I’d planned on having all my recaps of Costa Rica up by now, but my plans were rudely interrupted after being called in for jury duty. I received my original summons in July but decided I’d use my one postponement. It was summer and I just didn’t feel like it. Plus, they let you pick when you’d rather have it. I thought October was a solid choice.
As a stand-by juror, I was supposed to call in after 5 p.m. every day for a week to see if I’d be needed the next day. The idea of this annoyed the crap out of me. Lunch plans and meeting babies were put on hold. A few friends had jury duty recently, so I assumed I’d go in for a day or two like they did, then be dismissed.
Ha. Totally wrong.
I had to report Tuesday morning at 8:30. The central waiting room had wi-fi, which obviously made me happy. I was able to read e-mails and blogs that I hadn’t had time to that morning because I had to be there so early and I had no idea how the commute would be.
The theme of the day was waiting. We waited to hear what was going on. We waited for the TV to come back on. We waited while officers and our leader lady collected our summons (and boy was there mass confusion about what to tear off and who should hold onto their summons). It was such a process with so many people, and I couldn’t imagine having to deal with that every. single. day. At one point, while leader lady was taking attendance for a group, and people weren’t responding to their names, she bellowed “Say ‘here’ like you’re proud of the name your momma gave you.” It made us laugh.
Finally the first group of potential jurors was called early, just to get people out of the central waiting room because it’d become standing room only. About 45 minutes later the second group was called. The whole time the announcer called names, I repeated Destiny Child’s “Say my name” in my head, willing my name to be called so I could just get on with my day.
Surprisingly, it worked. Our group of 75 was taken down the street to the court house, where we then waited in the hallway for more than an hour before being let in the court room. Sixteen people were then randomly picked to fill the jurors box for questions. A couple were quickly let go and I was drawn to replace one.
Before I know it, after I’ve told all the people related to the case everywhere I’ve lived and for how long, what I do, whether I have children and confirmed that I understand common sense, I was one of three jurors picked. Minutes after I’d heard my name, I was being sworn in as Juror Number Three. It took two more days to fill the rest of spots, though we often had no idea what was going on. Sometimes we watched the rest of the process. Sometimes we were sent into a room with no explanation of why we were waiting there or when our court officer would be back for us. I joked we should bring games, solely to see our court officer’s reaction to opening the door to a game of Twister. I also tried to initiate some group bonding on the elevator as we crammed in to the leave building, hollering “Group 23 in the house!” That seemed to go over pretty well.
I have no idea what’s in store for me (besides going all day without Internet, a true struggle for me), but I hope to be able to share more insight once the process is over. For now, I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Which is a weird feeling.
Since I’ve been back in New York, people have asked what I’m up to as an unemployed person. My first week back after traveling, I was bored out of my mind (and not enjoying all the unpacking/reorganizing of my room and closet after being gone five weeks). But then things like this happen, when I go see Martha Stewart just because she’s famous and I don’t have anywhere to be at 5 p.m.
(After the photographers took pictures of her holding her new books — shouting things like “Martha, look to your right please. Please Martha, right. Look to the right.” “Over here Martha! Your right, just could you maybe hold the books the other way?” — she whipped out her camera and took pictures of them. For her blog. Apparently Martha gets a kick out of the number of page views her “little personal blog” gets. I can’t remember if it was 7,000 a day or 7 million a month, but it was crazy.)
(As much as I wanted her “Encyclopedia of Crafts,” I couldn’t justify spending $35 when it’s only $20 on Amazon.)
Her book signing was at the new Michael’s craft store opening on the Upper West Side. This is a huge development in the craft world, as the only other store nearby is in Queens. But this new one. Holy cow. It’s insane. The aisles are entirely too small and all the employees drove me crazy, but the stuff that was stocked made me want to go on a shopping spree. Because who doesn’t need a $124.99 paper cutter?
