So, this Costa Rica trip isn’t turning out exactly as planned. The heat continues to be extreme. New fever blisters form on top of my old fever blisters. I get a sore throat and chills after I rent a motorcycle and get caught in a downpour in the jungle where I run out of gas and get lost. I run out of money (Costa Rican). I run out of food. I’m stuck in a tree house, sick for two days in a torrential downpour with three potatoes, two eggs and an onion. I try to make the best of it.
Today, though, I’m leaving the luxurious Airbnb with the private swimming pool. I share a taxi with a young American couple. I’m so hungry for conversation, I blurt out, “The problem with vacations is that there’s all this pressure to have a good time. You’re spending all this money and if you don’t have a good time, it feels doubly shitty. You know what I mean?”
They give me tight-lipped smiles. They don’t know what I mean. Ugh. I feel hopeful, though, because I’m going to a friend of a friend’s Airbnb and we’re going to have drinks and dinner and they’re going to tell me all the ins and outs of Costa Rica.
When I arrive at the new Airbnb, a skinny woman with a crying baby in her arms greets me. She’s not the friend of a friend. She’s the friend of a friend’s ex-girlfriend, and in no mood to talk. She hands me one towel, one roll of paper, and walks away. I lean down to pet the dog, but he shies away.
I’m starving, so I walk along the beach and find a restaurant 500 yards away.
They don’t want to serve me because I’m by myself-- and the restaurant is packed. They say it’s a two-hour wait. I would leave, but there are no restaurants or grocery stores nearby.
I walk down to the beach where the jungle meets the water and watch pre-historic looking pelicans flying high overhead. I wade into the warm, salty water and watch the sun dip below the horizon.
I go back to the restaurant and the host’s eyes deliberately pass through me as I wait at the front counter. I feel like a Black person in the deep South in a restaurant, trying to get served. Finally, the hostess lets me order some food to go—a spaghetti carbonara and salad.
At 1 a.m., I am up with the runs, my stomach killing me. It feels like sharp needles scratching out my insides. I lie on my side and moan. When I wake up, my bed sheets are covered with black ants. I shake out the sheets and lie down again.
I pass in and out of consciousness for a day-and-a-half, watching reruns of the Sopranos. I see the episode where Tony discovers his best friend—aptly named “Pussy”—has betrayed him and is working undercover with the FBI against him. Tony--just like me—gets food poisoning. He clutches the toilet most of the episode and tells his wife, “Everything turns to shit!”
It’s a purification for Tony—this cleansing of what’s bad in his life. I think of all those friends and lovers who have betrayed me—and of course, those whom I betrayed. Maybe I’m going through a kind of purification, too.
My computer, too, has some kind of virus, and I need it to work. I call the Geek Squad at Best Buy three times. Each time, some well-meaning tech tells me, “Don’t worry ma’am, I will solve all your problems.”
But it’s the same problem over and over again. I feel like I’m in Dante’s 9th circle of hell.
I wake up at sunset, weak and shaky and covered in sweat. I have to try to get something to eat. I walk out of my room and stare balefully at the bicycle with the flat tire in the living room, which my host, before my arrival, had promised I could use to get around town. I have no choice, but to go back to the restaurant where I got sick.
Once again, it’s packed. I lean shakily against the counter and say in broken Spanish to the hostess, “I’m sick. Please, can I order some fruit—maybe some bread and cheese to go?”
“No,” she says, trying to shoo me away like a dog.
“Por favor!” I say, and stumble back and fall on the ground. I’ve never before had to beg for food.
Someone picks me up and props me up against the counter. The hostess grips my arms, her sharp nails digging into my flesh, her green eyes flashing angrily at me. A customer steps up and after a heated exchange with the hostess, a waiter presents me with a small bowl of sliced strawberries and oranges. I try to pay, but the hostess, says, “Just go.”
My face is slick with sweat and my heart is pounding. I was a first-class athlete in high school, but now I have to stop every few minutes and sit down on the sand to rest. I text my host when I get back and say I have terrible poisoning and need more toilet paper.
She texts back: “We ask guests to buy their own toilet paper after the first roll.”
I stumble out of my room and confront her. “One roll?! Are you kidding? Where am I supposed to buy more? I can’t walk more than 10 feet at a time!”
She agrees to give me one more roll, but I am outraged. I tell her about the black ants in my bed, complain about the bike I haven’t been able to use. “Look, I’m checking out a day early… and I think I want some money back,” I say.
She’ll ask the owner, she says. I go back to my room and after another fitful night, she texts me at 6:30 a.m. The owner said yes to a one-night refund, but I have to leave at 8 a.m. for the maid to come. Also, I have to get the money back from the host’s ex-boyfriend, whom I’ve never met or spoken to.
“But I gave my money to you. Why do I have to get it back from him?”
“I don’t have it anymore. You have to get it from him,” she says.
We argue. I raise my voice. She walks away, clutching her arms to her sides. She looks sad and skinny and scared.
I want to follow her and apologize for yelling, or else yell at her some more. I’m not sure which. Instead, I go to my room to pack and call a taxi. A few minutes later, there’s a knock. It’s a woman. “Hi, I’m the owner’s best friend. I’ve heard you’ve been having some problems.”
I open the door, relieved. “You have no idea…”
A smallish woman barrels into my room, grabs my wrists, and says, “You’ve got 10 minutes to leave. I’ve already called the police.”
I try to push her away, but in my weakened state, she is stronger than me. This is just what I need—for the Costa Rican police to come barging in here and find my stash of THC edibles and end up in a Costa Rican prison, just like Brittney Griner in Russia. My heart pounding, I pack the rest of my things and wait on the back porch, facing the ocean, for the taxi to arrive.
It takes the taxi 45 minutes. I realize there are no police coming. I lean back on the lounge chair and take a breath. The unfriendly dog jumps on the lounge chair next to me, lies down, and sighs deeply.
We sit together side by side in companionable silence. I think of the popular, Costa Rican phrase, “Pura Vida”, which either means, “it’s all good”, “or that’s life”, or “it’s all bullshit”.
I close my eyes, feel the cool ocean breeze wash over me, and relax.