Travel must surely be the litmus test of one’s propensity for morning function. I have never professed to be a “morning person.” “Mourning person” is more my speed. I mourn the screech of the alarm clock and the loss of a warm, comfortable bed while grousing my way to the kitchen to make coffee. I’d grieve much less if the day could start about 10 a.m. and end about midnight. Unfortunately, I live and work in a “morning person” world. This is how I came to be jolted awake by a too-annoyingly cheerful electro tune at 3:30 a.m.
There ought to be a law.
Prevailing law in this case is law of the travel day. My husband patiently explains, as he does at this hour during every trip, how traveling early gives us more time at our destination. I always appreciate the extra hours by the pool or at the beach, but I have difficulty appreciating anything other than a warm, comfortable bed before 6:30 a.m. I grope my way to the in-room coffee pot just as the fail-safe wake-up call rings in at 3:35. I am eternally grateful that my husband never asks how I can be ready to roll in a half hour at an airport hotel when at home I need two hours to crawl into a telephone booth and come out resembling something remotely human.
We meet our travel companions in the hotel breakfast area and eat a quick snack. By the time the airport shuttle appears, I have kicked into full travel gear. This trip is full of firsts: our youngest and oldest travelers (aged eight and nearly eighty), three first-time fliers and, for the first time in many years, no dive gear.
Yes, I am traveling with my husband. No, he is not sick.
He is happily leading the group toward the airline kiosk, helping with passport scans and cracking jokes. Some of the passports are scanned for the very first time, with shiny new pages waiting for the first stamp. I tell the story of how I convinced him to try the kiosk for the first time after one saved me and my trusty carry-on from missing a flight once. He is now an old pro, quickly scanning seven passports and moving the group quickly to airport security.
So far so good.
Two flights and seven hours later, we reach Costa Rica. As we land, we realize that the airport we described from our last trip has been significantly remodeled. The plane pulls up to a jet way connected to a sleek glass and steel building; no trek down stairs and across the airfield this trip. The facility is beautiful and modern, although the huge fans we remembered from our first visit remain faithfully spinning in the luggage area. We quietly point out the brand name of the fans when the children’s heads are turned, so we do not have to explain the three-letter word starting with the letter “a” nestled in-between “Big” and “Fans.”
Our guide for the week greets us just outside baggage claim, and we head for our first destination, Papagayo. Papagayo is on the Pacific Ocean, and that afternoon we watch joyfully while the young and young at heart play in the ocean. The ocean got a little rambunctious with one member of the group, prompting her to quickly and firmly declare that what happens in Costa Rica stays in Costa Rica.
Apparently she knows I’m a writer.
The days pass quickly. We enjoy a river tour where we see howler and capuchin monkeys and a crocodile with a wide and somewhat unnerving smile. We travel by van inland to Arenal, where we discover through soaked ponchos why the area is referred to as a rain forest and visit the gorgeous volcano where the oldest celebrates her eightieth birthday on the zip line. All too soon, we are on the last leg of our trip, which takes us to San Jose by way of the La Paz Butterfly Garden. We learn on this day that the region receives 225 inches of rain each year, preventing us from taking the normal route to LaPaz. We also learn that GPS is universal in its insistence on one too many left turns, or the need to turn where no road exists. About 2 hours into our journey, the tour guide announces that we will make a quick stop for a restroom break. We pull into a parking space and he smiles and says, “so good so far.” I smile at his attempt to use a common English phrase as I am reaching for a pen to make note of a great blog title.
The butterflies are beautiful, the trip to our last hotel scenic but otherwise uneventful, our last meal together the American food we’ve seen since home. All too soon, we pack all but the morning essentials and say good night. The next sound I hear is the ringing phone followed by the hotel alarm that I can’t silence without my glasses, accompanied by the cheerful electro tune, which (not surprisingly) is as annoying at 4:15 a.m. I’m ready in a half hour and headed to the front desk for an extra coffee pod. By 5:20 we are on the shuttle headed to the airport. We present the first challenge of the day to the young ticket agent by having seven people on one reservation, which results in a lesson on which particular keystroke assigns all seven people a seat. We make our way through two security checkpoints, where we learn that the security folks in this particular airport really do read the labels, consider yogurt a liquid, and do not allow passengers of any age to play with scissors. Soon, we are on the plane, waving goodbye to our temporary home and laughing about happy memories of our days spent together.
So good so far.