The day after I arrived in Costa Rica, Matt and I set off for La Fortuna, home of La Arenal Volcano and some waterfalls. The five-hour bus ride was like nothing I’d ever experienced. We were able to find seats together, but after a few stops, the bus became standing-room only, with people squished in the aisle and overflowing onto my face. Every so often, as I’d have some stranger’s butt or stomach brushing against me (who needs personal space?), I’d curl my feet up on on my chair so Matt could cross his under mine because these buses weren’t exactly designed with someone 6-foot-4 in mind. These buses also weren’t designed with people’s bladders in mind, because they don’t have bathrooms. The idea of a bumpy five-hour bus ride after downing a bunch of water left me fearing my bladder would burst on board. Luckily no such thing happened.
On the bright side, the long ride was perfect for listening to music. I took one of Matt’s earbuds hostage and quickly became a fan of Band of Horses, Kings of Leon and Bon Iver. I never learned the names of the songs, so for the rest of the trip I’d just say “Can you play that one I really liked, when his voice was all raspy (as I gestured with my hands crinkling by my throat).” And Matt would know exactly which one I was talking about, which was amazing, because I wasn’t even sure which band I was referring to.
Once we made it to La Fortuna, we ducked into a restaurant for dinner because of a massive downpour. After the storm let up, we checked into our hostel, where we ended up staying the rest of the night because the monsoon returned. Thankfully our hostel had happy hour, which nearly everyone staying there took advantage of. Unfortunately the one bartender-slash-chef was bombarded by us all and it took forever to get drinks.
The weather held out the next day, which worked out well for our hike to the waterfall. The clouds even parted a bit so you could see the top of the volcano. The animals we saw along the way were pretty entertaining. All the horses would come up to the fences by the street, as if to pose for the tourists.
It took about 90 minutes to walk there, and it was brutally hot the whole way. Despite handwashing the clothes I wore that day in Costa Rica and washing them in a machine once I got back to New York, I think they still smell. That’s how potent the mixture of my sweat + bug spray + sunscreen was. I bet you really wanted to know that.
After all the climbing up to the volcano area, it was a steep, rugged walk down to the waterfall. Loose chains and rope provided the “railing” between you and death by tumbling into the forest. The uneven stairs were crumbling rocks. I moved so slowly, afraid of slipping and getting hurt. Once we made it to the waterfall, it was a whole new battle. We took off our tennis shoes and switched to flip flops to walk on the rocks out to the water. I may as well have been playing Twister with the awkward maneuvering I had going on.
Even once we made it into the freezing water, we had trouble finding our footing because of the slippery moss. Our swim out to the waterfall lasted a whole four seconds because we kept getting pushed back to shore. Every time we looked over at our hostel roommate Sarah, she appeared to be nearly drowning from a new wave. And after I was swept up by a wave as I was climbing out, to the point of falling into the splits and gnashing my calf on a rock, I chose to perch atop a rock, all mermaid-like, to avoid any future currents that would try to have their way with me. Matt, on the other hand, managed to sit in the water like it was a calm kiddie pool.
Matt and I took it easy our second day in La Fortuna, starting with some delicious coffee and pancakes with nutella for breakfast at a nearby cafe (thus continuing my addiction to nutella). It was an open-air restaurant and our seats were right behind the entryway, which created a perfect vortex of breeze that made me never want to leave. The cafe was also a breeding ground for waiters with overly gelled hair. Made you question how much money they spent on hair gel and how much of their morning routine was devoted to spiking their hair up and out. The rest of the day we hung out in our hostel pool, enjoying the beautiful weather (and trying to avoid an annoying alcoholic Canadian who kept talking at us).
Our last day in La Fortuna, we visited Baldi Hot Springs. We’d been hearing rave reviews about it from people at our hostel, that they had more than 30 pools of varying temperatures, plus waterslides. We never found the waterslides, but we hopped from pool to pool, like Goldilocks, trying to find the right temperature. One was so scalding that Matt ran right through it, and when I waded in, I felt like my body was on fire. We met some middle-aged women from Costa Rica who really enjoyed talking to Matt. I had trouble with their accents, but I did catch on that Matt told them I loved Target and wanted to design stationery. The women didn’t entirely believe that I didn’t know Spanish, as I nodded along when Matt would say something. And every time they asked him — in Spanish — if I knew the language, I would look at them and shake my head no. It made me laugh. They tried getting me to speak Spanish but I wouldn’t budge. Ole!
