Coming to Love Travel part 1 - Paris, Geneva, Cozumel

This is the first of an occassional series of posts addressing how I came to love traveling and why I do it today.

My love affair with travel started young, and built slowly.

Sadly, I did not take this.

I was 10 years old when I first visited Europe. My dad had business in Geneva one summer, so my parents and I added Paris to the itinerary and made it a family vacation. I remember how Paris and Geneva dazzled me so. How unique and fairy-tale looking those cities were compared to the generic, cookie-cutter look of my native Southern California! Didn't great empires fight wars over these cities? Didn't my fourth grade teacher tell me that? And speaking of history, hadn't history been written in far away cities across the Atlantic in countries like France and Switzerland? Gothic cathedrals, stone villas, endless green hillsides, and the romance of strange languages spoken in winding cobblestone alleys through which kings and crusaders once walked left a magical impression on my 10-year old mind. "Paris must be the most exotic, exiciting city in the world," I told my parents the day we walked past Notre Dame Cathedral.

Nope. Didn't take this, either.

Dad had meetings to attend in Geneva, leaving Mom and I ample time to explore the city and its calm environs. One afternoon, she and I just sat on a bench along the lakeshore and watched the people go by. I remember they were well-dressed. Young men wore dark colored three piece suits and hats. Young women wore conservative dresses and heels. Old men in plaid jackets and dress pants held the hands of stately dressed old women wearing pearl necklaces and walked slowly past. Everyone carried themselves with a certain understated elegance lacking in beachy Southern California. These Swiss seemed so...European...to me. "Geneva must be the most beautiful, wealthiest, and peaceful place in the world," I thought in between lunches at outdoor cafes and afternoon strolls with my Mom around Lake Geneva. I wanted to see more of Switzerland, of Europe. All too quickly, though, Dad's meetings ended and the vacation did too. The three of us returned home. School started again in September, and so did the afternoon cartoons. Slowly I forgot how wonderous it felt to be far away from home, but my daydreams took me back to Europe every once and again.


I had visited family in the Phillippines prior to that Euopean summer trip, and again as a teenager. It was not until my late 20s, though, that I rediscovered how free traveling made me feel...and how exciting travel was. In March 2004, I went on a a spring break trip to Cozumel, Mexico with friends from my MBA program. I thought getting out of frigid Pennsylvania and into some tropical sun would do me a world of good. And I had never traveled abroad with a group of friends before. I wanted to see what that was like.

Sascha, your author, Kristen, and Lee (March 2004)

For five days, my friends and I snorkled, explored, ate and drank. More importantly, I made memories. I fondly remember my friends Sascha, Lee and Kristen trying to teach me how to drive a stick shift on a dirt road with the old jeep we rented. After stalling out four times and forcing terrible noises out of the ancient transmission, I gave up; but I didn't stop laughing about the experience for days. I remember, too, exploring vine-covered old ruins with my friends, snorkeling in a crystal blue sea, and langorously sunbathing beneath a sapphire sky.

One night around one in the morning, I left my friends at loud, gaudy Senior Frog's to explore San Miguel de Cozumel on foot, alone, in the wee hours of Saturday morning. I'll never forget walking away from the strip of tourist bars and through the town's residential area. The night was humid, steamy, and I had it all to myself. I walked the deserted streets and alleys for an hour, just enjoying the night. An hour after I started, I found an open air restaurant in the front of someone's house. The owner, his wife and their friend were gathered around a TV watching an awful 1980's gang fight movie that I remembered was a staple of late night TV in my youth. I rolled up with a big smile and an "Hola!" and sat down at one of the many open tables.

Hamburguesa? No! (March 2004)

The owner looked a little confused as to why a tipsy gringo would wander so far from the main strip in search of food at 2AM on a Saturday and helpfully asked while pointing at a picture of a hamburger, "Hamburguesa?" A hamburger? Damn it! They know I'm American! But how? Could it have been my New Balance sneakers, khaki shorts, and Polo shirt? But I'm sporting a tan! "No gracias," I calmly replied. "Tres carne tacos por favor y queso y papas y agua." I hung out there for an hour, eating and conversing with my hosts in laughably incompetent Spanish. I tried to tell them how the terrible movie ended but I didn't have the Spanish to describe it, and they lacked the English to help me. They did nod often, though, and smile frequently too. It must have been nearly sunrise when I finished the last French fry, bid my hosts "adios", and located a cab to take me back to my hotel. Ha! Now that's a Saturday morning. Take that, boring Orange County, CA and frigid Pittsburgh, PA.

