Tampa, FL to Portland, OR

Nic picked me up at my house and dropped me off at the Tampa Airport around 9:30 ish for my 10:45 flight, Delta to Cincinnati to Portland. The plane arrived in Cincinnati ahead of schedule, which gave me a fantastic 4 hour layover (sarcasm). Way too much time for a layover, but not quite enough time to leave the airport and say hi to anybody and still get back through security for the second leg of my flight.

I arrive in Portland at 6:30 (9:30pm my time) and Todd is there to pick me up. I get my first glimpses of the Portland skyline (which is bigger than I thought it would be) and we have dinner at an Italian restaurant (Cocina Cocina) near his apartment in Beaverton, which is right outside of Portland.

My body is really tired of all this flying around, so I’m glad to finally be where I’m going!

Tags: airports

Liberia to Arenal, Costa Rica

While waiting to board the flight from Orlando to Miami, I met these two Costa Rican guys who said they were from San Ramon. I, in my infinite wisdom, said I had no idea where that was, but was going to Arenal. (Turns out it’s right next to each other.) I also said to Bri, “Don’t worry about Costa Rican money – we’ll get some from the ATM once we land, like I did when I went to Europe.” (More on my naivete later.)

The flight from Miami to Liberia was interesting. I had a window seat (half view, half wing) and it was pretty cool to fly from North America to Central America. The pilot would let us know what country we were flying by (”On your right is Nicaragua”) and it was pretty wild. From the air, Costa Rica is lush, green, and mountainous. From the ground, Costa Rica is lush, green, and mountainous.

Of course, once we got to the ground, I peered out the window, straining for a glimpse of the Liberia International Airport. To my right, I saw some sort of hangar – really a narrow, open building with a roof over two parallel walls and a couple planes in front of it. Come to find out, that was the Liberia International Airport.

There was a single rope separating the deplaning passengers from the people milling about, waiting to pick up friends and family or there to offer taxi services. We followed the queue inside where there were three podiums manned by three customs agents. We stood in line, got our passports stamped, and wandered out the other side of the building.

If there was electricity, I didn’t see it. If there was an ATM, it would have had to be magical.

So, we get to the taxi area and there’s dozens of Costa Ricans holding up signs for rental car agencies. We recognize our names, and head to the Alamo driver. (That’s right, there’s Alamo in Costa Rica. There’s also Dollar, Payless and Hertz.)

One of the guys opens the van door for us, loads in our bags, then looks at Brian expectantly. Bri looks at me. I look at the guy. “Si?” I ask tentatively. “Propina?” he answers. Oh. A tip. Good thing we thought ahead and had absolutely no colones (CR money). Naturally, all I had was two US twenties. Turns out Bri had the same. We figured $20 was a bit steep for throwing bags in the trunk, but we didn’t want to be rude to the locals two seconds off the plane. We scrounged in our pockets and managed to come up with $1 in change, and that seemed to work.

Fast forward to the rental car place. There was nothing fast about it, lemme tell ya. It took us 45 minutes to get the car that we had rented ahead of time. A lot of tapping on the computer. No clue why. Then Brian’s American Express didn’t go throuh. No clue why. Luckily he had a MasterCard. So then we get our car, our requested four-wheel-drive SUV…

Oh boy. First off, it is a tiny thing. SUV shaped, yes, but in length… not sure if it’s longer than a Dodge Neon. Secondly, it’s stick. Bri + stick = disaster. Thirdly, it’s a Toyota No Brand. Features, nil. Amenities, nil. Anything it can do (lights, wipers, radio, etc) the choices are either On or Off. The back is a hatch type thing that you cannot open without turning off the car, getting out, and unlocking it with your key. Likewise, once all your stuff is in the back, the door will not latch unless you physically lock it with the key. (Yes, we found this out the hard way.)

So Bri gets behind the wheel (he was just as nervous about that as me) and heads toward the exit. He manages to drive to the exit without killing the engine or us (for which we were both proud and relieved) and shows his paperwork to the armed guard before he will open the gate to let us out. That’s right, armed. Later, we have come to the conclusion that they were not just guards, but actual police officers. At the time, however, we just thought that Alamo meant business.

So Bri drives maybe 100 yards, pulls over, and has me get behind the wheel for the rest of the week. We glance at the packet of papers I brought and flip to the page with the directions to our rental home. Only a couple turns and mostly highway, so we should get there in no time.

Wrong again. The “highway” is barely two lanes wide, and is covered with pot holes the size and depth of bath tubs. The road is mountainous, therefore lots of ups and downs with sudden sharp turns. I’m going between 20-30 kmh (I have no idea what that translates to – the dash does not have mph, rpms, or anything else that might be construed as useful). Our teeth are rattling, our heads are banging against the seat backs, our backs are jostled against the sides of the car – and the locals are passing us, around curves, going easily twice as fast.

We found out later that the speed limit is 80-100 kph on the highway. Not me, brotha. The highway was dotted with bridges, all of which were one lane wide with sheer drops on either side. Some had whole sections that had fallen down the mountainside. We also found out later that a friend of ours’ sister actually broke a rib just driving on the road. Our conversations went something like:

“Slow down!”
“I’m in first gear.”
“Watch out!”
“Bri, the road is covered in pot holes.”
“I see them! They’re everywhere!”
“I’m going as slow as I can.”
“The bridge is only one lane!”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“We’re on the side of a cliff!”
“Looks that way.”
“Slow down!”
“I’m still in first gear.”
And so on.

Come to find out, the house was not around the corner from the airport. The house was not around the corner from anything. Had we known this, we’d have looked for lunch and a bathroom before leaving the airport. As it turns out, a neighbor says it takes her two and a half hours to get from her house to the airport. Oh yeah. So hours of the windy road and Brian’s interminable exclamations ensue before I finally pull into the road the rental house is on. And I use “road” lightly – we were told it was gravel, and I guess it is, if by “gravel” you mean dirt, pot holes, and rocks ranging in size from fists to bowling balls. Thank *God* we got four wheel drive.

I pull through the gate onto the circular driveway and wow. Amazing. Beautiful landscaping, gorgeous house, breathtaking view of the countryside and lake Arenal. Suddenly the long drive is completly worth it. We step out of the car wide-eyed, and Alex the caretaker steps out of the house to greet us. He’s young and personable and gives us a general tour, shows us how to work the hot tub, and rings up Michelle (the afore-mentioned neighbor.) She drops by, and gives us lots of great advice regarding area attractions, where to find the important phone numbers, and shows us food that was prepared for us and waiting in the refrigerator for our arrival. Mmmm.

We ate, and wandered around outside excitedly taking pictures and video. We tried (and failed) to remember how the hot tub worked, gave up, went back inside once night fell, and fell sound asleep until morning.

Tags: airports, lost, road trip, travel tips