I've just survived a harrowing, life changing experince and I'm an entirely new woman.
Getting from Punta Islita, our beach front resort to San Jose, the big city in the middle of Costa Rica can either be traversed by a 5 hour sweaty van ride on unpaved roads or by a 30 minute single engine Cesna flight.
And almost died.
Conveniently, my mother is a wealth of pharmacuticals and I downed my valium with Imperial, the local beer by the time we reached the "airport" at 9am. The airport, and I'll post pictures on Monday or Tuesday, was for all intensive purposes, a port-o-potty and refridgerator filled with the aforementioned beer.
Our plane was the size of my dining room table and Kate and I clenched hands, sitting directly behind our (super hot) pilots, giggling as they flew us over mountainous rainforrests and through windy cloud formations. Our tiny plane rocked side to side the entire way there, the runway approach particularly terrifying. We bounced along, as if in a toy plane, parents whispering prayers behind us and Alex laughing and taking pictures the entire time.
I simply don't know how John Travolta does it.
Anyway, I survived.
I sent Mikey an e-mail before our flight, requesting a ride to work on Monday unless I died, in which case, I asked that he try and get on with his life. Sadly, he's stuck commuting with me, assuming Delta gets their act together and gets us to the 415 in one piece.
Oh, and before I foregt, I've discovered the unofficial Costa Rican national anthem.
It's "My Way." You know. By Sinatra.
We've heard it everywhere, constantly, in the most remote of locales. They love "My Way." Seriously. They LOVE it.
Alright amigos. That's it form Central America. Again, you rock for reading and I'll see you back in civilization.