Sascha, Lee, and Kristen (March 2004)

That early morning sojourn wasn't even my favorite memory from that trip. My favorite memory came at the end of a day driving around the island with my friends in our beatup, old rented jeep and stopping to explore whatever caught our fancy. We left mid-morning that day to give us plenty of time to be out. By late that afternoon, we finally reached the far side of the island, the western side. We were tired and the afternoon light was just starting to show hints of gold as the sun moved lower in the sky. We came upon a reggae bar on the beach, not far from some cute houses, painted brightly in yellows, oranges and blues. We stopped the jeep, got out, ordered a few rounds of cerveza, drank and talked. Mostly, though, we savored our beers and the breezy afternoon together as our trip, and the day, wound down.

A decade of career ambition put my wanderlust in hibernation, but did not bury it. I HAD to do this traveling thing again, I thought.

Review of Casa Brian in Playa Samara - 5-12-2012

You should stay here. Really.

In 2009, I was going to stay here for four days and stayed for 19. That's how amazing the atmosphere here is. This time, I stayed for a full three weeks before moving to my other friend's hostel (post is forthcoming) to support her business. Casa Brian's owner, Brian, is a late 50-something Canadian ex-commercial fisherman, brewer, wild mushroom picker, logging camp cook, and God knows what else. He's almost deaf in one ear, so don't freak out if he's yelling at you. He's not angry; he's hard of hearing.

Brian himself is an amazing man with too many funny, tragic, adventuresome, and interesting stories to count. You may ask, “are his stories real?” The answer is yes...he's lived a more full and interesting life than damn near anyone you've met. Even better, he tells his stories with such detail and aplomb you'll think you were right there with him traveling Morocco, on a fishing boat off the Queen Charlotte islands, or going door to door in Southern California.

Never in my life have I stayed someplace where so many cool, open, interesting, relaxed people congregated, only to leave and then be replaced by people equally as cool, open, interesting, and relaxed as them. When it's full, Casa Brian's residents barbecue and party together like every night is Saturday night. When the Casa is slow, it feels easy and relaxed like a Sunday morning.



Dinner with friends at Casa Brian in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

The other thing awesome about this place is that I have always met people here who were somehow directly related to the purpose of my trip. It happened last time and it happened again this time. Three years ago, I was desperate to feel free and I wanted people who could help me get there. Brian himself is one of the most freedom loving people I've met and I don't know how many hours he and I would talk about where I've been and where I wanted to head in my life. On that trip, I also met someone who strongly encouraged me to pursue my ideal life, words that carried me through the subsequent three years, and helped bring me to where I am today. This trip, I met several Brits and Canadians involved in non-traditional medicine and healing, Costa Ricans who taught me about unconditional love through their stories about missionary work in Africa, and seven awesome people from Vancouver (seriously, half of that city must be traveling in Costa Rica right now) with whom I took surfing lessons, barbequed and visited an animal sanctuary. And of course, I spent many afternoons philosophizing with Brian himself on the nature of love and freedom on this trip.

Yeah, you should stay here.



Casa Brian in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

Now, logistical details...Brian has three private rooms that sleep two. These go for $35 per night for one person and $45 per night total for two people. He has two dorm rooms, one sleeps five and the other sleeps six. Dorm beds go for $17 per night. Included in your stay is an all you can eat breakfast of the freshest and sweetest fruit you've ever eaten, toast and jam, and beans and rice. On Sundays, Brian makes banana pancakes. Yum! Four hammocks, one couch and a communal dining table make it easy to make new friends.



Casa Brian in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

The property is about one mile outside of downtown Samara. The easiest way to get here is to walk to the end of Samara's main street, turn left at the beach, walk along the beach for about one mile, walk past the last hotel this far out of town (Las Brisas Del Pacifico) and follow the path that runs past Las Brisas Del Pacifico until it turns into a dirt road. Casa Brian will be on the left side of the dirt road. It has a white metal gate and a small sign that says “Casa Brian.” Contact Brian at casabrian@hotmail.com. You won't be sorry. He's also in the current Lonely Planet guide to Costa Rica.

Just don't stay too long in the private rooms. I'll be back soon and I do enjoy the private room Brian puts me in.

The Former Club Barracuda - 5-1-2012

Barracuda is a former dance club I visited several times on my last trip through Samara. The club even had a mechanical bull, which I never rode. Rosa, one of Brian's friends, mentioned that it's not a club anymore, but is still a cool place to hang out. Fresh from my closure regarding Irish Jane, and feeling better about the Canadians' recent departures (I'll do a separate post for them; they were awesome), I resolved to explore the former club on Saturday the 28th.



Forest path to Barracuda in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

The path to Barracuda breaks off from the main road just outside of town; it's just an unmarked grass path that turns upward sharply on the left side of the road as you leave town. I missed it the first time, went back into town and got correct directions from a helpful hotelier, Julie, at the Tico Adventure Lodge. I spotted the grass path the second time and took it. The sounds of the road and town faded into silence beneath a green canopy. Only the sound of my feet on gravel and grass broke the morning silence. I followed the path up and spotted the gate.

