Traveling often seems like one of those luxuries that other people are always flaunting.
“That reminds me of the time I spent in Amsterdam frolicking through the tulips blazed out of my gourd with an entourage of sophisticated prostitutes.”
They casually mention, the topic not exactly apropos.
I often grapple with the insularity of being American. However diverse this country is in many ways our perspective is skewed and isolated. I think in a way I suffer from a “grass is always greener on the other side” mentality, romanticizing the “other” and so on. This impulse is most likely a byproduct of the aforementioned insularity of this country.
Alright that’s enough sociological speculation.
I recently visited Costa Rica with my girlfriend Meaghan for 10 days, a trip outside the county long overdue. The all night flight touched down in San Jose at the break of dawn, unable to sleep on the flight I powered through customs and the car rental process through the natural adrenaline rush of travel and sheer force of will.
During the shuttle ride from the airport, I heard the bros behind me express astonishment at the general standard of living.
“Whoa dude it’s like that plane was a time machine and we went back to the 70s.”
Yeah man, what a culture shock. Don’t worry they have Taco Bell here too.
An older gentleman riding up front gave me some hope when he began inquiring about Spanish number vocabulary with the driver. He sounded legitimately curious and interested about a foreign language.
At the rental center we encountered some more of our American compatriots, outraged with unforeseen additional charges. Granted their complaints were valid, the hidden fees were a little obscene. I remained passive, partly due to the sleep deprivation, partly because I realized how pointless making a fuss would be.
As I began to drive, my fatigue made itself abundantly clear. Acclimating to the road conditions of a foreign country is difficult enough with a full night of sleep. Running on zero hours sleep combined with the initiation ritual of downtown San Jose morning traffic made for a very stressful test. Cars weaved and swerved in the four “implied” lanes, motorcycles threaded the needle cutting between vehicles occupying a micro lane, the line itself. Horn communication sounded completely different, a series of signals and gestures with ambiguous motive forming yet another language barrier.
I was fading fast. I drove past a crash that looked like a bad omen. I needed reposar pronto.
We found a nearby hostel on Meaghan’s phone GPS where we could recharge our batteries. The bed had a cartoonish heavenly light shining down on it, however humble. The concierge, a young German woman emphasized the ease of locking oneself out the room accidentally. I proceeded to pass the fuck out, while Meaghan went to get some coffee, under the impression the door would lock automatically given the information just received.
I awoke to Meaghan frantically searching for her phone, soon followed by my own frantic search for my wallet. Neither to be found, dread and panic quickly sank in. We told ourselves at the beginning of the trip to keep our guard up, take the necessary measures to avoid being a theft victim. Yet here we were, with no other explanation for the disappearance of our possessions.
There is a sickeningly vulnerable and powerless feeling to being robbed while asleep. Any robbery is violating and intrusive, but the mere fact of being in the room made me feel like I could have prevented it by the simple act of waking up.
As the grim reality sank in, we began damage control. I contacted my bank and canceled my debit card. We tried to keep our spirits up and take consolation in the fact that we still had our passports and Meaghan’s purse. A casual hippie vibe pervaded the afternoon at the hostel, adding another layer of annoyance to our predicament.
Forced to accept our loss, we focused on the next objective, finding the car rental agency and getting a GPS on loan. We originally declined a GPS given the fact that Meaghan’s phone could provide navigation. With that out of the picture we found ourselves at the mercy of the only map we had which looked more like a kids maze on the back of a paper place mat at a novelty family restaurant.
Spanish was one the only subjects in school I remember having any real interest in other than art. There was something immediately applicable about it, as opposed to something like algebra. (I realize math has a tremendous application in reality, but my drug addled teenage mind didn’t see it that way) For most of my adult life I have made some attempt to independently learn a foreign language, bouncing around in the romance kingdom between Italian and French, but concentrating primarily on Spanish. The divide spanning simulated learning scenarios in books and other media versus actual full immersion in a different country is huge.
The first day consisted of driving around confronted with my field test: to cross the language barrier. Under the influence of fatigue and stress not being the most conducive conditions for language proficiency I stuttered and stammered conjugating with all the wrong imperfect subjunctive past participles. We drifted aimlessly at the mercy of few street signs and no geographic frame of reference. The afternoon dragged on with no progress, stopping at gas station after gas station going through the same routine.
Me: Attempt to string together remotely coherent broken Spanish phrase.
Gracious San Jose gas station attendant: Politely gives me directions I understand for the most part then promptly forget as soon as we start driving again.
And so on, the cycle continuing until sunset. Growing desperate we spotted a cab stopped at yet another estacion de servicio. I proposed an offer. We’ll pay you to drive to the airport while we follow you. He appeared to have understood me and accepted.
There was something genuinely meaningful about the various encounters that day. Basic human kindness in the face of hardship gives me hope for our species as corny as that sounds.
We found our sweet salvation and solace in the form of a motel, Chinese food and a TV station consisting of old music videos, thus concluding la dia de diablo.
We escaped from the city the next morning, with a renewed faith, a fully functional navigation system, determined to make the most of it. The following week improved drastically, traveling west to the Pacific Coast undeterred.
As the week progressed we casually cruised down the shore stopping and various beach towns along the way. The prevailing atmosphere in most of these places catered to tourists, which was welcome at first then grew a little tiresome. This ultimately contributed to my overly self conscious mentality that plagued me throughout the trip of being the stereotypical culturally ignorant American. I irrationally self imposed this belief upon myself, fearing that in the eyes of the populace I was simply another obnoxious tourist.
Perhaps the 2016 presidential primaries contributed to this. Viewing Trump’s rise to prominence riding a wave of bigoted populist rhetoric made me ashamed to call myself American. Watching television was surreal, the events happening back home seemed so distant and unbelievable. Flipping through channels he looked like an exaggerated villain from a 80s action movie come to life.
Part of me longed for a more authentic immersion, outside of the English speaking bubbles. Part of me also realized there was something disingenuous about this impulse, a white American seeking a “real” foreign culture experience like it was some novelty I could bring back and brag about, an anecdotal souvenir.
These feeling gradually dissipated though never completely faded. The simple thrill in the journey of travel took precedence and I learned how to relax and shut up the over analytical part of my brain.
Through the power and confidence bestowed through GPS technology we traveled off the beaten path, driving across rocky unpaved roads, traversing across shallow rivers and reveling in the splendor of natural isolated wilderness, punctuated by the occasional abandoned building.
In retrospect the memories blur together, a fondness that overshadows the shaky start to the trip. Our triumphant return to San Jose instigated the final phase of the journey, reconciliation with a formerly hostile city. We witnessed the streets with new eyes, walking through a downtown square on a Sunday evening watching couples dancing and children playing. I felt at ease, more adapted to the country, bantering with the locals.
Or flight return departed very early the following morning, our taxi to the airport driving us through the quiet predawn glow. A 16 hour travel day ensued, with a long layover and an hour delay for the final flight to Portland from Dallas. These little inconveniences are nothing really, in light of the fact that traveling such a long distance in a short time through flight is such an incredible thing. And we got a free all access T.V./movie pass as consolation for the wait, conveniently transitioning our acclimation back into the U.S. with a four hour marathon of house flipping reality shows.