequent drive chanting it to each other as we watched the car’s external thermometer rise to a balmy 30 degrees celsius on our way to the unbelievably glorious beaches of South Caribbean Coast Rica.

Our drive looked something like this: (I tried to capture the weaving in and out on one-lane roads as trucks barreled around the corner towards us, but it is

impossible to do with a Canon Powershot 300)…

Here is the moment when we came around yet another inconceivably sharp bend and thought we would collide with a broken-down banana truck:

We drove through the mountains to Cahuita (below), a one-”road” town on the Caribbean coast, where the largest living coral reef in Costa Rica is located. There were about 20 buildings total, half of them hotels, the other half bars and restaurants. We met a certifiably crazy yet remarkably endearing Vietnam vet named Wallace Price, which is an amazing story in and of itself, and which I think B can do more justice to than I.

In Cahuita, the beach meets the rain forest, which is protected as one of the country’s many national parks.

We saw monkeys. We saw sloths. We saw lizards and crabs and birds. We met an wonderful couple from Vermont, who we spent days in Manzanilla and Puerto Viejo with. We met them like this, as we walked down a path and came upon them staring unblinkingly up at a palm tree:

Branson: “Hey, have you ever seen a sloth??”

Me and B: “NO…?!?!?”

Emily: “You wanna??”

Ummm… duh?

The next four days were a blur of sun, beer, and bodysurfing. I tasted the most wonderful food I’ve ever had in my life, (mostly B’s, since he out-ordered me on EVERY single meal,) and saw the most gorgeous landscapes I’ve ever laid eyes on. It was disgustingly romantic, incredibly FUN, and worth every goddamn penny we spent.

More to come…

Mama said share.

Really, guys? REALLY? Three tags?

You must be really pissed that I’m in Costa Rica and you’re not. Understandable.

Love you. Miss you. Time is going by so slowly… money, unfortunately, is not.

B and I are keeping a notebook of stories…

See you all soon…

Mama said share.

I mean, I love you all. I really do. But…

palm trees.

monkeys.

rain forest.

with the man of my dreams.

NOT WORKING FOR 10 DAYS.

You’re on your own, hookers. (I’m a little ferklempt. Talk amongst yourselves.)

See ya on the 27th!

P.S. This was part of my birthday present.

Best. Boyfriend. EVER.

Mama said share.

Friday afternoons are lovely. Summer Friday afternoons are even lovelier.

Add a patio, 7(-ish?) buckets o’ beer, some fantastic (and comedic) company, and you’ve got yourself a helluva evening.

Among the topics discussed: walking in on other people fornicating (umm… like my grandparents… don’t ask), taking nude pictures and the possible consequences, our fantastic waiter (who was not only adept at service, but story telling as well)…

And one little nugget in particular that I didn’t remember until Shannon reminded me of it: Apparently, a couple of weeks ago at the R&R Hotel on the H Street corridor, I was tired. This part I remember; the night before had been my last night working at Bar Screwie, which meant I was there til at least 3am. We (the bartenders of my bar and the surrounding venues) also went to the sketchy 24-hour Chinese food place next door to celebrate the birthday of one of our coworkers (yes, at 3am), which meant I got, oh, maybe 2 1/2 hours of sleep that night. Fast forward to the next day, and I was relatively useless. I powered through on a 3rd and 4th wave of adrenaline, and finally around 11 had to pack it in. Allegedly, I turned to Shannon and said:

Livitluvit: “I’m so sorry but I have to go home.”

Shannon: “Are you sure? Are you okay?”

Livitluvit: “Yes… for now… but I have to be sober enough to put out tonight, and I think I’m walking the line.”

When the table finally stopped laughing at her account of the exchange, all I could muster was, “Well, it does sound like something I’d say.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday was spent chasing down the most gorgeous leather couch we’d ever seen. A hipster living next to the 930 club (OF COURSE) was selling it on Craigslist. I wish the original ad was still posted, but it ran something along the lines of, “I need to sell my sofa- I think it’s leather, but I don’t know how to find out for sure. My parents gave it to me. Best offer.”

It looked absolutely beautiful in the picture, so we hustled our very hungover buns over there (um, did I mention we’d been drinking mimosas/very strong bloody marys/drifting off into nap land all day?)

It was most DEFINITELY leather, lovely, heavy, espresso/chocolate brown leather. Probably a $2,000 couch, at least when first purchased, and it was in perfect condition. I guess hipsters whose parents buy their furniture don’t have much of a concept when it comes to the value of said items, because we somehow convinced him to sell it to us for less than $400. SCORE!

