Do you know the way to San Jose? (pt. 1)

(originally written April 28, 2012...sorry so long!)

This morning, after a paltry three hours of sleep for the second night in a row, my mother dropped me off at Dulles Airport after a lengthy, one-sided discussion about the right way to live as a good Christian.

Pictured:  Me.

When we finally pulled up at the curb, the ordeal of checking bags and dealing with TSA employees could not have been more appealing.  At least, that's what I thought, until I got in line for the TACA check-in counter.  Everything, including the signs (and the people), was in Spanish.  Spanish immersion begins...now!

It suddenly hit me that perhaps this trip wouldn't be as simple as I'd thought.  Here I was, still in my home country, and even this check-in would be a challenge.  Luckily, it went just fine, except for the lady retracting her offer of a free emergency row seat after learning I didn't speak Spanish.  (Later, when I saw the amount of leg room an emergency row seat got, I instantly regretted not practicing since school.)  When the lady handed me my boarding pass, she told me the plane boarded at 10:08...which was a little less than 15 minutes away.  Being me, I'd been running too late to eat breakfast this morning and had planned to get a breakfast burrito from the Chipotle in the airport (yes, this exists, and it is DELICIOUS).  However, it looked like that wouldn't happen.  Right when I started to get worked up about the prospect of a 4 hour flight on an empty stomach, I remembered that unlike shitty American flights, this airline served a meal for every flight.  For the mothereffin win.

A shuttle and two escalators later, I was at my gate.  The flight attendants were already giving out instructions, and much to my chagrin, they were only saying them in Spanish.  However, about two minutes later, a large group of white people in matching red Christian missionary t-shirts showed up, and the attendants started adding directions in English as an afterthought.  To me, the red t-shirts might as well have been superhero costumes.  I'd never been so happy to see white people in my life.

I'd been unenthused to see there were a bunch of crying babies at my gate, and I was downright despondent when I boarded the plane and learned I'd be sitting smack dab next to one.  However, she turned out to be the lesser of two evils as I was attacked by what smelled like a whole can of her mother's perfume.  Yes, can...like the kind they sell at Wal-Mart with the word "musk" in the name. Ugh.  I found myself wishing I could open my little window for some air -- or to jump out of -- to help with the smell.  To make matters worse, the plane was heated.  This would normally be a nice change from the arctic blasts on American flights, but in this case it only intensified the smell.  Jesus be some smelling salts.  Or a gas mask.  About two hours later, the food came, and although it was delicious, my stomach was too queasy to enjoy it.  Even worse, they offered alcohol as a standard option with the meal, but alas, I couldn't partake.  Agua, por favor!  After finally getting off that plane ("give me free!") and an uneventful plane transfer in El Salvador later, I arrived at the San Jose airport.

As I was gathering my bags, I noticed a money exchange station, and figured now was as good a time as any to see what these colones were talking about.  I'd only brought $400 in cash with me, for two reasons:  1) I have been challenging myself not to spend too much, considering I have a finite amount of money, and 2) I (arrogantly) assumed the American dollar would go far here.  That's usually how it is in Latin America, right?  So, I trotted my happy behind to the counter and cautiously told the man I'd like to exchange $100.  "You will get a better rate if you exchange $200," he says.  This sounded sketchy to me -- do exchange rates vary by amount exchanged?  I didn't think they did...but since I'd done absolutely no research on the subject (what a traveler I am), I replied, "...okaaaaaay..." and slid him another $100.  In return, he handed me a stack of colorful bills.  "Here you are, ma'am, 89,446 colones."

Look at all these muunnnniiieesss!

The coon in me couldn't help help exclaiming, "I'm rich, bitch!" to which the man responded with a quizzical look.  I murmured a much more subdued "gracias," and went to hope and pray I'd easily find my ride outside the airport.   did, and within ten minutes I was on my way to begin my Latin American experience. Bienvenido a Costa Rica!