Costa Rica would be the first country I would attempt to enter after being denied entry in Montreal. That bitter feeling combined with high anxiety levels were on full display as I approached passport control.
Nothing felt as sweet as hearing the click of the stamp coming down, and the big smile on the officer’s face as he stated “Welcome to Costa, pura vida!”.
It’s dark, almost midnight, as my taxicab drives through the countryside to my hotel in Guanacaste. I’ve no idea what type of area I’ll be in until morning. I check into the unassuming hotel and fall asleep quickly, dreaming of what will come in the morning.
I arise to the salty ocean smell, yet I can’t see the water. At breakfast, I ask a young man which way to the beach. He smiles warmly and points down the road.
I start walking. I’m not in a hotel zone with throngs of tourists, nor a busy beachside city. It’s a laid back and quiet little town with hostels and hotels hidden in the lush jungle, a store here and many a local’s home there.
There are no annoying people bombarding you to buy wares or hook you up with things you don’t want to do. Everyone is just enjoying themselves. I wander around from sunrise to sunset, sleep in the sand, find a shack to eat ceviche when hungry, a bar to quench my thirst.
Guanacaste province is the perfect starting place in Costa Rica. Let the sailboats gently rock in the morning sun as one falls in love with this country.