Pixie in Paradise

As usual, there were completely different thoughts flowing on the page. I have since gotten distracted by a memory from last month that I found highly amusing but haven’t shared. 

If I didn’t talk to strangers I’d miss out on half of my content, possibly more, and this is no exception. When it became clear during the first week of January that I got lucky enough to have found an opportunity to head back down to southern Costa Rica and stay longer, I needed to book my ride. I’ve ridden with several shuttle services in Central America, most while in Costa Rica, and decided to try a new one. My Pink Bus’ mission is a safe ride for everyone and they do so with all kinds of awesome bells and whistles: Mercedes Sprinter vans, GPS tracking, WhatsApp group notification options on the day of travel and amenities in their vehicles, like a small cooler full of free bottled water.

My luggage and I needed to get from the Airbnb in San Jose to a hotel pick-up point so the pink shuttle could retrieve me. It’s always a little nerve wracking wondering if a bus will forget you or if they’re just running late – and they never tell you. With My Pink Bus you’re able to track the movement of the bus and there’s direct lines of contact between you and their dispatchers. It’s a genius business model. My Uber driver – not quite as genius – tried to drop me off at the wrong hotel and I did my best at 6 am to try and explain that this was not the right entrance, or hotel. My 6 am Spanish versus my noon Spanish feels vastly different. My native language is tough enough in the wee hours of the morning before coffee, let alone trying to tell someone anything in another language you barely have a grip on. By 6:40, the sweet driver retrieved me and pushed both suitcases down the street, then loaded them onto this awesome pink Mercedes Sprinter shuttle bus. I sat down in the seat behind his, explaining that I get motion sick. Right before we were about to shove off he got a message that two more passengers were near our location. He walked back across to where we’d come from, retrieved them and stacked their luggage next to mine. Unlike me, these two guys headed straight for the back of the bus. We didn’t really speak to each other until two and a half minutes down the road when the loud intermittent knocking under our vehicle prompted the driver to stop. It was entirely necessary, even though we were only 1,000 feet down the road. I’m no mechanic but something big was “out of whack” and the pink bus was in absolutely no condition to fly down Costa Rican highways with passengers in it. That being said, it was a random occurrence and I will rebook with My Pink Bus the next time I need a long distance ride because I like what they offer and both drivers were very professional and had really good energy. (This is not always the case when jumping onto public transportation; hell, I don’t even want to ride in the cars of some of my friends!)

My conversation with Keith and Cam, the two in back, started out very much as casual talk, mainly musings about our vehicle and how long it would take for us to get up and running in the right direction. The driver was so sweet and offered us water, and clearly cared about our safety. We were on a very wide residential side road in Escazú, a very wealthy suburb of San José. We were in no danger but we were all starting to get hungry. I had cleaned out as much of my refrigerator as I could to bring on the trip carrying two suitcases, a backpack and a tote bag full of the kitchen items, including some food. I didn’t want to leave behind olive oil, balsamic vinegar or snacks like I did the week before, coming from the other direction. Food is expensive here! Determined to bring it back down with me this time, I shoved all the items into a tote bag then into one of my backup waterproof backpacks. That way, if anything liquid spilled it would be a mess inside that bag but would be contained for the trip.

Keith and Cam were both from one of the small cold states on the east coast, New Hampshire or Connecticut, I think. They said they spend a fair amount of time in Boston when they want city life, so whichever state gets them close enough to go out and party in Boston is the one they’re from. They were both so young that I seriously could have changed their diapers a few years ago. I asked them what their itinerary looked like and told them where I’d been and where I was headed. They had some questions which I was happy to answer. We joked about Keith and his attempts to meet women back home and how they thought they’d have some fun times on the beaches here. I joked, telling them I brought “a bunch” of condoms with me to Central America (which is completely true), if they needed any. I warned them, however, that most of them were ‘XL,’ and without skipping a beat Cam said that was okay, he would cut them in half if he needed to! We laughed so hard and I was grateful that the driver didn’t speak any English. If he did, he never let on.

