September 18, 2023, Costa Rica. It was my last day at Russ’s, and I knew I had to scoot when the cleaners came. Sure enough, I heard them babbling away in Spanish around 7. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to organize my things, and I was worried Russ would get upset if I wasn’t ready in time. So I spent about half an hour packing and loading everything into his truck while his gardener worked nearby.

I decided to go for a walk 10 or 15 minutes away from his home at Phase 4, where I’d seen a bat. I thought I had plenty of time, but when I returned it was ten to nine, and I started panicking that I’d miss the bus. Russ drives very slowly—he insists on sticking to the 25 mph speed limit through Ojochal—which meant it took us 15 minutes just to reach the highway. I was nervous the entire ride, imagining I’d miss my connection. Thankfully, we made it with time to spare.

I left my things at the bus stop and popped next door for a latte. I had hoped to grab a pastry from the bakery, but they were charging $8 for a slice of pie or cake—not worth it, in my opinion.

The bus ride was surprisingly engaging. A pregnant woman was sitting in my assigned seat and said she couldn’t move, so the very kind driver offered me seat 20 next to an older woman. She told me about her childhood working on a finca in the mountains with her father—making tortillas from scratch, living without electricity, fetching water. She said it was the best education she could’ve had. I found it fascinating. This is what I’m most interested in—how life used to be—especially as so much has changed here and elsewhere in just a few years. She said many fincas are abandoned now because younger generations don’t want to do that kind of work.

We stopped for lunch and I ate with the bus driver, who asked me about my travels and shared his experiences driving all over Costa Rica. He recommended a few places I might like to visit.

When I arrived at the airport, I struggled to find the Alamo shuttle, and it took an hour and a half to sort everything out. It looked like I had been charged twice for the rental car, and I also wanted to make sure I understood how to drive it. I finally left at 3:30 p.m., grabbed a sandwich and water at an AMPM, and hit the road around 3:45.

What a mess. San José during rush hour (from 3 to 8 p.m.) is a complete nightmare. I deeply regretted being on the road—especially after not driving for two months. Motorcycles zipped past me on both sides of the car, weaving in and out chaotically. It was mayhem. And nobody would let me merge—drivers here are so aggressive, they’d rather crash than let someone in. The roundabouts were absolutely nerve-wracking.

It ended up taking me three hours to go just 35 miles. By 6:30 p.m., I was completely exhausted. Fog blanketed the road, and I could barely see a foot in front of me. I was up in the mountains, driving a narrow, winding two-lane road with cars overtaking and passing on blind curves. It wasn’t worth the risk. I started looking for somewhere to pull over and sleep.

I had no idea where I was, but eventually turned down a steep dirt road that was muddy and slick. At the bottom were two aggressive dogs that barked nonstop, and a pit bull chained nearby. I didn’t feel safe getting out of the car, but I was also scared I wouldn’t make it back up the hill.

I called Russ to ask how to engage the 4-wheel drive, and he walked me through it. It was comforting to hear his voice—I was feeling very alone and scared. Thankfully, I made it back up without trouble and found another place to park, though a bright streetlight was shining right into the car. I tried to block it out and curl up in the back seat, but my legs didn’t fit. I barely slept and woke up exhausted.

September 19. I was startled awake by two policemen knocking on the window. Actually, my intuition had stirred me just before they approached. I explained that I’d been driving in darkness and heavy fog the night before and had to pull over because I couldn’t see a thing. I also told them how tired I’d been from navigating San José traffic. They asked for ID, and I gave them my license and offered my rental papers, but they said it wasn’t necessary. Apparently, someone had reported the car abandoned, since they hadn’t seen me lying in the back seat.

Not the most relaxing start to the day, but at least they were polite.

I continued up the road toward Parque Nacional Los Quetzales but took a left on the main road instead, as the skies were unusually clear and I wanted to enjoy the view. I saw windmills and the city of Cartago laid out below.

