Brokedown Mountain

Well, now that I’ve got your attention, let me first say, “Happy New Year!” or “Feliz Año!” After 21 days of travel in and around California, spreading all sorts of holdiay cheer, as well as the stomach flu, to many of those near and dear to us, we are finally back in Costa Rica and ready to tackle “dos mil siete” with hopefully unequaled aplomb.

As I’ve already alluded to, we landed in California mid-December bringing more with us than our luggage off of the plane. After a few barfy days around the Bay Area, we traveled down to Santa Maria where were visited by Santa Claus (literally!) and got to recover with the Bell family. We spent several days there together, celebrating the holiday, and then Chris and I returned to the Bay for a wonderful NYE celebration in the City dancing to String Cheese with many freaks and close friends while Wilder stayed behind with the grandparents for much beloved spoiling. Upon our return, Chris’ parents arrived in Santa Maria for a couple of days to bestow even more love and “presence” upon us and Wilder. It was a fabulous time, but a very long time to be away. Needless to say, despite all of the abundance we experienced, we were missing our home and animals (and warm weather!)and were excited to return to Casa Mariposa and get back into the swing of tropical things.

Alas, reassimilating was not to be so easy. There are certain things that we did not miss – a crappy car being one of them. After a few weeks of driving a well-oiled machine on smooth-paved highways in California, we became painfully aware of such conveniences in our first couple of days home. I have only written a little bit before about all of our car troubles – of which there have been many. The poor performance of our less-than-mint 1988 Isuzu Trooper, has become an expected mainstay in our existence here (thought the fact that we even have a car I will admit is a relative luxury). Each time we retrieve the car from the mechanic from yet another round of maintanence or upgrades, it’s only a matter of days or a few short weeks before something else happens and we end up stranded on the side of the road, sometimes miles from home or in another town. This was once a “funny-ha-ha” kind of occurrence. You can guess that it’s becoming harder to find the humor in such happenings the more we find ourselves in them, especially when they come on the heels of an already long and taxing journey. Here’s the tale of our return . . .

Thursday afternoon, January 4, we departed Santa Maria and drove 4 hours through driving rains to a Best Western near the San Francisco airport, arriving just in time to eat dinner (McDonald’s – the ultimate American culinary farewell), watch a bit of TV (more American mainstays – “The Brady Bunch” and “Meet the Fockers”) and lay our heads down for several unrestful hours before jumping up to the shrill of our wake-up call at 5am, so we could catch the shuttle to the airport for our 8am flight to Houston. Amidst a few guffaws from other weary passengers, our driver helped us to load all of our personal belongings and Christmas goods onto the van – 5 suitcases, 3 carry-ons, a large packing box, Wilder’s car seat, a guitar, and a partridge in a pear tree. (Didn’t we do this last year?! Shouldn’t we have less stuff? At least we didn’t have the cats in tow.)

Once we made it to the airport and schlepped all of our stuff to the Continental counter, Chris attempted to check us in but, alas, his was the only reservation that came up. Not entertained by this, an agent proceeded to frustrate us further by telling us that Wilder and I couldn’t fly because we had only one-way tickets to Costa Rica (not being residents, we are supposed to have return tickets to the States at all times). After assuring the agent that we’d be buying return tickets in a few weeks (a little fib), she warned us that we may not be able to enter the country, but go right ahead and try. Ok, great! We’ll take the risk if it means going. (But I’m secretly thinking of how unhappy I will be if we get to San Jose, CR, and they make us sleep in the airport.) Then, as she begins to check our baggage, she realizes that our packing box is four inches too big. She informs us without much empathy or warmth that she will have to put us on a later flight so we can go buy another box and repack our current box (which has already been a nightmare to organize). Chris will not accept this and readies himself for battle just as she notices that Chris’ ticket is a first-class ticket (an upgrade thanks to all of the travel he does for Drivesavers!). She suddenly becomes sweet as pie and says, “Oh, sir, let me see what I can do for you.” Chris simply squishes the box down, retapes the top, and she accepts it without measuring it. She also checks the rest of our suitcases (a few of which I notice are overweight as she slides them across the scale) without saying a word, and slaps lovely little blue “Elite Class: Priority” stickers on them. “It’s so wrong,” Chris says about the priority treatment of first-class passengers as we walk away, but we are happy to be on the receiving end of such benefits at this point.

