In a few short hours, I’ll be heading back to New York from Costa Rica. I’m in the capital city of San Jose now, at our quaint resting place for the night, the expansively named De’Luxe BackPakers. I’m happily stuffed with rice and beans, trying to confirm my departing flight online, while my traveling companion is out on the city chaperoning two jail-bait-looking Israeli party girls to “The Simpsons” movie, perhaps the only English language film they could find. A moth the size of Rhode Island is perched on the wall above my head, a reminder that even in this gritty capital one is never far from the jungle. Our accomodations, at an unbeatable $10 a night, are perfectly adequate, but I would not have had the cojones to call the place De’Luxe. (Call me demanding, but I reserve the word deluxe for hotels that, at a minimum, have toilets that can accomodate not only bodily excretions but toilet tissue at well.) On the plus side, there’s a pool table, a nice glass chess set with which Damian and I did battle, and free Internet stations for those guests, like the Israeli girls, who seem to be spending as much time texting their MySpace friends as exploring the city. More on Costa Rica later so that I’m not guilty of the same.
San Jose, Costa Rica