Further down the road, I passed two men hitchhiking. The younger one smiled at me, and I felt compelled to stop—but there was no shoulder, and I was scared of getting rear-ended. Still, I felt guilty, and when I found a place to turn around, I went back to pick them up.

The younger man, Adrian, turned out to be a school bus driver. After dropping off his uncle, Adrian invited me to meet his family, who own a small pulpería (a general store) in El Empalme. I had planned to continue on to Parque Quetzal but ended up staying in this little town for a few days.

I sat in the pulpería, which I mistakenly thought sold octopus (since pulpo means octopus in Spanish). Adrian’s mother, Esmerelda, gave me homemade bread and agua dulce—hot water with raw cane sugar. It was sweet but comforting. When Adrian left for work, I stayed with his parents. Soon after, Don Carlos, a family friend, came by and struck up a conversation. He insisted I meet his friend Walter, a biologist and former university director. Turns out Walter was next door, and he joined us for a chat.

We had a fascinating conversation. Walter had worked for Costa Rica’s national park service back in the 1970s when it was just getting started. His early focus was on natural resources, but over time he became more interested in conservation.

Walter had bought a finca nearby in Cedral a few years ago for very little. The property had belonged to a family whose patriarch was a drunk, and they needed to sell quickly to pay bills—so Walter got it for a song. He lives in Tres Ríos, a suburb of San José, and showed me photos of his place. It looked lovely. I told him I’d love to see his farm, and he invited me to visit. Apparently, he comes up every Tuesday and brings a man to help him plant.

Marvé, Esmerelda’s husband, offered to show me where he helps make charcoal. There’s a quetzal nest there, though this wasn’t the nesting season. In spring (March to July), quetzals lay their eggs in cavities hollowed out first by woodpeckers, then enlarged by green toucans. Afterward, they migrate to lower altitudes in search of food.

We headed into the forest, and Marvé showed me the charcoal-making process. It’s the same method used in Finland and Sweden over a century ago: wood is stacked in a teepee shape, covered with dirt and moss, and lit to smolder slowly. They sell the charcoal in large bags to locals who still cook with wood—like both families I’d stayed with here.

It was an overcast day, and the mist made the forest look beautiful. We walked along an old wooden walkway and bridge and fed the trout, which they raise and cook on-site. It was fascinating. Then Marvé took me to see the finca he and his siblings inherited from their parents. Like many Ticos, he’s working to rehabilitate the land, protect the environment, and preserve his family heritage.

The walk was lovely. He and Adrian had built trails around the finca, and I was impressed by their sturdiness. He showed me the gravity-fed water tank they’d set up, and a large, open-air hall built from wood planks salvaged from a fallen tree. It’s used for events like weddings. The rough wood was beautiful, and their property was filled with orchids—I took dozens of photos.

We also visited the house they built 35 years ago when they first married. It’s a small, wooden home with a greenhouse and a cat. Marvé said I was welcome to stay and regaled me with stories of previous guests: a Canadian family who stayed for a month and still keeps in touch; a woman with an amputated leg who helped Esmerelda cultivate shiitake and oyster mushrooms, which they later sold around Costa Rica.

When the pandemic hit, things got very hard. Their income vanished overnight. Marvé receives a pension—about 60% of his former salary—but they still need to supplement it. They sell charcoal and run a plant nursery. I was impressed by how much he receives; I’d be doing much better financially if I had 60% of my former income. Still, I imagine many others don’t have even that.

Marvé also shared stories about his parents and the land’s history. One of his brothers, who struggles with depression, owns a portion of the finca. They share the land but have separate lots.

I felt a bit uneasy about staying. Esmerelda had mentioned the Airbnb price, and it seemed she expected me to pay. I didn’t have much and was trying to stretch my funds. While Marvé told me to pay whatever my conscience dictated, my recent experience with unspoken expectations (like with Richard and Sarah in Boquete) was still fresh. I didn’t want a repeat.

