Here it is. I don’t know what happened in Costa Rica.
A lot of my readers are friends with me, so already have the context to this. Halfway through my trip last week, I lost my debit card. Misplaced, stolen – I don’t know. I didn’t notice until I was in Monteverde, a mountainous region about 4 hours from San Jose.
Leading up to that, I was already feeling anxious. I’m not sure why. I had spent a blissful two days in San Jose. Driftylandmissy was in full swing. I found an indie art-house that screened free movies, visited every coffee shop within walking distance. I felt good, and the trip was going well.
And then I decided to stay in San Jose another day.
The reasons were simple: I had a lot of work to do. I didn’t want to go offline for four hours and risk upsetting anyone on my team. So I stuck it out another night, booking a cheaper room in the same hostel.
I didn’t realize this until the trip was nearly over, but I don’t do well when I’m in a place for too long. I could have guessed. But I suppose it takes an experience such as this to shed light.
I didn’t want to be in San Jose anymore. I worked and worked, but felt trapped and displeased with my decision to stay. I was only putting Monteverde off for a day, but that was a day wasted from my trip. The trip out of the city would be brief, and for some reason, the disappointment of that rocked me. I couldn’t go with the flow.
The next day, I decided to buck up. The thought crossed my mind to pick up some cash, in case my hotel in Monteverde did not take a card. I did this quickly, stopping briefly at a local store to pick up a souvenir. When I got on the shuttle, I felt good and energized.
It was only myself and another girl, who was from London. We chatted a little, but I mostly slept. That was another advantage of a private shuttle over a public bus – feeling like it was safe to sleep.
When we arrived in Monteverde, it was dark. The driver, who wasn’t allowed to drop me off that far up the mountain, definitely didn’t do it anyway… cough, cough. But I arrived at my hotel, greeted by an older Costa Rican man who spoke fluent Spanish.
We quickly established that I did not.
The hotel overlooked miles and miles of land, all the way out to a lake. It was breathtaking. I stood there, just marveling at it when the owner handed me a cup of coffee. Rich, bold, black. I took a sip.
Incredible.
I felt better. This is what I had waited for. After definitely not smoking a cigarette with the owner, he called me a cab, and I went downtown. I strolled up and down the cozy streets, exploring coffee shops and local art stores. At some point, I opened my wallet for my debit card…
…and found nothing.
I immediately got a cab back to my hotel. When I arrived, I tore into my room, dumping out everything. Thankfully, my passport was still in my backpack. But the debit card was not amongst the receipts, old library cards, and maxed out credit cards (hey, I only have two) in my bag.
It was gone.
I counted the money I had. $80 USD, enough for my room that night, and maybe 1-2 cab rides into town.
I freaked. I messaged Chase and asked him to call my mom. I got into a Facebook group chat with my family and started planning out what to do. There was a Western Union in town, but I had no idea if it was open or closed. I was planning on grabbing the public bus back, after this, I didn’t want to.
My mom worked on booking the shuttle. My older sister made jokes, mostly in an attempt to make sure I was actually Melissa. In the meantime, Chase called me from Facebook messenger and reassured me. It was a shitshow.
At some point, the owner of the hotel called his daughter, who spoke fluent English. I explained what had happened, and she said she was swinging by in the morning to see her father anyway, in case I needed help.
When I finally went to bed that night, I felt like a failure. I wrote out a lengthy post on Facebook and turned out the lights. Before falling asleep, I looked out at the velvety black sky, littered with bright stars. I wish I could have enjoyed it more.
We resolved everything the next day. The Western Union was indeed open, and after some back and forth, we booked the shuttle. I spent a few hours downtown, and got to see some monkeys. In fact, when I woke up, they were climbing all over my window. Upon me taking a photo, one of them hissed at me, scrunching up his little face defiantly.
I got back to San Jose, and the shuttle dropped me off at a Marriott. All of my saltiness towards chains aside, I was relieved. I didn’t want to have a hostel adventure that night, and I didn’t want to explore San Jose anymore. I just wanted to take a hot shower and go to bed.
On the shuttle ride back from Monteverde, I read. I was supposed to read Who Moved My Cheese? for work anyway, and having exhausted all of my magazines, I pulled it out.
For those of you not familiar, WMMC is a concise book. It’s about adapting to change. After reading it, I thought a lot about the trip, about my reactions, and about travel in general. I thought about the last few months.
I’ve always considered myself to be a long-term traveler, desiring more time in locations to “get to know it better.” I’ve always found a lot of value in that, or at least I thought I did. Thinking back and evaluating my past trips, I realized that my favorite trips were the shorter ones.
Except for Iceland (always the exception), I greatly disliked spending more than 3-4 days in a place. I got bored. I got antsy. In fact, my one trip to England, where I house-sat and took care of a cat for two weeks, was probably one of the worst travel experiences I’ve had. Not because of the location, but because I was there for too long. I felt trapped. I was going through a breakup, and I was in a town where I didn’t know anyone.
Reading that summary back to myself now, it sounds like something that me, DriftylandMissy, would be great at dealing with. But I wasn’t. Then I think about my trip to Europe last year, where I city-hopped the entire time. I was only gone for a week and a half, and I did not spend more than three days somewhere. I had a great trip, and I’m wondering if that’s why.
In an attempt to take more affordable, longer trips, I’ve taken budget trips, stretching out the time I could spend in a place. Instead, I’m realizing, I spent more money over a period taking more extended, but more mediocre trips.
Damn.
Has my whole travel experience been a lie?
I have to think about this more. There’s some truth there. Over the past few years, I’ve developed an issue with sitting still. I’m at my least productive, my least satisfied. I am not a creature of habit, and perhaps, it’s more severe than I once believed.
I took a lot away from this trip, and I’m not just talking about the packs of Britt’s Coffee I lifted from the hotel (complimentary ones, people). I learned how much I need to be stimulation, and how boredom creates unrest in me. But perhaps the most important takeaway is that I need to give myself more credit.
No, I mean – I literally need a higher credit limit. And an inconspicuous, secure fanny pack.