We get to Houston without incident, having gifted our first-class ticket to a nice lady who agreed to give her seat to Chris so we could all sit together in coach. Our layover is equally eneventful, though extended, (and includes more first-class treatement as we belatedly but successfuly request seats together)and we finally arrive in San Jose close to 10pm. We collect our multitude of luggage and stand in the customs line (Chris notices the customs agent summarily collecting and then crumpling up and tossing all the customs forms into the trash). Thanks to the long line of tourists, we get through quite easily and only have to open one bag to show and justify a big bag of dried Shitake mushrooms from Chris’ mom. We are thankful for this since we are bringing in many items that might be considered dubious (medicines, fruit and vegetable seeds, grains, computer parts, ice cream maker…). And not a word about my and Wilder’s lack of return tickets to the States. Aaah… Here we are. We taxi to our hotel and crash.

The next morning we get a free van ride home from Poas, our benevolent car rental company who does not have a car available for us but who takes many of our dollars throughout the year. A nice gentleman named Juan Carlos picks us up and drives us to Arenal. The van we’re in, however, does not have 4-wheel drive and would have a hard time making it down our road, so we stop at our mechanic’s house, where we see that our car is still sitting peacefully after 2 ½ weeks. Turns out nothing has been done to it, but it starts, so we transfer all of our baggage into it, bid Juan Carlos gracias y adios, and head back toward town to pick up our dogs from our friends Eric and Silja who have so graciously hosted the little beasts while we were away.

By the time we reach their house it is late afternoon and we are anxious to get home. So, after a wonderful and brief reunion, we pile ourselves and the dogs into our already full car, wave goodbye, turn the key in the ignition and . . . .nada. Our car doesn’t start. It’s not an ideal moment, but a laughable one, and one we can do nothing about at 6pm on a Saturday evening. Soooo, we pile back out of the car (amidst squeals of joy from Wilder and their little one Kaleb), and an impromptu slumber party replete with wine and rum ensues.

The next morning we repeat the previous night’s hopeful departure. Chris turns the key, the car starts – yeah! – so we all pile in and as Chris is trying to do a 3-point turn out of the driveway, our clutch goes out. Once again, we’re going nowhere fast. This is less than a laughable moment, but after a minute of cursing, we do so anyway. … Chris and Silja hop on the motorcycle and drive out to our neighbor Stan’s house to get his van so we can at least get home. When they return, we leave our car in their driveway, and finally get home – 4 days after we’d begun the journey. The house and animals are fine, as are we – we count our blessings and are grateful to be home.

The next day, however, we had to get to Tilaran to run a few errands, so with Stan’s blessing we took his van. On the way there, we make a quick stop to check out the lovely lake and volcano views, and when we got back in the van to continue on . . .you guessed it…it doesn’t start. Unbelievable luck we’re having, right? Now we’re responsible for two broken down cars. We start walking toward Tilaran hoping to hitch a ride and trying to maintain a semblance of positivity when Wilder says, “I love these adventures!” Our little Zen master breaks the ice just as a taxi driver we know from Arenal passes us by on the way to Tilaran. We flag him down within five minutes of having been stranded we not only get a much-appreciated ride to Tilaran where we’re able to eat lunch and run our errands, but also get a ride back to Arenal with him. Que suerte! (Just to give you a clue as to how often this happens, we are talking over lunch about the last time Wilder and I got a ride from this cabby -- I say it was when our car died in front of Wilder’s school, and Wilder says, “No, it was the time when our steering went out.” Regardless, it’s hard to keep track. But what a way to have to orient and remember the people and events in our lives, eh?!)

As we drive into Arenal, we see Nago with Stan’s truck and are able to get a ride back home, stopping along the way at the mechanic’s to arrange the rescue of Stan’s van. In the meantime, our car is at another mechanic’s, awaiting yet another course of maintenance that we hope is not of great magnitude. But now we’re home, albeit 4 hours later than expected and without a car – yet Stan’s cars are on the mend and he’s offered us the use of one of his beaters this week if we need it.

Despite all the hassles, we are once again reminded of how much luck and support we have down here. No matter what happens, there are always angels watching over us. Happy new year indeed! What more does it have in store? One thing we can be sure of -- the adventure will continue.