Later, we returned to the store and waited out a heavy rainstorm. Then Esmerelda and I followed Marvé to Walter’s finca, Finca Fecunda. A man at the gate let us in, and we waited for Walter beneath a tree overlooking several volcanoes—not that we could see them in the thick clouds. The fog had rolled in, obscuring what I’m told are stunning views.

We toured the finca. Walter showed me various plants—like Agapanthus—many of which were domesticated cultivars he used to sell during his days running a cut-flower business. There was a pond where he hoped to raise fish and a casita where he stays when visiting, plus a larger house he rents to big families (up to 11 people).

An indie film called Bellyache was apparently shot on his property. He told me he’d discovered the finca when he saw a man standing outside the gate and spontaneously asked if it was for sale—it was. Talk about good timing.

Walter also told me about his time as a professor, his students, and how he never really liked teaching—though his friendly, open demeanor made me think he must’ve been a great one.

I adored his gardener, a kindly man with white-tinged eyebrows and a shy smile. When I introduced myself, he gave me a hug. I was touched. Don Jorge, Walter’s neighbor and friend, was also there and served us coffee and bread. We had a lovely chat. I only stayed about an hour, but it wasn’t enough. I promised to return someday.

I decided to head down to Santa María, a town they recommended. I arrived around 4:45 p.m. and found an eccentric riverside bar and eatery called El Roble. I parked in the main plaza, wandered around town, and even visited the church. It’s a charming place. DOTA, the regional coffee cooperative, has a beautiful modern café in town. I made a mental note to return when it was open.

As night fell, I drove back to the pulpería. Esmerelda, her daughter Juliana, and a kitten rode with me up to their casita. The kitten and her sister had been dumped in a bag on the highway. They were trying to find her a home, and I was smitten. I imagined adopting her—but couldn’t quite see myself hiking Central America with a kitten strapped to my backpack.

The house was tiny but cozy. Esmerelda needed to bake bread for the next day. I curled up on the couch holding the kitten while the resident cat yowled in protest. The poor kitten flattened her ears and puffed up in fear. I held her close. Esmerelda periodically asked me to come check on the bread so she could teach me her method. It felt like a cultural exchange.

Still, I felt uneasy not knowing if or how much she expected me to pay. After my experience in Boquete, I was wary.

I was assigned a tiny back room with no windows and a door opening into their bedroom. It felt claustrophobic, so I dragged the mattress into the living room. It was smoky from the woodstove, but better. I thought about opening the door for air, but they’d warned me their cat might sleep on me—which I didn’t want. We stayed up till about 9:30. Juliana giggled at the kitten, who ended up sleeping with her all night.

September 20. Juliana woke early, laughing and chatting. I asked if they could keep it down—I didn’t want to wake at five. Esmerelda was quieter, though her footsteps were heavy. I finally got up around eight. Sleep had been rough, but I figured I’d stay another night.

First, I couldn’t find my car keys. Then I left and realized I’d forgotten my black Columbia pullover. After returning to retrieve it, I also had to go back again for my shoes, which I’d left under the stove.

I drove to the end of their road, following signs for a restaurant and finca. I saw a woman outside and asked if the road was private. She said no—and then began showing me around her farm. She introduced me to their fields of vegetables and raspberries, their plant nursery, a cow, and two miniature pigs. We ended in her restaurant. That’s how I met Machita.

We became fast friends. She asked where I was staying. When I told her I was with Esmerelda, she said, “Come stay with us—stay in my room.” I was tempted. The previous night had been cramped, and I wasn’t sure how much Esmerelda expected for payment. I’d rather know the cost upfront than have another awkward conversation.

I thanked Machita and said I’d let her know. Then it started raining, so I headed to the highway—and there was Esmerelda, waiting at the bus stop. She had a dental appointment. I thanked her for hosting me and said I would pay Marvé for the night. I thought I was clear about not returning, but the next day she messaged me, asking what had happened. I felt guilty—I was with Machita touring Los Santos.

