You know that scene in Annie, when she arrived at Daddy Warbucks' mansion and screams "Leapin' lizards!" Yeah, that was us upon arrival...HERE.
After a 7am wake up call and 4 (yes, four) hours on mostly unpaved roads in a cramped van with 9 adults so bitchy, we actually had to stop and pick up beer at 11am, we barely made it. Miguel, our driver, got lost twice, mising road signs my gringo parents managed to catch. At one point, on a road so ridiculously dangerous and unpaved, we were going so slow that a butterfly passed us.
Seriously. A butterfly.
I was ready to kill Miguel.
But once we arrived, sweaty and tired and unable to flex our limbs, it was suddenly worth it. Screw the rainforrests, folks. If you're coming to Costa Rica, come to the beach. Our rooms are spectacular, the food is glorious, the drinks are constant and I just spent 2 hours swimming in a 65 degree Pacific Ocean, emerging to find a uniformed hot guy offering me mojitos.
Kate has given Hotel Punta Islita her "Kate Stamp of Approval."
Oh, allow me to explain. I've finally finished "For Laci, a mother's story of love, loss and justice" by Sharon Rocha, Laci Peterson's greiving mother. Kate is now reading it, and enduring the very emotions I encountered while reading it myself.
Uh, we're not so wild about Sharon. And I hate to say it, but it's prompted lots of Scott and Laci jokes along the trip. (Like I wasn't going to hell anyway.) At one point, Sharon expresses her "outrage" at Scott's mom (the evil Jackie "oxygen tank" Peterson) announcing at a search meeting "I got a pedicure for Laci!"
Thus, everything we do is "for Laci."
"I'm ordering a mojito. For Laci."
Also, as a means of riling those around us, Kate and I began giving ourselves tattoos saying "Free Scott." We say this constantly, and it's our new "Cheers."
Now, let me just say, Scott did it. He shouldn't be free. We're kidding.
But this book, this book is so ridiculous and wonderful, Kate has given it her stamp of approval, and it's accompanying thumbs up. She's planning on offering Sharon her photo (thumbs up included) for the re-print back cover.
The ride in the van with Miguel garnered, needless to say, a stamp of unapproval. And a thumbs down. Even the travel books said, "Most guests choose to fly into Punta Islita, but a few chose to drive."
We were the few.
Moving on, or backwards really, some have asked as to the nature of the fight with Dan, the American Asshole of Monte Verde. While I'm delighted to have left Dan and his control issues in the rainforrest, I'll fill you in. His disagreement was with that staff and over his internet usage. The internet room was located within the hotel's gallery oddly enough, three computers all lined up along the window. Kate and I took up 2. Dan utilized the third. When another guest arrived and waited patiently her turn, Dan's paid time was suddenly up. Thus making it her turn. Dan insisted upon paying for more time, screamed, yelled, asked why no one was kicking US out (um, cuz we paid for a hour, ass), stomped, kicked, whined, and yelled some more. We actually sat with our hands covering our mouths, it was so appalling, offensive and ridiculous.
So, that's Dan.
Finally, the rest of the family is livid they're not making the blog. I'm here with 8 others. And to quote Jenny, "God Beth. Not just Kate. The blog shouldn't be just about Kate. Jesus Christ!"
Greg, god bless him, ordered a Manhattan in Monet Verde. It arrived...verde.
A green Manhattan.
The next night, not wanting to make the same mistake, he ordered a "Latinapolitain."
Matt is our never-ending environmental conscience, reminding us constantly how gluttunous and horrible we are to ourselves and our planet. While I love him dearly, I'm beginning to plot his demise. Matt, for example, insists that air conditioning be turned off while the gas tank gets filled, rolling his eyes at our wasteful ways. Any indictaion of wanting to take the shuttle up from the beach or stay home from the nature walk and read a book, drink or something else perfectly regular, prompts a forced lecture on the inconvenient truths of our horrible lives. Or worse, the headshake.
Kate and I opened the windows when the airconditioning was on.
Mom and Dori did the zip line canopy tour, as did anyone was else who wasn't as chickenshit as I, and strapped themselves onto hooks and straps and cables and flew across the rainforrest, hundereds of feet above the poisonous snakes and deadly plant life below. I merely walked for miles on the suspended bridges and shit myself.
Oh, there's more. So much more.
The 9 of us have spent lifetime together and travelled constantly as one big family. So it makes sense that we fight and bitch and moan and claw each others' eyes out. But stick us all in a uber-fancy, beach resort with down comforters and DSL and suddenly, everyone's friends again.
Tomorrow, more of this fabulousness. And maybe some words on my new nemesis, Vanessa Getty.
Oh, and free Scott...