I will say that he was unbelievably nice, and totally honored the whole “first person to respond who can pick up said item within a reasonable amount of time” unspoken law of Craigslist. He even helped us carry it down to the truck, because while I have abnormally strong legs, my forearms are kinda like this… (If you haven’t seen Meet the Robinsons, I highly recommend it. You might want to drop acid first, though. Or at least smoke a bowl. But it was a very entertaining hour and a half.)

So, although a bit clueless, Hipster McNice was fantastic, despite his very, very skinny jeans, and he shall be at the Housewarming. Just look for the feathered mohawk.

Saturday night was spent celebrating the new couch, the new place, and our new neighbors, Fellow Masshole and the Chocolate Monster, at my new local Irish pub. (That I always frequented anyway. Now it’s just dangerously close…) “We can stay for one” of course turned into, “What the hell was in that shot, and we’ll just take the bottle of wine, kthxbai.” So, yes, B and I had hair of the dog…. for hair of the dog. Cause that’s how we do.

Fortunately, it was an early night. Unfortunately, the reason that was fortunate was because Sunday was spent MOVING…………

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8:09 a.m… For some ungodly reason (most likely because I passed out with pepperoni pizza on my face at 11pm) I wake up. I promptly wake B up, too (why suffer alone?) and we decide that since we have to get a truck anyway to pick up the couch, we might as well move as much of his apartment as we can as well. Hell, why don’t we make a whole day of it and go to IKEA? (This is the point in time when it would have been really great if one of us had twisted an ankle or something, thus ensuing that the day ahead could not happen. Next time, B, I’ll be sure to take a dive- it’s easy enough with 4 inch heels on.)

10:31 a.m… B and I enter the U-Haul (THIS ONE, read the reviews… they do it justice). There are 6 people in line. They look agitated. We, like two very very stupid happy little bunnies, jump in line giggling and high on coffee. Future Us from an hour later would have shot 10:30 Us on sight.

10:51 a.m… The same 6 people are still in front of us. The line has not budged. Five more have come in and warily joined the line behind us. We start making fun of the establishment/everything around us for entertainment. The people in line are mostly really cool and we are all of one mind, having fun with the horrific situation at hand and joking with each other. For now.

10:57 a.m… Still, not one person from the line has made it to the counter. B and I take bets on what time we’ll actually be helped. He says 11:30. I say 11:53. We are not joking, but still determined to keep up a positive demeanor. A girl in line sees a folding chair in the corner, and strides over, picks it up, brings it back to line, sets it down and sits in it decisively, arms folded. We marvel at her moxie and are simultaneously jealous that we did not think of this ourselves. My lower back (thank you, ten years of working on my feet in restaurants) is killing me from standing and we haven’t even started moving yet.

11:02 a.m… The guy who was at the counter when we first came in is still there, and getting into an argument with the (admittedly, inCREDibly speshul) people behind the counter. The manager, a 4’1″ Southeast DC-style black leprechaun in a wifebeater, gets in his face and makes it clear that frustration will get us nowhere. B and I resolve to sit back and enjoy the ride.

11:17 a.m… The girl behinds us returns to her boyfriend with coffee and a newspaper. Everyone in line (it’s up to about 18 at this point) descends upon her like hungry jackals. She passes out sections to all of us, and we kiss her feet.

11:30 a.m… Still trying to keep up a brave face, I joke with B about how I’m going to win our bet, but our patience is clearly waning rapidly. The line is now up to 22 people.

11:43 a.m… Some douchenozzle cuts the line by pretending he is only buying some boxes and packing tape. It gets very quiet as the 20 person+ line realizes what is happening. At this point, we have two more people in front of us, and have been waiting for over an hour. The air smells of mutiny and bloodshed.

11:51 a.m… It is now clear that douchenozzle is, in fact, renting a truck. I am foaming at the mout

h and B tries desperately to hold me back. I beg him to let me say something, and he begs me to refrain so we can get the hell out of there and not anger the Leprechaun Manager. I silently will the douchenozzle to turn around and take in the power of the snarl I am wearing. He knows he has done wrong and refuses to make eye contact with any of the patrons in line, much to my chagrin.

11:55 a.m… We are called up to the counter by Curtis, the “employee” who has made it clear he is the most speshul of the bunch. (It is taking him approximately 33 minutes per customer, whereas we saw a different employee get someone out in 19.) He apparently is sick and spend 40% of his time with us snuffling into a dust rag, 40% of it not doing anything at all, and 19% of it asking Leprechaun Manager questions about normal procedure stuff, at which point Leprechaun Manager launches into a condescending tutorial about protocol, instead of just handling whatever the issue is. Curtis spends approximately 1% of the time we are at the counter with him actually helping us with anything.