The hot springs were incredibly relaxing, minus a few splash fights (Matt started them). We were only able to stay for a couple hours though because we had to catch a bus to Monteverde.
My mom used to say that my way of dealing with things was avoidance. And while I vehemently disagreed with her at the time (and now don’t think it’s applicable anymore), I have fallen back to my old habits. Because I don’t want to tell you about Costa Rica. Because that means it’s over. And if Costa Rica is over, my whole five glorious weeks of travel are finished. And I am stuck in New York without a job or plane tickets, left to debate whether I should wear tights under my jeans because it’s getting cold. And to think not long ago I was in a swimsuit, marveling at how many freckles I was accumulating.
But I can’t not talk about ziplining through a forest and hiking to a waterfall and how I apparently do not cut vegetables fast enough. So I will deal with reality for just a little while, just so I can share my stories with you.
(view from my plane going to Costa Rica)
The final leg of my amazing trip was eight days in Costa Rica with one of my best friends, Matt (the trip was originally nine days, but I accidentally missed my flight). If I was telling this story in person, I would pause and make him tell the part about how we know each other, because it makes me laugh. He’d say that we went to high school together and have known each other for 10 years, but we didn’t become friends until college (when we worked on the yearbook together. Did you even know that colleges still had yearbooks?). My story would say that we met and became friends my freshman year of college, but once in high school he said something sassy to me. Something he conveniently doesn’t remember. He’s lived abroad for four years and has been traveling around South and Central America for the past six months. Before I’d even been laid off, I’d been telling people that should layoffs at work happen again, I wanted to meet up with Matt. And somehow it magically worked out that he’d be in a location that I could fly to with my Jet Blue pass. I love when the Universe is nice to me.
When Matt picked me up at the airport, all I knew was that we’d be staying the night in San Jose, but our plans for the rest of the trip were up in the air. No reservations. No bus tickets. No itinerary. Six months ago I would’ve been freaking out about this, but after showing up to a hostel that didn’t exist and missing a flight, I knew I’d be fine, not to mention Matt speaks Spanish, which makes a huge difference (lest I remind you of my Santo Domingo experience).
After lunch, we grabbed coffee and ran into a friend he’d met traveling. She told us about a free film festival. The movie was supposed to have subtitles, which it did, but they turned out to be in Spanish. So I had no clue what was going on. The quality wasn’t too great either, which resulted in Matt and his friend (a native Spanish speaker) not understanding what was going on either. All I remember is lots of boob shots, some midgets and a small child wandering around with a shotgun. Other than that, who knows.
What I wasn’t expecting was San Jose’s overwhelming number of incredibly persistent beggar children. The city felt a little familiar to me, like a more modernized, tourist-friendly version of Santo Domingo. Even though the Dominican Republic isn’t as well off as Costa Rica, I never had people pestering me for money, and I was even traveling alone. One night in an ice cream shop, Matt turned down a boy asking for money. The boy then started talking to me (because that’s a brilliant back-up plan). I kept shaking my head and saying no, Matt sternly told him in Spanish to get the hell outta there, and the ice cream employees (who were oddly dressed like nurses) called for security because he wouldn’t leave us alone. This kind of encounter probably happened to us at least six other times. And we barely spent any time in San Jose. Because the next day we left in search of waterfalls.
I’m back in New York, unemployed, unsure what’s in store for me next, running through a bunch of options for the future (magazine publishing isn’t quite a promising industrythese days…) I was going through a saved e-mail with a bunch of quotes and came across this one, which seems fitting at the moment.
“Who do we want to be…and how do we go about the process of becoming in a world of endless options, distractions and possibilities?” —Winifred Gallagher
Yes sir, a lot of contemplation going on over here.
