One of the surprisingly (but not too shockingly, for anyone who knows me or my star chart) difficult things for me is to let go of autonomy and self-direction, all the more so halfway across the globe.
It’s been years since I had to follow someone else’s schedule and itinerary, so I mentally prepared myself for the self-discipline of letting go, and did everything I could to set myself up for success by asking for what I needed well in advance and packing things that would maximize my comfort. But things happen, as we saw with my Ricoh, so we pivot.
The greatest irony, though, is that having my photography as a crutch to lean on to experience whatever I was to experience my way turns out to be a double-edged sword; there is an agony to having zero control over where to stop and what to see when you don’t necessarily see eye to eye on what’s worth seeing. So many missed opportunities on this five-hour ride. So many perfect places to stop, but we didn’t.
I gradually became irritated at my own silent irritation and started telling myself to remain in the moment, to detach from my “need” to control the narrative. And I think it worked.
Here are some random drive-by shots I took on the drive from Potrero to Manuel Antonio. Their only story is the lack of one.
The first place we did stop was the so-called “Crocodile Bridge” where people used to throw chicken down to feed the frenzy below, but that’s thankfully not allowed anymore. I didn’t realize how much of a tourist trap this place is until we got out of the car and I was hit with a wave of nausea from ending up just like “one of those people,” which probably helped a lot with overcoming my vertigo, come to think of it. But this was yet another mental shell I forced myself to discard — why exactly am I so allergic to being “ordinary”? I am, after all, one of those people, being a guest of people just like those people, so generously showing us around and footing much of the bill. I ordered a hearty creole lunch at the croc themed restaurant designed for people just like me and forgot all about it. Pura vida, mae, pura f-ing vida.
By the time we made it to our hotel near the Manuel Antonio National Park, the heavens had cracked open and the shoreline was a thick, thunderous gray that didn’t quite match the picture postcard vision of a Costa Rican summer, but I didn’t mind. It somehow felt like a relief. We stripped down and briskly walked (I can’t say “ran,” as romantic as that would sound) into the ocean — my very first time. The water was warmer than I expected. The salt was sweeter than I expected. The big scary surfer dude swells were more fun than I expected. And more of those mental shells were washed away.
It’s been dumping buckets both days we’ve been here, and heavy rain’s projected for the next ten days, but the sun’s pretty glorious in the mornings. We leave for San Jose tomorrow afternoon.