My first few minutes in Manuel  Antonio, Costa Rica involved me, the bathroom, and a sneering cockroach  that caught me by surprise with my pants down.  I screamed, and  instantly jumped on top of the toilet seat, straddling it as if it were  my only hope.  Naturally, my new host family was immediately concerned  for this seemingly psychotic American girl that just moved in and is now  shrieking at the top of her lungs in their bathroom, and came running  to see what the commotion was all about.  Entertainingly enough, they  are just as afraid of “cucarachas” as I was, and my host father chased  it down with a shoe until finally we heard the relieving crunch. 
 

And that was how I was welcomed into the country.
 

Fortunately, as time passed I became more
accustomed  to cockroaches making an occasional
appearance (a show-stopper  every time), and even
grew fond of the sneaky geckos that  nonchalantly
decorated my bedroom ceiling at their leisure.  I
was  attending Academia de Español D’Amore, a
Spanish Immersion school in Manuel Antonio, for  four hours each afternoon and was really starting to roll those R's like  a pro.  Maybe it had something to do with my chatty host mother,  Beleida, or the cute Tico boyfriend I somehow acquired within two weeks  of arriving.  Either way, I spent my free time lounging on the beaches  with the other students, or meeting up at night for cocktails and a  salsa lesson.  I was never very good at salsa, but I grew very  passionate about trying to dance it, anyway.
 

Time flew, and so did the money in my bank  account.  But to me, it was worth every dime.  By the end of the  semester, I had not only gained an education in the Spanish language,  but also a very practical one concerning the human race and the world as  a whole.  Like most travelers, I gained a newfound sense of  priorities—what matters, what doesn’t, and when to pass the freaking  tequila.    
 
 
 
Genuine laughter and hard-earned sweat fills the  streets—no blank-faced, walking drones in suits here—and the passion of  the people always present in the air; it swirls around you, teasing your  practical side and then grabs you by the hand and forces you to the  land of anti-nine-to-fives forever.  I think that grateful is an  accurate word to describe the people of Costa Rica; they are grateful  for the children that pass by with their mothers, for the delicious food  being served in heaps on a plate at lunchtime, for friends that stop to  chat—even if they’re in a hurry—for the guaro that will be consumed  later that evening, and for the $2 per hour they are happy to be making.
 
 
Since my very first time visiting Manuel Antonio  2004, I have had the fortune to return numerous times (my passport is  basically a tribute to Costa Rica), and I’ve picked up quite a few  valuable tips about what it takes to survive in Manuel Antonio.  For  example, I will never again play Good Samaritan and bend down to  retrieve anyone’s glasses that they have dropped while riding on the  bus.  The last time I did this, while I was in mid-bend, my wallet got  snatched right out from my beach bag.  Minutes after exiting the bus, I  realized what had happened, rushed back to the bus stop, and found the  driver.  Exasperated, I pleaded with him in my best Spanish to allow me  onto the bus to quickly scan the aisles to be sure I hadn’t dropped it.   The exchange went something like this:


ME:  Sir,  hello, I was just on the bus and I think I may have left my wallet on  it.  *Clear look of panic*  Is there any way you can let me back on to  check?!
 
EVIL BUS DRIVER:  Can't you see that I'm busy?
 
ME:  Oh, I'm so  sorry to bother you.  I'm just so worried.  My wallet contains my money,  driver's license and credit cards and I'm really hoping that it's on  that bus.
 
EVIL BUS DRIVER:  Sorry.  This is my lunch break.  You'll just have to  wait until the next run. 

What  was really frustrating about this?  The bus driver was playing  pinball.  Yes, pinball.  Which was obviously more important than my  impending mental breakdown.

 
I’m  not too sure what the issue was there.  I mean, I had always followed  the proper bus etiquette (yes, there is one), paying in the correct  manner and not holding up the line.  I had always been pleasant and  greeted him, as well as the other two bus drivers who commonly ran the  route from Quepos to Manuel Antonio, with my cheeriest, “¡Buenos dias!”  and I never had any pesky surfboards that require storage underneath the  bus.  (Sometimes, depending on the driver and/or his particular mood  that day, they just refuse you a ride on the bus if you’ve got a  surfboard.  I’ve seen it happen.)
 
Then again, my luck with the local drivers  seems to be hit or miss.  Another time, I got in a cab in Manuel Antonio  heading back to Quepos after a night of dancing.  After about, oh, 30  seconds down the road, I witness the driver pull a bottle of liquor from  under the seat, take a swig, and pass it to his friend in the front  seat, who I had originally assumed was just another passenger.  I’m now  in a taxi, flying down Manuel Antonio hill—which, if you’ve ever been  there, know that it is the curviest road in the whole area—with a drunk  taxi driver.  Frightening.

We  reach the bottom (sigh of relief) and instead of having the driver take  me to my home, I decided it would be in my best interest to have him  drop me off immediately, and told him to let me out at El Pueblo, a  restaurant in town.  My request was met with a look of sheer  excitement:  “Great!  We’ll come get some pizza too!” Let’s just say it  was interesting trying to escape.  Escape tactics seem to be quite  useful while in Manuel Antonio, that’s for sure.


But despite a few mishaps here  and there--some comical, some just downright scary--as soon as I would  return to the United States, no more than a couple of hours would pass  before I was already wishing I were back in Costa Rica. . . nevermind  the fact that I could once again shower with warm water, be relieved of  the ongoing effort to elude many-a-mosquito, and once again be able to  ride in a taxi without fearing for my life.  


Soon enough, the epidemic grew.   Friends started contacting me with questions galore about Costa Rica.   And then their friends began contacting me with more questions.  And  then friends of friends of friends got in touch.  


...Eventually, I decided it  might be more efficient to just put all of the answers down on paper;  thus, the idea of this eBook was born.  I thought back to when I was  going to the country for the very first time, and remembered how  frustrated I was from being unable to find any detailed information on  Manuel Antonio.  After all, I was excited/scared/anxious/a little  frightened of the unknown, and wanted to find out as much as I possibly  could about the place.  But instead, all I found were companies offering  to take me zip lining, throw me atop a horse on the beach or--worse--on  an ATV in the rainforest.  (No joke, when I actually did do the  ATV thing . . . wouldn't you know I ended up taking out a fence?)

Which takes you to where you've landed today.  I hope that I'm able to provide some useful information that you'll find valuable! 






If you're interested in learning more about me, visit me at my other website.
My Story