I gave Marvé $10 and thanked him. I’d also bought jam from them, so in total I’d given them about $17—a decent amount considering their usual income. They’re struggling farmers trying to make ends meet through charcoal production and small sales.

Then I drove toward San Marcos de Tarrazú, passing through Cedral and winding mountain roads blanketed in fog. Occasionally, the clouds would part, revealing steep hillsides covered in coffee plants.

When I arrived in San Marcos, I parked in front of the church on the main square. That turned out to be lucky—because when I tried to start the car again, I got bizarre error messages (in Spanish, of course), and the car wouldn’t start. I tried calling Alamo, but the calls kept dropping—I didn’t realize my signal was too weak. I tried locking and unlocking the car, but it wouldn’t respond. Even the physical key didn’t work.

Frustrated and soaked, I grabbed my rain jacket and umbrella, though I was wearing shorts. A young man named Alejandro came over and kindly offered help. He tried the car but couldn’t get it open either. He suggested someone who might help, but I remembered the rental company’s warning—if anyone else touched the car, I’d be liable.

Instead, Alejandro brought me to a café and ordered me a hot chocolate. He let me use his hotspot so I could reach Alamo. I sent them the required photos and information, then waited… and waited. They finally responded after I followed up via WhatsApp.

Alejandro had to leave shortly after, but I was grateful. I wandered the town for a while. Alamo told me it would take three hours for help to arrive. It ended up being five, plus an extra hour trying to open the car.

While wandering, I discovered Servicios Profesionales de Catación de Café – Astúa, a high-end coffee roaster. I stepped inside and met Sergio, the owner—a lively older man—and his son, who was tending the roaster. I was impressed by the state-of-the-art setup.

Sergio welcomed me and offered me coffee. I chatted with Michelle and her friend, both coffee farmers. Michelle let me use her phone to contact Alamo. I was on hold for 25 minutes before they hung up, but luckily they followed up via text.

Michelle told me about her family farm. Her friend worked in a U.S. credit card call center. Since the pandemic, he works remotely, which is easier, though he misses the social side of office life. I hung out for an hour, enjoying the warmth and wonderful smell of roasting coffee. Farmers drive from up to four hours away to roast here. Sergio has 25 years’ experience as a professional coffee taster.

Tempted though I was, I didn’t drink coffee—it was after 5, and I didn’t want to risk a sleepless night. I ventured back out in the rain, wandered to the coffee co-op warehouse, and then returned to a local soda. I called my friend Tom, who’d accidentally pocket-dialed me earlier. I told him about the car trouble and joked about sleeping in the park.

I asked the restaurant worker for some water, and realized I could pay with my phone. I ordered pollo asado al ajilloand chatted with Jorge, the owner, who had spent 13 years in the U.S. He shared some upsetting stories of discrimination—being told not to cross a line, to “speak American,” and worse. I apologized on behalf of the better side of my country.

We connected. I asked for his number, just in case the car wasn’t fixable. Turned out to be a good move.

When Alamo’s team arrived, they couldn’t open the car either. I called Jorge, who tried a few things, then called his cousin. The cousin showed up with a piece of wood and used a coat hanger Jorge had picked up at work. It worked.

Earlier, Jorge had gone to the police, but they said they couldn’t help. His wife joked about how suspicious it looked—five guys trying to break into a car. Sure enough, while I stepped across the street to toss some trash, they got it open. Classic.

In all, it had taken six hours to resolve. I gave Jorge a big hug. It was his daughter’s birthday, and I felt bad she’d had to sit and watch us the whole time. Without him, I’d probably still be stuck. The new rental was brand-new and drove beautifully. A silver lining to a long day.

I wound back up the mountain road to Rancho Los Palos, where Machita was waiting. She’d made soup, but I was still full from the soda. I told her all about my day, then crawled into bed, grateful.