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The way to San Jose
Feb. 26th, 2003 10:45 amThe flight to San Jose was uneventful, which was good because I'd done very little contingency planning. If my plane was delayed, or Erin's flight was delayed (where was she playing from? Guatemala? El Salvador?) I had no idea what hotel she was staying at or how to get in touch with her. I'd worked up all sorts of Lost In Central America nightmares by the time I exited the baggage claim into the tropical Costa Rican night, pressed up against the barriers there were about a hundred people shouting and talking, several dozen taxi drivers trying to get my attention in varying degrees of Spanglish. No sign of Erin, I walked up and down the sidewalk a twice before I heard her call my name and when I turned around and saw her I was so happy I could have cried. Maybe I did.
After wrestling the luggage into a taxi and ignoring some hucksters plea for a tip for carrying one of our bags 5 feet from the curb to the car, we were merrily bouncing along city streets and I was looking out the window, straining to see the alien environment. Narrow roads and steep forested hills, no buildings taller than two stories, lots of corrugated metal and chain link fence. We get to the Intercontinental and man it's plush, the lobby is quiet and expansive, the elevator is all polished brass and rich wood paneling. Erin, the big-shot business traveler, got a room on the exclusive 5th floor, you have to put your room keycard in before it lets you go up. The room's a nice size, with a view of the mountains to the north, a basket of fruit on the table and chocolates on the pillows, a choice of virginal white bathrobes - delicate waffleweave or snuggly terrycloth. I mention I could go for a beer and Erin casually breaks the seal on the minibar fridge and I'm transfixed with wonder. To me, the Hotel Room Minibar has always been this off-limits chamber of riches, a forbidden vault of prohibitively overpriced vodka nips, beer and Nutella. To be able to just reach in and crack open a $7 can of beer, I feel like Donald Trump himself has personally invited me into some stratospheric circle of privilege and wealth. Aw yeah, now we livin'.
After wrestling the luggage into a taxi and ignoring some hucksters plea for a tip for carrying one of our bags 5 feet from the curb to the car, we were merrily bouncing along city streets and I was looking out the window, straining to see the alien environment. Narrow roads and steep forested hills, no buildings taller than two stories, lots of corrugated metal and chain link fence. We get to the Intercontinental and man it's plush, the lobby is quiet and expansive, the elevator is all polished brass and rich wood paneling. Erin, the big-shot business traveler, got a room on the exclusive 5th floor, you have to put your room keycard in before it lets you go up. The room's a nice size, with a view of the mountains to the north, a basket of fruit on the table and chocolates on the pillows, a choice of virginal white bathrobes - delicate waffleweave or snuggly terrycloth. I mention I could go for a beer and Erin casually breaks the seal on the minibar fridge and I'm transfixed with wonder. To me, the Hotel Room Minibar has always been this off-limits chamber of riches, a forbidden vault of prohibitively overpriced vodka nips, beer and Nutella. To be able to just reach in and crack open a $7 can of beer, I feel like Donald Trump himself has personally invited me into some stratospheric circle of privilege and wealth. Aw yeah, now we livin'.
