Nomadic Narrative

My mini-vacation last weekend to a town just outside of San José was perfectly imperfect. As usual, I headed out with at least an end destination in mind—this time, Heredia. Sometimes, I’ll even go as far as identify a possible place to spend the night in my Lonely Planet guide. Still, the perfectly imperfect weekends always start out with a little, let’s say, drama.

I first wound my way through downtown to find the bus stop for Heredia—Costa Rica has tons of bus stops scattered about serving particular areas as opposed to a few bus stations. The buses left regularly and I was in Heredia within twenty minutes.

I get off of the bus and walk toward the Parque Central. As I saunter by storefronts, it starts to rain.

Images of jumping back on the bus and returning home where I could hide under warm covers cross my mind. I look up and see a café overlooking the Parque Central—which is surrounded by colonial architecture, the Iglesia de la Inmaculada Concepción, and a solitary turret that once formed part of a Spanish fortress called El Fortín. This was a great spot to enjoy a warm cappuccino. Thoughts of fleeing slowly fade away.

In the café, I decide to follow my trusty Lonely Planet guide and check out a recommended hotel two blocks from the plaza. I find myself standing in front of the hotel’s business sign reflecting the head of Jesus and announcing: “Open 24 hours.” I just wasn’t in the mood.

I decide to find the fancier hotel which my guidebook lists as having great views and a rooftop Jacuzzi. I was sort of treating myself to a quick weekend out of the city, so I decide to splurge.

I arrive at the Hotel Vallodolid which is upscale in that Quentin Tarantino sort of way. A friendly young man with a new glass eye, still bruised bright-red, leads me to my room. When he shows me a room facing the interior, I say that I am escaping the city and hoping to find something more…he cuts me off and says “less confining?” I say, yes. He runs downstairs, returns with another key, and leads me to a room overlooking the entire central valley.

I grab a smaller bag and head out. At the reception area, I hear loud slams, look around the corner, and see the young man dragging a giant wooden box spring down the hall. I interrupt and ask about the Jacuzzi. He says it was out-of-order and offers me his set of keys to check it out. Why not, I think. (Can you see why Tarantino-like scenes crept into my mind, or is it just me?)

I start walking in no particular direction when it starts to rain, again. I could have stayed home to hide from the rain, I think, and keep walking. I notice a bar/restaurant half-full with a mix of people, so I decide to pop in for a late afternoon beer. Sipping my Bavaria, I notice a couple of people eating these heaping bowls of something lined with tortilla chips and topped with a giant slice of avocado. I ask the waiter what they were eating and he practically whispers chifrijo and says that it’s on another menu. It was the bocas menu which is an appetizer menu. Of the four pages of options, I try this thing called chifrijo.

Protected from the rain in a friendly, local hole-in-the-wall, eating a kind of “nacho soup,” I thought that these are the moments we search for. They are not always extravagant. In fact, they are often so simple.