Instead of jetting off to Italia for pasta, vino and cultura a la Julia Roberts, I opted for two weeks of gallo pinto, cerveza and naturaleza. I said adios los Estados Unidos de America and hola Costa Rica.
I’m not usually a tour taker, but with my sudden need to get away due to my recent split, I booked an adventure tour and hoped for the best. Arriving in San Jose, I met up with the group. A bevy of single travelers, we were: beautiful, blonde and serene Ella from London; sassy, sophisticated, Scotch-drinker Jessica, also from London; From Belgium, leggy, outdoorsy, boy crazy in the best possible way Celine; cute, feisty and daring Polish Ana; and tall, quiet and unassuming Englishman Jerry.
Our first stop was the town of La Fortuna. After a long hike in the national park, we paused at dusk to observe Volcan Arenal and down some Cacique Guaro, the national liquor of Costa Rica, before hitting the Baldi Hot Springs. In the otherwise quiet and dark night, Baldi was pulsating with sound and light. Locals and tourists mingled, sipping pina coladas in pools illuminated with soft green, blue and golden lights as salsa y merengue music blasted into the tropical night.
Slipping away from the group and into one of the quieter, more isolated pools, I lay down on a tiled chaise lounge half submerged in the hot spring water and half in the cool night air. The sound of a waterfall drowning out the distant music, I stared up into the sky, clear and heaving with stars. I felt all the miles of distance stretching out between me and New York City, me and Jack. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and began to let the door close on him.
It wasn’t long before I learned that everyone in our group had been nursing a broken heart of sorts. In Tortuguero, an isolated stretch of land between a canal and the Caribbean accessible only by small boat or plane, we stayed at the rustic All Rankin’s Lodge. Spending the hours from late afternoon to well past sunset in hammocks by the canal sipping Imperial beer, we moved past polite surface conversation, delving into the deep and meaty bits of our lives. By our second day in this remote spot, we began discussing our relationship statuses at home and why we’d all taken this trip. I started with my Jack story.
As I ended my tale, Jessica piped up, “That’s exactly what just happened to me!” Followed by Celine, “Me too!” and then Ana. We’d each encountered an extremely similar break up in recent months, with the same reasons for the split and the same timeline. For Ella and Jerry, some very tough relationship endings were in the not too distant past as well.
It’s amazing how two weeks of spending time with simpatico souls, falling asleep to the symphonies of frogs outside your bedroom window, looking into the inquisitive faces of baby sloths, and feeling the warm sand in your toes as you stroll to Pacific beaches with gangs of capuchin monkeys hot on your trail can restore your mind and feed your heart.
On my last day of vacation, lounging in a pool in Cahuita, I made a resolution. The sentimental journey must come to an end. No more strolls down memory lane. No more repeat offenders. I must exorcise my haunted relationship house of all boyfriends bygone. These forays into my love past appeared oh so romantic but these past loves turned out to be nothing more than transparent, fleeting ghosts.
So a new journey begins. Striding down East 57th Street last week, I was literally moving forward, my brand new Anthropologie dress fluttering out behind me. I opened the heavy wooden door, stepping from out of the sun and heat into the dark and cool bar. My new strappy high heels click-clacked on the floor announcing my entrance. He turned around.
