I feel optimistic. The time away is helping, healing. I’m so much more comfortable with being alone and this is a good thing.
I hit the road again with a four hour drive ahead of me; the route slowing taking me back to San Jose — Costa Rica’s capital city.
Of course, navigating through dirt roads, it’ll take longer than the estimates I see on Waze.
But I don’t mind. It’s all part of the adventure, me leaving the hustle and bustle of Providence and learning to simply take it slow.
It helps me take in every moment, see each second as precious. When was the last time I took my mind? Certainly not in New England. I feel spoiled by time, as if minutes no longer exist. It’s a great feeling to be so present at last, to notice the minor details and to capture the beauty surrounding me.
To explain it with a cliché, there’s time to stop and smell the roses. And so I do.
This is one of the more significant days of my trip.
I drive closer to the rainforest, and admire the views from the winding roads. It requires concentration to follow each drastic curve and blind spot, and so it becomes meditative.
I keep my eyes open, looking for an authentic spot to pull over and eat.
There’s a small sign on the right side of the road. Yellow paint on a wooden post. I get a good feeling about this place and pull over. Intuition — good and bad — is never wrong, traveling or not.
Turns out, the humble restaurant I happened upon is entirely ran by women; there’s a comfort and safety in that, especially as a solo female traveler. Not that anything so far feels dangerous; this just feels inviting in a different way.
Their restaurant is actually one part of a massive sugarcane and coffee farm. The view takes me by surprise.
The food is delicious, and the women notice I’m traveling solo. They treat me to a few extra snacks on the house — sugarcane candy that is delicious and they bring me different types of coffee to taste. I’m touched.
Their English isn’t great, so we communicate through hand gestures and a few words I understand. I use my phone and Google a few words. Despite no common language, we understand each other, as people always seem to do when they listen.
I’ve been told respect and kindness is the universal language.
This is more true and even more crucial than ever while traveling solo. It’s the core of traveling alone, the willingness to reach out to another person and trust they only want to help. I learn to rely on strangers’ kindness and make sure I’m respectful as a traveler in foreign lands.
I finish the meal with a grateful heart and stomach and begin driving again. Within the hour, I spot a small sign on the side of the road.
It’s subtle, more paint on a wood post. It says “viewpoint.” There’s some heavy foliage along my path so I don’t know what the view looks like, but I know it’s worth checking out.
I am stunned and in awe. There is nothing quite like this moment on my trip.
I think this is probably the precise moment where I realize I’m alone, and this view is just mine. As if it’s some kept secret, like in the “Lion, the Witch, and the wardrobe,” “the Secret Garden,” or “the Bridge to Terabithia.”
It’s thrilling. I’m the only one here and the quiet solitude in this moment is something difficult to replicate. I feel surrounded by grace.
There’s a part of me that wishes someone came along on this trip, but that’s a natural feeling. But I also know this moment is somehow special because I’m so taken by it, and there’s no interruptions, no conversation.
Also, in case you’re wondering, the first photo is taken by the handy timer on my iPhone. It’s propped up by a small tripod I take with me during these travels. Proof I’m really here.
This photo really does capture the essence of my traveling alone. I leave satisfied.
A few more hours and I arrive at my hostel. It’s another family-ran hostel, and it’s immaculate. For $34, this is a steal.
After I unpack, I take a hike down to the main road. Some of the menus along this strip seem too much like what I could order in New England, so I’m not sure why that is.
I settle on an Italian spot, which an odd find in the middle of Costa Rica.
The servers seem to stare, giving me odd looks, probably wondering why I’m traveling alone. It’s not menacing, and I’ve learned none of their thoughts matters. I bring a book and read a bit.
Dinner is less-than-satisfying spaghetti, so I dessert for some type of meal redemption.
On my way out, I actually notice another traveler sitting alone. She’s journaling, enjoying a glass of wine, and picking at food. I start walking toward the door back to the hostel, then I stop.
Why not?
I approach her and say something about how I didn’t want to interrupt, but I was curious if she was traveling alone — adding that I’m traveling alone too. I asked her what she’s found in this town so far, since it seems to gentrified.
We talk for a bit and she says I should sit down and join her, and we end up chatting for over an hour. It is good making new friends, even if for only a moment.
I wish I did this more back in New England, but it seems people seem to welcome it a lot more when they’re traveling. Travelers seem to have similar hearts, and I like how she seems to empathize with the experiences I’m having in Costa Rica.
We trade stories about work; she lives in New York City. We add each other on Instagram (so hip) and we share stories about travel.
It’s a nice conversation, the type of magic that happens comfort is foreign and undesirable and growth, adventure is the goal.
The adventure continues,
