quick, knock on Costa Rican wood

A simple business class flight has rekindled a full-blown love affair.

I'm not sure what it is about Costa Rica, but this place is pure magic. The people are so much warmer and more welcoming. The country is so much more lush and idealistic. And I really enjoyed Panama, so this isn't an unfair comparison. Truth is, there simply is no comparison.

The Los Flores Hotel was supposed to be a little out the way. But we walked out this morning and ran right into this amazing food market that ran for blocks in both directions. Two marimba players provided the Mario Brothers background music as the locals got their groceries done ahead of la Semana Santa. Then we drove just out of town to Barva - coffee country - on the way to its namesake Volcano. I never got the perfect little cup of coffee overlooking the mountain vista I had imagined in my mind, but we did stumble into a lively local breakfast spot. No one spoke English, but I pointed to the black bean rice dish in front of one particularly loud man at the other end of the counter and asked for two of the same. When it was all said and done, we wanted to pack the couple who ran the restaurant in our suitcases.

The road to the volcano was hellishly steep and paved until it wasn't. After getting just four minutes into the cratered trail, I was forced to abandon our inadequate little Toyota Yaris three kilometres from the ranger station. A couple from the capital who spoke some English ended up accompanying us the whole way after (intelligently) deciding against putting their 4X4 through the pain. We must have hiked almost three hours through some rather thin air to reach the peaceful little lagoon 2,900 metres above sea level. But just watching the clouds breathe from so close up made it somehow all worth it. 

We passed through Barva again on the way back. Except the quiet little town was morphing into an all out masquerade. One of the town's most notorious festivals was underway. Picture Halloween meets Church feast. Except there were rows of endless painted ceramic masks of everyone from Johhny Depp to Jim Carrey to Darth Maul to Itchy and Scratchy to local politicos and celebs I wouldn't be abe to identify. People dawning the ten-foot outfits in question were already dancing in the park square, to a marching band no less. I would not be out of place with my infamous giant Kermit the Frog head.

What were the odds we would have stumbled into this tiny little town on this exact date? Yeah, 1 in 365, smartass.

I always judge my vacations by how things either do or don't fall into place. When Amy and I arrived in Paris so many years ago, we missed Bastilles Day by a night and actually had to walk through the wreckage of what we could only assume was a fantastic party. Then we got our luggage and passports stolen while lying on the beach after an exhausting overnight drive to Nice.

Not this time, my friends. Not this time. Even the young girl singing off key to Nothing Else Matters at this moment sounds like sweet music to my ears.