12:16 a.m… We actually have the key in hand and walk out to our Uhaul.

Bear in mind, friends, that WE STILL HAVE TO ACTUALLY MOVE.

Fuck you, Uhaul. I know we’re cheap bastards for even using you and all, but seriously…

Fuck. You.

Mama said share.

Please excuse the break in posting, as I’m home in Boston for the week…

With the boy.

Meeting the parents.

Yikes.

Ah well, at least there’s Fenway tomorrow night! I’ll wave…

See y’all next week!

Mama said share.

Holy schnikes…

I just booked a flight to Costa Rica. For a week and a half. The day after my 25th birthday (and the huge, requisite blow-out party that will come with).

Boo yah.

I’ve wanted to go to Costa Rica forEVA eva. Other than Mexico, I’ve never been to Latin America. I think this may make up for the fact that I’vee been slacking this summer on my plan to go somewhere I’ve never been before every month this year.

In fact, I’m sure it does. Because I made up the rules, remember? I win.

Life is good, people. And bee tee dubs, if you’re thinking, wow that sounds great! Maybe I should get off my bum and have some adventurific fun, IntraTour seems to be the way to go for cheap airfare. (Now that I’ve given them free advertising, let’s hope they don’t screw me over somehow.)

Have you noticed how there haven’t been any shoes up here lately? Yeah, that’s because I refuse to look at any. I’ve been deleting every shopping-related email that comes to my inbox with nary a glance, and I’m trying to figure out a way to block myself from being able to see Zappos.

I suppose I’m just realizing that some things are more important. (Ewwwww….) But if it means that I can go to a tropical paradise and a country I’ve never been to before, with the man I love, for 10 days?

I think mama’s got enough shoes for the moment.

Mama said share.

I had a kickass Saint Paddy’s Day this year. Being Scotch-Irish, it’s always one of my favorite holidays- who doesn’t love an excuse to throw back glass of chocolate milk (AKA Irish Carbombs) and sing “Too La Loo Ra Loo Ra…” with a bunch of sweaty, drunk-off-their-arse strangers? Oh, that’s right, everyone. Just checking.

Being from outside of Boston, that’s pretty much where I spent every St Paddy’s day… ever. I spent two in Key West in college (I highly recommend it if you can ever make it,) and this year, I wanted to do something different. I remembered during Spring Break one year when I was in Key West, a group of my girlfriends who were there literally packed up in the middle of the week, got in their van, and drove to Savannah, GA, just because they were supposed to have such a kickass St. Paddy’s Day.

(“Savannah?” you’re thinking… “Seriously? As in, the deep south?”)

Apparently, they know how to do it down there, Irish Catholic or not. (Mostly not.) It is a truly amazing celebration. Whether you’re on River St. (alongside the Savannah River) or literally down on the river bank (lined with bars, live music, bbq, and pretty much any kind of fun you could ever want), it was a whole different ballgame compared to Boston. I love my people, (I really do), but we aren’t, um, the most friendly people in the world. Down in Savannah, it was like I’d come home. Beers were shared, smiles were exchanged, dances were had with strangers. “Excuse mes” and “Hi, how are yous” are commonplace. Doors are held for others, and “where y’all from?” is expected if in a five-foot vicinity of another group of people.

Yes, I may be generalizing a bit, and I’m sure I was much more aware of my surroundings, considering my oh-so-different Yankee upbringing. But it was so… nice. My Bostonian bff, Carpet ‘n Drapes, who had joined me for the trip (and, interestingly, had spent 4 years living in Atlanta) looked at me about 3 hours into the celebration and said, “So, we’re doing this every year, yes?” Oh, definitely yes.

Could I live in the deep south? No, I really don’t think I could. North Carolina (for four years) was enough of a taste for me. While I wouldn’t trade those times and friends for anything, it just isn’t me. I am grateful for the traits that I decided to embrace as a product of my southern-exposure, but I just can’t handle the slower pace of life. And, you know, that whole racism thing. But I do love a taste every now and then (and I don’t just mean the biscuits)… I believe I will return to Savannah for many St. Paddy’s Days to come.

Mama said share.

I work at a lucrative private firm downtown. (Well, relatively small- internationally we’re one of the biggest in the world, but my branch is small.) After a year of observation, I think I can safely conclude that what these guys do is… well… not really difficult. It may require some long hours (and about a million phone calls) put in, especially in those first few years, but ultimately, as long as you get someone (established) to take you under their wing, you’ve essentially got it made. The money is ridiculous, and for what? Convincing someone to let you draft the papers instead of somebody else (i.e., being a really good schmoozer.)

