It’s 6:30 in the morning. We’re in Pearson International in Toronto (aka YYZ, and no, not the Rush song), eating breakfast, hoping our flight will actually leave on time today. Because yesterday was a shitshow.
Monkey dropped Alex, Choo Choo, and I at the airport. It felt a bit off to be going somewhere – anywhere, really – without Monkey. But we would not be travelling with her this time. For the first time.
Alex turns 50 in eight days. She declared a couple of years ago that she would only do so in Costa Rica. As it happens, Monkey is now in university, and having her take over a week off is not the best timing, especially since the second semester of her first year has just started. So it’s just the three of us.
And no, before you think otherwise, we are not concerned about the house. Sure, Monkey will have friends over, we expect that. She will not be having blowouts. How do I know that? Because I know my daughter. And I’ve come to know her friends.
Our flight was supposed to board at 11:30. There’s only three ways to Costa Rica from Calgary: direct (overnight, which Alex refused to do), via Toronto, or via the United States (which is a non-starter; we might never be travelling to the United States of Fascism ever again). Our flight to Toronto would put us un around 17:28, which was perfect timing to have dinner with Cathy (preferably at a restaurant near to the hotel we’d be staying in).
Security flagged Alex while we were in the line, even before we got to the machines. As it happened, it was random, and shortcut the rest of the line, getting us through security in mere minutes (once again delayed with my camera equipment). We were departing from a gate in the B section, which was a real oddity for us – we normally go out through A or D.
Literally within seconds of turning down B, the text came in. The flight was already delayed 1.25 hours. Toronto was having a blizzard. That Toronto gets blizzards is one thing, that Pearson is the 15th busiest airport in North America (wedged between Newark and Houston, both of which I’ve had to endure) is another thing. Throw them together and the cascading delays ripple across the country.
Not long later, the flight was delayed another hour.
The plane we were taking was originating from Regina. Not something that would normally be an issue for equipment – Toronto wasn’t a factor for the plane – however the crew was MIA, as we would learn. Where was the crew? No-one knew, or was willing to admit. So the flight was very late.
The plane arrived in Calgary at 14:00. Which needed 45 minutes for turnaround: getting people off, cleaning, getting us boarded and loaded. Except that the First Officer was now missing on our end! Dinner was clearly off.
Delayed until 16:00. Four and a half hours late. Five hours by the time we finally pushed back. Not the worst weather-caused delay I’ve experienced (that was the Christmas flight from YVR to YYZ, where we sat on the plane for four hours before we could depart), but easily the most frustrating.
The flight was otherwise normal, save for the multiple loops over Kitchener whilst we waited for space to land at YYZ. We landed at 22:30. It was another 40 minutes before we could get off the plane, because there was no space at any of the terminals. And the line of planes desperate to get off the ground, still in the midst of a snowstorm, was unreal.
Even more unreal was the baggage claim. I stupidly decided the best thing was to collect the bags at the YYZ end so we could ensure there were checked in properly for the flight to Costa Rica. Which meant we had to collect them. I know that sounds very obvious, but I should add the sheer insanity of the wait…
Multiple flights had been cancelled. The baggage claim area was packed with people suffering the ignominy of cancellation and having to find their bags so they could make alternate arrangements. Which meant the baggage throwers were probably working overtime to unload planes and deal with the bags that had never made it to a plane. Several carousels were listing multiple flights. It was an hour before we saw our bags.
And it was well past the hour to get a meal at any restaurant. Thankfully, some kind soul at the Subway just outside the claim area keep the store open. It was a long line, but we managed to eat for the first time in what felt like a dozen hours.
The shuttle was slow. The taxi line was massive. There was no clear idea which would have been faster. We finally got into our beds at 02:00 Toronto time, with alarms set for a mere four hours later.
