Here is the last of my travel journals, which I originally forgot to post, and then decided not to post, but I actually heard that a surprising number of people were interested. It sort of ends with a whimper, but this will bring closure for us all.

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION, PART NINE
Costa Rica: Marriott, and Home

The Airport Marriott might be a mildly pleasant oasis in any major city, but in San Jose, it is a major deal. Signs (not commercial billboards, but actual municipal street signs) on the highway point it out from kilometers around in every direction, but despite this, our taxi driver could not seem to find it. After a meandering drive through suburbs and a shantytown that appeared to be constructed entirely of cardboard and corrugated tin, we pulled up in front of one of the most beautiful hotels I have ever seen. Alone on a huge plot of land, the building is constructed in the grand Spanish colonial style. Bellmen came to whisk our bags to the check-in counter, and after a brief transaction, the attendant led us through the tiled corridors to our room, pointing out restaurants and other amenities as we went. The room, though the cheapest in the building, was luxurious, overlooking the golf course. Toiletries lined the bathroom counter (I later stole as many of these as would fit in my bag), and robes hung in the closet. The room was even equipped for DSL, to which I wasted no time connecting my Internet-starved laptop. Coming from the Casa de las Tias, this was a pleasant step up. If we had just come from the beach, or some other squalid adventure, I would have wept tears of joy and handcuffed myself to the bed.

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My brother Mike travels the world with a concentrated effort of finding "hotel" rooms for under a dollar. Before a recent jaunt to Southeast Asia, his record had been two dollars in San Jose, the same city Rob and I were currently basking in our one hundred seventy-five dollar palace. Rob went to the spa and worked out while I wrote, surfed the Internet, and took a nap. Later, we sat at the hotel’s gourmet restaurant (one of three), listened to live guitar music, and watched a lightning storm in the distance. It was a beautiful, comfortable evening, during which I almost managed to banish from my mind the images of poverty-stricken areas we had witnessed earlier that day and throughout our trip.

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We awoke at four the next morning and caught the airport shuttle at five. We arrived at the airport several hours before our flight (as recommended by the airline) and killed time by browsing in the shops and eating breakfast. A crazy young woman sat near us at the gate, and I wish I could say that the conversation she had with herself was earnest and enlightening, but rather it seemed as if she was narrating her actions in maniacal tones. “I’m putting my hand in my purse now! I found a Kleenex!” This upset Rob on principle and me because I was trying to read, so we moved our seats to avoid her, as well as the sixty or so American teenagers from some exchange program who showed up in identical shirts and behaved like hyenas before, during, and after the flight.

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And then we came home.

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In the taxi from JFK airport—gliding over the slick, potholed streets—the driver said that we brought the rain back with us.

“No, we didn’t,” I said.

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Goblin was rather thrilled to see us.

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So . . . three weeks in Costa Rica, and what did I learn? Here it is in a nutshell:

1. Keep your wallet in your front pocket.

2. Plan for travel delays on bumpy roads

3. If you plan to fly on a tiny regional airplane, take the earliest flight possible to avoid delays and bad weather.

4. The continental plates will collide again before a Costa Rican waiter brings you your bill.

Have fun!