Tamarindo twice. Great beach/surf, chubby tourists, and several seedy locals. The first time there, I was accosted by three different dudes (who I am only guessing have never seen a lanky almost-albino chick before) and this last time I’m pretty sure that my leg was peed on by a monkey. My life-long hatred of monkeys aside, fuck you, you monkey goof! Sitting up in that palm tree like you’re so special. Give me a wrist-rocket and your ass is mine. I will make you into a purse just to embarrass you, see if I don’t.
Also, if you drive to any semi-popular Costa Rican town, be prepared to meet “The Parking Guy.” I call him this because his sole job is to hawk around his parking lot, take your colones, “watch” your car for you, and look super creepy doing it.
Costa Rica is, by definition, a third-world country. Which is something I forget when I pass by multi-million dollar vacation homes, gated communities, and the Four Seasons where Will Smith is supposedly staying right now. (Who cares?) But right across from that gated community, there will be a hut made of corrugated metal straddling a drainage ditch, and there will be naked children playing in mud puddles in the yard.
On a lighter note, salt + wind + humidity = I have lost control of my hair (mostly because I don’t care what my hair looks like while I’m here). I think there are dreadlocks forming. Pretty sure it’s not a good sign when I walk into the local Auto Mercado (grocery store) and the female clerks all smile at me empathetically because they know I have given up. My hair wins. Uncle.