But, in theory, our flight is on time. The plane’s actually here. Mind you, I’m so tired, this could all be a dream and I’m still asleep and missing the flight…
The flight took off on time. Correction: it left the terminal on time, which got us to deicing, so we were a bit late actually getting off the ground. Which was fine for Alex, she was actively trying to figure out if she could get Adventure Labs from the air. Hilariously, she got one stop somewhere in Ohio before we got out of range.
The highlight of the flight (for me) was passing over Cape Canaveral. I hoped to see the SLS on the pad, ready to launch the next Artemis mission, but I think we were just a titch too far to the east to see it. Still, I did get a picture.
We arrived in Liberia pretty close to on-time. We’ve never flown into Liberia before, having always gone into San José. Since we were spending all of our time on the western half of the country, it just made things easier.
The wall of heat slapped us on the way out the door. Choo Choo was immediately melting, with me not far behind. Alex was fine, technically, since this was more the temperature she liked, though we were all dressed for colder climes, so air conditioning in the terminal was welcome.
About half of North America was arriving in Costa Rica, it seemed. We entered the line just inside the door, which would back and forth about 20 times (I lost count) before we could get to the Immigration desk. We had to state our schedule: where were we going, on what dates, when were we leaving?
Then it was off to baggage claim (nearly instantaneous, as we’d been in line for about 90 minutes), and then through Customs (two x-ray machines with a pair of barely-dressed guards watching the contents), and out into the terminal.
The bus for the Costa car rental took only a short while to show, then we were whisked off to the office. I signed a few papers, was handed the key, and we were shown to our crossover, a nondescript four-door with a small back, perfect for where we were headed.
Into traffic.
For reasons I don’t understand, the 7.5 kilometres from the Costa to the sole traffic light bunged everyone up. We had hoped to get to Playa Hermosa in time for the sunset, but the collected delays had us watching through the rolling hills as we approached the coastline. Hermosa was abandoned for the nearby Playa del Coco, which offered better options. But between solid darkness, an unmistakable unfamiliarity (it had been well over a decade since our last visit), we pulled into the first reasonable-looking Bar Restaurant we could find.
And it was reasonable. I’d actually forgotten how good simple restaurant food is in Costa Rica. A bit pricier than I’d expected, but we were in Coco, which has a lot of foreigners.
Finding our way back to the main highway wasn’t much fun in the dark. I missed the turn at Belén because there’s no street lights to suggest that there’s a major road coming up. It was even less fun when I realized I’d accidentally missed a turn and was on the way to Playa Flamingo. (Which, admittedly, I was moderately curious to see. It’s the first place Alex and I went to back in 2004, and its gone through some changes since then.)
We eventually pulled into Tamarindo sometime after 21:00. (I wasn’t watching the clock. Not that it mattered, it was dark.) We’d only been to Tamarindo once before, when we’d taken the kids down in 2014, which was on the fringes and I don’t remember it at all.
Soon, we’d dropped down to the coast, which was plain because off to the right was nothing but inky blackness. That’s not entirely true – it’s just as black when you’re driving next to a field with nothing in it, but there’s something more “void-y” when it’s the Pacific Ocean.
The town of Tamarindo revealed itself to us like coming out of a tunnel into the daylight: one moment dark, with the odd light to show you where the edge of the road is, and then nothing but lights as the resort town cried: TA DAAAAA!
For the record: we had no allusions that Tamarindo would be anything but a highly gringo-ized place, popular with Americans. But it would be easy, and near the water. Alex didn’t want complicated, she wanted fun. And so it would be.
The traffic was slower, people were finding places to stop and eat and drink and party. We passed place after place with thump, thump, thump and I started to silently dread our sleep, which we all desperately needed. But as we pulled into Hotel Pasatiempo, we noticed that the bass had waned through the distance and trees.
A guard – the front desk had closed hours earlier – let in and confirmed our reservations. Our room was in a building of four on the northwestern corner. A solitary orange cat hissed at us despite Choo Choo’s cooing, and we headed in. It was nearly silent, save for the overenthusiastic air conditioner, which was toned down.
We have arrived. What will tomorrow bring…?