Yes, I’m over simplifying. But my point is, anyone with an IQ above average and a decent personality (see above: schmoozing) who didn’t mind making 100 cold calls a day for a couple years could absolutely kill it. Being a bartender (see above: schmoozing) and a strong, intelligent, independent woman who enjoys sports has all my bosses convinced that I would be a fabulous addition to their team, and they haven’t made it a secret that they’re grooming me for said position. Are they right? Yes, I feel fairly certain that I could be a kickass [insert my boss' job here]. I even started taking the classes, because who I am to turn down easy money? For the first couple months I debated; Do I want A) a career that I love, that wouldn’t pay nearly enough to support the lifestyle I want, or B) a job that is just a job, not good or bad, but pays extremely well?

After some deliberation, I decided on option B), or, “Work to Live.” I figured if I had enough money, and didn’t hate the office I worked in, I would be able to spend the exorbitant amounts of money on making the rest of my life amazing. I don’t necessarily disagree with this plan now, but there is one problem; one thing that nagged at me even as I declared my decision to my friends and family…

The only thing I’ve ever known I wanted to do in my life was travel.

And not just travel, but truly experience as many places in this world as I possibly can.

Yes, I would have the money to go away on incredible three-week jaunts to remote islands, maybe even a few months to tour Southeast Asia in my thirties, once I was established in my career. But because of the “clientele” aspect of the job, I would be required to make D.C. my home, at least for the next ten years.

I love D.C., I do. I’ve really enjoyed the past year and I look forward to the next one or two here as well. But I’m not done. I want to live on the west coast, in Colorado, in New York, in Miami, in London, in Paris. In Australia, Italy, Costa Rica, South America, and who knows where else. I just don’t think you can truly experience another place, another culture, unless you LIVE there. And I don’t want a job that limits me, that constricts me, from the one thing that I have always known I wanted to do.

So I might be an idiot. I know my father’s going to be devastated when I tell him this weekend (they went through some hard times after the dot.com crash, and I know he was thrilled to think that I had a life plan that would pretty much guarantee me financial security). But I can’t help it… I love traveling more than anything. It’s the reason I bartend twice a week until 3 in the morning on top of a normal job; it’s the reason I always have something to look forward to on the horizon; it’s the reason I feel like I am making the most of my life. Life is short, and possibly meaningless… but as long as I have a new place to go, a new culture to immerse myself in, and new relationships to create, I truly feel like I’m getting everything I can out of my pathetic little life.

Mama said share.

I spent the weekend in West Hollywood, with my bff (the Will to my Grace) from college. He moved out there a few months after we graduated, and hasn’t been back since; I hadn’t seen him in almost 2 years. Seeing as we were basically inseparable during college, (we were fondly known by friends and coworkers as “Everyone’s Favorite Non-Couple”), not having him in my life has been a strange and empty thing.

The second he pulled up to the airport terminal, it was like nothing had changed. We’re both in better places (geographically and financially) than we were in college, and we’ve both mellowed and matured a bit… but that didn’t stop us from rushing to each other’s defense (in the form of trying to fight a psychotic, steroid-laden, in-denial-gay boy at a late night breakfast diner at 4 in the morning.) Some things never change…

As he lives in West Hollywood, we spent the the days and nights in gay restaurants and bars- the low-key hamburger joint we had brunch in on Sunday had a disco ball in the (unisex) bathroom and played ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” when the light was on. We went to the young cheap pre-game spot, the ridiculously expensive nightclub (with plenty of elevated dancing surfaces that guaranteed us the spotlight), the trendy cafe for a late lunch and wine, and the amazing tucked-away Mexican restaurant for “Kick-Ass Margaritas” and killer guacamole. We went up to the Griffin Observatory and pretended to like science, and actually enjoyed the view of all that is Los Angeles. We bought bottles of cheap prosecco, drove out to Venice Beach and watched the sun set over the pier, before attacking the local Italian restaurant with gusto (a tip? NEVER offer tourists and drunkards homemade chianti on the “honor system.”) We drove around town with the windows down and saw the clubs and stores I’d been seeing on television for years, all the while belting out Madonna at the top of our lungs.

I was completely relaxed, and thoroughly saturated with alcohol and good company for a healthy three day weekend. It was heaven.

Maybe I’m not such an “East-Coast” girl after all…

Mama said share.