(the subject line of this post is not a typo. it’s something my bff tasha would use in e-mails, and came to represent a mish-mash of inexpressible feelings.)
I’m going through major travel withdrawals right now, but watching this totally lifted my spirits. And it gives me hope for returning to the workforce — that these kinds of people still exist. People who lip-sync to the Backstreet Boys and twirl around office chairs while holding laptops and have crazy wide eyes. AWESOME.
Today’s my last day in Costa Rica, the last day of all my travels. Tomorrow I head back to New York (via Orlando). Part of me is so ready to be back in my bed, to be able to use my own shower, to be in a place with plumbing that lets you flush toilet paper (in Costa Rica you just put it in the trash basket. It just feels so gross). The other part would gladly continue to endure restless sleep in hostels, wear shower shoes and convert currency in exchange for new experiences, situations, sights and cities.
It’s absolutely beautiful here, though, and I’ve had a lot of fun exploring, relaxing and catching up with my friend Matt. Once I have more reliable internet (i.e. in my own room!) I’ll have recaps and photos ready to go.
Until then, here’s a photo of a waterfall in La Fortuna.
After missing my flight on Wednesday, I debated a few options of how to spend my day. I didn’t have anything to read, so it seemed my only option was to walk 50 minutes to Wal-Mart to pick up a book (the nearest legit bookstore was more than a two-hour walk away. Say it with me now: Ahhh, hell no.) Because I didn’t have anything else to do, a 50-minute walk didn’t seem too bad. Not to mention, my body could stand to move a little more after a month of two-desserts-a-day, wine, cheese and eating out.
And so I set off with a map — scrawled on the back an old itinerary — of my path to Wal-Mart. It seemed easy enough, and I’d actually been there on Tuesday night to pick up last-minute toiletries when my former roommate Aimee drove in to Orlando so we could have dinner. But that visit was in a car, and it didn’t seem so far away.
Oh boy. Does perspective change once you’ve been sweltering in 100-degree heat, trying to figure out why sidewalks abruptly end and cross walk signals are defective or non-existent. A few times I had to walk in the bike lane, which was sometimes between the normal lanes and the right turn lane. Which obviously made me feel incredibly safe. The cross walks were useless to me…there was no official walk when I wanted to cross, and when there was one, I’d have to wait five minutes for the official signal. So I decided to bob and weave when I felt like it. Which brought back memories of Santo Domingo and its national past-time of playing frogger in highway traffic.
I listened to my iPod to pass the time, which marginally helped. Half-way there I had the urge to start signing out loud. I was the only person on the sidewalks for as far as I could see, and maybe all the people driving by would just think I was using a hands-free phone. Or something. I debated whether I had the courage to just sing out loud, pausing my train of thought to watch a lizard dart across the sidewalk or wonder if it was normal for all these planes to be flying so close to my head.
After I decided I really didn’t care what anyone driving down Lee Vista Boulevard thought of me, I began my accompaniment to this jewel of a song.
And because I had all the time in the world, I replayed it a few times, trying to sing the three-part round ALL BY MYSELF. Crazy, right? If anyone were listening, they would’ve thought I was schizophrenic, because I was making no sense at all. “Glide away come around gain promise not chain off door i’ll take and if come around again soapy heels.” In all honesty, if I actually had my own round that I was supposed to sing, it’d probably still come off schizophrenic sounding because I’d get distracted by everyone else. But I don’t think the lizards, butterflies and ponds minded much.
I arrived at Wal-Mart, drenched in sweat. The book selection was pathetic. Cheesy inspirational religious books and romance novels consumed the shelves. They didn’t even have a nonfiction section. It’s Wal-Mart for heaven’s sake! I settled for cherry tomatoes, granola bars, grapes, Vitamin Water (only $1 per bottle! A true bargain! But they tasted kinda weird), and pineapple, which, thank you karma, was from Costa Rica.
