Pura Vida

For someone who can’t sleep in the bed, my husband sure can sleep on a plane. “I’m like my dad; I can only sleep sitting up.”   

Once when E was just a toddler, the three of us were driving to St. Louis. It was dark outside and E was in his car seat in the back. He suddenly starting making this snorty noise like his airway was blocked. I turned around and his head was bobbing, chin to chest. I threw off my seat belt and jumped to my knees, screaming his name. He jerked his head up, with a big grin on his face. “I was being Pa!” Imitating his grandfather, who regularly fell asleep sitting on the sofa. 

And now Chip is literally becoming Pa. 

We got up at 3:30 am and flew to Houston. After a three-hour flight to Liberia, Costa Rica, we drove another 2 1/2 hours to our hotel. Our driver, Miguel, didn’t speak much English. I could understand what he was saying to us, but he couldn’t really understand what we said or asked in response, so conversation was difficult. 

The narrow road wound through the countryside, passing squat cement houses where families sat on plastic chairs outside in the shade. Motorbikes zoomed around, usually with two passengers, rarely with helmets. Every once in a while we’d pass some tables set up under a tin roof that looked like the kind of places where Anthony Bourdain would eat. I would have loved to stop because A) we hadn’t eaten since breakfast and we were starving, and B) I imagine the food would’ve been been delicious. 

The last 10km of the drive was up a steep and winding gravel road. “The road. It’s, ahh...so-so,” Miguel apologized. 

And as I’m describing this, I realize how much it sounds like an episode of The Amazing Race. 

And then...we were there. 

It’s so lush and gorgeous and we have our own villa with a hammock and pool and I just keep expecting a little guy in a white suit to run out yelling, “Da plane! Da plane!”