I propped myself up by the side of the pool, toucans jumping in the trees, warm tropical rain coming down on my head, mango juice in hand, and admiring the misty jungle—the kind of scene that belonged on a the cover of a travel book. I didn't know these kind of scenes really existed. After my religious experience by the pool, it was time for dinner. I was loving Manuel Antonio beach already!

We were greeted by twelve, over-enthusiastic servers at the suspiciously named Rancho Leon (Lion Ranch). We feasted on the traditional casado of rice and beans, plantains, grilled beef, and salad, all washed down with the beverage of our choice—in my case, one of Costa Rica's domestic beers, Pilsen. The servers were all polite, energetic and quick on their feet. They must have been ordered to uphold some bottomless bottle of beer service, because every time I came close to finishing mine there appeared a fresh cold one to replace it. The owner, Fernando Leon was a chubby little mingland bumpkin. He was extremely accommodating and after dinner he made a stop at each table making sure everyone had enjoyed their meals, promising the same great experience again, if we ever cared to stop in and say hello.

The next morning after a breakfast of rice and beans along with some fresh papaya and pineapple juice, we were picked up for the canopy tour, costa rica, manuel antonio—a zip-line ride throughout Manuel Antonio's rainforest. Our bus stopped at a small shack by the beach for us to sign some waivers. I gathered it was the routine “if you die, it's not our fault” contract, and signed willingly. After all, death by rainforest zip-line sounds really cool.

The ride into the mountains was a tour in itself. We drove through a massive palm tree forest, each tree equidistant from the next, as if some anal-retentive planter had been given the go-ahead. We passed giant rice fields, malnourished cattle, rivers that ran alongside the road, rivers that ran through the road, and young workers on bikes with grim reaper-looking hacksaws balanced on their shoulders—each of whom gave the bus a courteous wave. We chugged up hills with sever inclines and flew down, stopping often for the chickens and dogs and horses blocking the road.

We stopped for bathrooms and I noticed an older guy sitting on a small folding chair. I figured I'd ask him a few questions or simply compliment him on his Pink Panther hat, but in response to my first inquiry he spoke back in the fastest, most mumbled Spanish I'd ever heard. He said something about his uncle's friends and then laughed hysterically. I, of course repeated the only part I heard (the uncle's friends part) and started laughing too, as if I actually understood the joke.

The Safari Canopy Tour was fun. After an onslaught of safety lectures, we spent an hour flying high above the jungle floor. The guides were all pleasant, skilled, and surprisingly well versed—they remembered my name. Their trained eye would occasionally lead them to reach into a tree or a mountain side and pull out a piece of wildlife, like the blue and green poison dart frog.

The guides led us back to the base where an elderly Tica worked in her cooking quarters. The kitchen, like almost every one I've seen here, was surprisingly bare. There was a basket of onions, two small burners, a sink, some open coals, an empty paint bucket for seating, and a poster for Jodie Foster's Panic Room. The food that came out though was far from plain. We enjoyed a Costa Rican version of paella, packed with tender fish, succulent clams and mussels, and spicy cured sausage all simmered in a savory tomato broth and topped with fried yucca logs.

After lunch we set off for the beach.

It was a rustic beach littered with idle surfboards, fallen coconuts, and vagrant dogs. You could almost hear the waves slowly lapping onto shore under the reggae music sounding from a beer shack, made of four bamboo poles and the hood of a yellow Land Cruiser. We snacked on a ceviche of corvina and watermelon juice, while spider monkeys stormed through the beach, picking up morsels of food wherever they could. Absolutely hilarious!

El Mar y Sombra (the sea and shadow) down on the Manuel Antonio beach was tantalizing. A huge expanse of white sand was the entrance and the bar itself was more like a festival. If you could picture a picnic area with mariachi-techno music blaring...multiply it by ten! It seemed almost mythical. Huge bonfires roared on the beach lighting soccer games and non-stop circles of dance.

I sat down in a beach chair and tilted myself against a thick palm tree. I sat there...shirt unbuttoned, jeans wet from a dip in the ocean and stained from the raspberries sold on the street, two dogs nearby gnawing on a chicken bone, and laughter and music in surround sound. The stars were clearer than a perfect night in Joshua Tree and feeling the light breeze on my skin made me realize that life wasn't so bad. This was paradise. Although I couldn't hear any music that I recognized or see any of my longtime friends, I felt like I was at home...in a weird, drunken sort of way.

Back at the hotel the next morning, a janitor-looking man who was hacking down palm trees—ones that had leaned too far into the cement walkway. He was eating the palmitos (the heart of the palm tree, which taste somewhat like an artichoke) and that being my favorite vegetable, I asked for a taste. He handed me a foot-long piece and then extended his arm with another piece out in front of him, into the brush—I didn't know what he was doing offering palmitos to the tree. Then I nearly jumped as I saw a large sloth hanging, eye-level on the tree accepting the man's offering. The sloth looked at me as if to ask what I was looking at, and then went about eating his breakfast.

I left Manuel Antonio with some spectacular pictures, a lot of amazing memories, and a full stomach. I'm heading back next weekend.

Continue on to Part II

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