On my 50-minute walk back to my hotel (during which I drank two of my four Vitamin Waters), I stopped at Wendy’s for lunch (other option: Cracker Barrel) and acquired plastic silverware to use to eat my fruit. The rest of the walk back to my hotel, all I could think of was taking a shower or going swimming. So when I got back, I got ready for the pool (noticing the newest spots that got too much sun: my lips and my feet, which now have a Birkenstock tan line). The pool was empty, so I swam and tried some stuff I learned in water running class, which was only partially successful because I didn’t have a flotation device to keep me afloat.
After my arms started feeling the burn (from exercise, not the sun), I took a nap. When I looked up, I saw a squirrel and a lizard looking right at me, a few feet away on the perimeter of the pool. Lovely. I looked to my left and saw a lizard climbing up one of the lounge chairs. Seriously, what’s with the lizards.
My plan to go to bed early failed once I decided to wash clothes in the sink. Then I worried that they wouldn’t dry overnight, so I hand dried two shirts, shorts and underwear during commercial breaks of “So You Think You Can Dance” and “Glee.”
I was up by 4:45 a.m. today, on the airport shuttle at 7 and waiting in my gate by 7:45. My flight departs at 10:10 a.m., but I’m not messing it up this time. Costa Rica, here I come!
My flight to Costa Rica left at 10:10 this morning. At 9:50 a.m., I was sitting in a hotel lobby in Orlando, hitting my head against the seafoam green table. I missed my flight, and it is all my fault.
This video best expresses my feelings:
(more of the freak out, less the chic)
Yesterday when I signed up for the hotel shuttle to the airport, I looked at the time on my return flight from Costa Rica. Today as I sat in the lobby, checking e-mail while waiting for the airport shuttle, I pulled out my boarding pass (apparently my eyes glazed over during the entire online process and I neglected to look at the time) and realized my flight was taking off in 20 minutes. I stared in disbelief at my computer. My heart pounded hard and fast. I think I was shaking. I dug through my carry on bag for my phone. I scrolled down to Jet Blue (yep, saved them! Thank God.) and couldn’t hold back my freak out from the kind phone operator. My voice quivered as I explained my situation, and as she did computer things, I mumbled things like “I can’t believe I did this. Uhhh, what am I going to do?” And after she set me up on stand-by for Thursday, so said she hoped my day got better. Me too. What’s really ironic is that I purposely scheduled my flight to Costa Rica the day before Jet Blue All-You-Can-Jet Pass expired, in case something would happen.I really hope this wasn’t some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.
As far as bad things happening, this isn’t terrible. I have a place to stay already (unlike Eugene, when my hostel didn’t exist). There’s just nothing around here though (except Denny’s and TGIFriday’s, which I think gave me food poisoning yesterday). I also forgot my books at home when I switched from rolly luggage to a backpack. And don’t even get me started on the communication blitz I sent to my friend Matt across e-mail, Facebook and Skype, hoping he wouldn’t be picking me up at the airport as I continue to camp out in the hotel lobby, because it’s the only place with wireless internet, and right now, wireless internet is the only thing making me happy.
So now that my day is wide open, I’m left contemplating some truly exciting options. Pool (is this really sensible, Jacky, considering you are STILL peeling from a burn you got two weeks ago?). TV. Internet in the hotel lobby. Walking 50 minutes to Wal-Mart. I may be in the place where dreams come true, but right now it’s kind of a nightmare.
On the bright side, now I’ll be around to watch “So You Think You Can Dance” and “Glee” on TV.
The last time someone tried to stress to me the importance of using seatbelts was my first NYC trip to the doctor in 2008 (because I didn’t understand my health fund, and therefore didn’t use my health insurance, the first year I lived here). The conversation came from nowhere, just like the decree that she [...] […]
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A word that encapsulates your year? Unexpected. The magazine I worked for went through massive layoffs in March. Then I got laid off in August. My parents got a second dog. I was a freelance designer for the first time. Then I traveled for five weeks. When I returned from Costa Rica, I served on [...] […]
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