By this time I had been on the bus for a mere 30 minutes and the snack I was saving for three hours into the trip was gone 15 minutes ago. Cam was so hungry he ordered food from McDonald’s through a delivery app on his phone for him and Keith. His comments in the Notes section of the app for the delivery driver were, “Big broken down pink bus on the side of the street.” I can’t make this up. These young fellas were too young for this cougar (and not my type), but they were mature and thoughtful enough to ask if I wanted them to order me some food too. I politely declined and dug through the rest of my snack bag.

The driver had told us the backup bus would be arriving in 45 minutes. I knew better. Remember, I’ve lived in this part of the world for a while and absolutely knew it would be at least an hour longer than what he told us. It was. We didn’t get a replacement vehicle for two hours after our breakdown and it was not a comparable trade out, not even close. Instead of a shiny new pink Mercedes Sprinter van, we got an old “soccer mom” minivan which looked like it only had room for five people, but ultimately could seat up to eight – which seems tight! Once we were fully loaded there were six passengers. I was seated in the front across from the driver, Keith and Cam in the way back, two quiet German girls behind the driver and a Londoner – Hannah – next to the girls and directly behind me.

Even though it was almost 10 am when we made it through the city to head south for Puerto Viejo, we were all still relatively quiet. Construction was so bad along the highway that we had to reroute several times but finally got to a market alongside the road to pull off, stretch, use the facilities and buy more snacks. The driver said we had 20 minutes before heading on our way again. She didn’t speak English either so I did my best to translate a couple of things along the way for anyone who spoke less Spanish than me. We all slowly jumped out to take in our surroundings. Hannah stayed outside to smoke and we started talking for a moment before I went inside. She requested some carbonated water, I forget how she asked for it but I knew she wanted water with bubbles in it. The problem was, this little market didn’t have many options so it took me forever to find something that was without sugar or flavor. This was not a Perrier kind of store so I got the closest thing to it and brought a bottle out for her. Hannah was extremely appreciative. She told me she gets motion sick too and that’s why she wanted this type of water for her stomach. Those of us who get “ishy” with movement have learned  our own specific tricks for lessening the nausea. Mine is just surrendering to pharma and taking meclizine. Best invention ever. One meclizine every 24 hours while traveling eases most situations involving movement on planes, boats and vehicles. But, give me a meclizine every 12 hours and you could shove me into a snow globe and shake it up real good. I’d be just fine. 

After we got back into the van and on the road, Hannah and I started talking, sharing bits of our life stories to each other and what brought us to Costa Rica. I have met the most amazing people during random trips and excursions from place to place like  this. People  are  fascinating, for the most part. Meeting people from so many different countries and cultures all  with such varied stories is a writer’s dream. I also genuinely enjoy making the connections with these strangers too. This must be similar to the excitement stand-up comedians feel when they’re invited to a dysfunctional family gathering. All of that new material they’ll come up with! While everyone has a  slightly unique story there are so many things that can bond us together, sometimes good, sometimes traumatic, but we’re all human and the human condition is understood by all of us.

When I tell Hannah, Keith and Cam the actual story of how I ended up on  their shuttle in early January and also how I ended up back in Costa Rica in early November, there was a collective gasp. It’s a response I’ve gotten used to when sharing the “E! True Hollywood Story” version of my journey from living on an island in Belize to creating a new life in southern Costa Rica, just above the Panamanian border.

Once they asked a few questions we all went back to gazing out the windows with earphones in. In Cam’s case, he was ready for a nap and he came with an industrial strength sleepytime package. He had a sleep mask that looked like it had eye weights or cushions in it stuffed with gel or something. It was quite the contraption. I should have borrowed that headgear after reliving and relaying my sometimes harrowing tale to them. Keep in mind that if you’re reading this on the blog, you aren’t even caught up yet! I’m writing as fast as I can, folks. I know you’re wondering why or how a story about a broken down pink van and condoms made it onto the list of stories important enough to post, but that’s just not how it works. Just like I am at the mercy of these buses to take me all over Central America with no guidance or input from me, I have a similar requirement to do the same for you in retelling my story. You can yell advice or warnings at the screen or page you’re reading this from all you want, but these events have already happened. Every last one of them. I will ruin one surprise for you and just let you know that if there were any accidental pregnancies by way of the boys from Connecticut, it wasn’t my fault: they didn’t take me up on my condom offer.