A concrete path led further up past several small, white cabinas on my left to the former dance club. It was quiet, the cabinas empty. An older blond woman came out to welcome me. In quickly-spoken Spanish, I think she asked me if I wanted to enjoy the view or swim in the pool. I wanted neither but didn't know what to say. “Cerveza?” she smiled, and I agreed. I could use a beer after that climb. She led me into the outer patio, a white concrete area with shade tents, comfy wood and canvas sunning chairs and a small wading pool.



Cabana at Barracuda in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

The club was built on a cliff; I could see all of Playa Samara from Barracuda's patio. Once, the area next to a big shade tent opened into the club. Now, though, a large bar with a sign reading “Beach Club” behind it sat in front of a wall that once led to a dance floor. "Pilsen? Imperial?" the helpful woman asked with a smile.“Imperial,” I answered. She went in the back and came out with a can. I paid her $2.00, thanked her and went exploring upstairs.

Pacific Ocean from Barracuda in Playa Samara, Costa Rica

Three years ago, the upstairs floor led back into the club's second floor. Today, a back wall sealed off the upper deck, preventing entrance to whatever happened to the rest of the club. The view, though, was still spectacular. Four tables with stools were spread across the vast, rectangular floor, with chest-high glass preventing people from falling over to the concrete patio and airy tents below. A high ceiling left plenty of space for the morning breeze. I had the entire floor to myself as I admired my 200 degree view.

Downtown Playa Samara, Costa Rica

My far left view was green trees and green hills. Just to the right, I could see the entire curve of Playa Samara with Punta Islita just off shore. Continuing right, I could see Playa Samara spread out before me on land, and white caps crashing against the coral reef offshore. Small figures walked or bicycled the straight main street leading to the beach. Further right, I could see the tide pools at the far end of Playa Samara, where the beached curved back out to the sea and ended. To the extreme right, I could see another cove open up with blue ocean beyond it – Playa Buena Vista. The views were stunning, and enhanced further by the springtime sun.

Not many people in Samara know about Barracuda now that it is a series of cabinas instead of a rowdy bar, but definitely make the hike up to the former club. And bring your camera; you won't be sorry.

Two Days in San Jose and the Flight Home - Monday 4-20-2009 and Tuesday 4-21-2009

Monday and Tuesday proceed similarly. I have lunch with Nicolas at the Mercado Central (I have the fried chicken with tortillas at Soda San Cristobal for 1,950 colones both days), he tells me he is ready to leave San Jose and return to Quebec, and I do a lot of listening because he has a lot to say about everything. On Monday, he asks our waitress at Soda San Cristobal if she would like to meet him for dinner on Tuesday. She agrees. After this, he talks a lot about how excited he is for his date. When we go back to Soda San Cristobal on Tuesday for lunch, the waitress is there again and Nicolas gets a confirmation that she will meet him later that day for dinner. Monday after lunch, we walk the blocks just to the south and west of the Mercado Central. Every store front facing the avenidas and calles is occupied, the merchants selling everything from fresh produce of every color, to childrens’ toys, to cell phones, to baked goods, to clothing, lingere, and other apparel for both men and women. Crowds are thick on both days. Nicolas and I weave our way through and around groups of pedestrians. Street vendors yell out the name of vegetables to passersby, hoping to attract a buyer. Old women sit at small wooden tables covered with lottery tickets. The destitute approach the slightly better off and beg for money. Taxis and trucks honk warnings to pedestrians as they zoom down the narrow streets. I will miss San Jose and its vibrant, chaotic life. Monday afternoon, I find a souvenir doll for my aunt at a t-shirt shop in a quiet alley in the Mercado Central. Tuesday afternoon, Nicolas and I walk to a park at the Costa Rica Gran Hotel and across the street from the Teatro Nacional and enjoy the early afternoon. Throngs of people walk by – businessmen in suits carrying expensive leather cases, teenagers talking on cell phones, couples walking hand in hand, old men with worn faces wearing threadbare clothes, private school students in their uniforms, tourists with folding maps.

I bid Nicolas goodbye on Tuesday afternoon and walk back to the hostel. Monday night, I arranged for a shuttle to drive me to the airport today. The shuttle driver arrives and I bid goodbye to Juan Carlos at the front desk. On the way out of town, we pass Parque Morazan. Laura and I walked through Parque Morazan the afternoon I showed her around San Jose. Further on, we drive past the hotel where Ricardo and Fernando stayed in San Jose; I remember it from when the shuttle to Monteverde stopped there several weeks ago. The 17 kilometer drive from hostel to airport takes forty-five minutes in San Jose’s heavy afternoon traffic. The driver wishes me good journey and pats me on the arm. Checking in, immigration, and security take all of fifteen minutes together. I spend the next three hours sitting at my gate enjoying the Juan Santamaria International’s free wireless. The plane boards at 6:35PM and takes off at 7:15PM. I bid adios to Costa Rica as the countryside rushes by and the plane lifts off for Los Angeles.