After a whirlwind wedding week (not to mention more than 14 months of planning before that), Jesse and I were finally aboard our flight from Dallas, Texas to San Jose, the capital of Costa Rica. We were delighted to learn we’d be getting lunch on the plane – which never seems to happen since the economy took a nosedive. As the flight attendants moved closer with their food carts, full of aromatic trays, we overheard the two options for lunch: chicken with mashed potatoes or lasagna. Oooh, lasagna sounds great, I said.
I took a moment to share with Jesse a story about the time I was returning from a trip to Italy and Greece and breakfast was being served on the plane. The choices were (a) delicious, sweet fruit crepe bonanza or (b) stale, tasteless ham scramble. I couldn’t wait to sink my teeth into option (a), but of course the last little package of deliciousness was given to the person ahead of me. I was stuck with artificially colored eggs.
I said, just watch, the same thing will happen again. Lo and behold, the last lasagna was distributed to a person in the row in front of us. The chicken wasn’t half bad though.
We landed in San Jose and spent a little while getting through Customs. I was crossing my fingers for the smiling, green-shirted lady at stand #2. Jesse, ahead of me in line, got to the front and went to the first open stand. Then (yes!) the light at stand #2 illuminated. Green Shirt didn’t smile at me once the whole time.
Our driver, Manuel, picked us and another honeymooning couple up at the airport and we headed toward our hotel. We couldn’t see too much of San Jose as we drove through since it was late, but we caught a glimpse of Asian construction workers in pink hardhats. Manuel explained that these men were Chinese workers, sent it by the Chinese government, to pay for a huge new Chinese-funded stadium in the city.
We reached the Grano de Oro, a sparkling, gorgeously renovated mansion, and were led to our room. We were both surprised at the hardwood floors, lush bedding and the multi-product soap dispenser in the shower. Jesse watched the news in Spanish and learned that the locals (Ticos) were outraged over the inappropriate, drunken behavior of the Chinese construction workers. We also made note of the sign language interpreter in the corner of the television screen during the broadcast.
We hurried over to the attached, partially open-air Grano de Oro restaurant to get dinner before it closed. I had read amazing reviews about the place, and since our meals were going to be all inclusive for the rest of the trip, we decided to splurge. It may have been the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever dined in. I ordered espresso pork shortribs, which turned out to be like a big cubed chunk of fatty, undercooked bacon. Not good.
My salad (very Oregon-esque with giant blackberries, gorgonzola and nuts) was tasty, and so were the strangely pureed potatoes I got on the side. Jesse liked his macadamia-nut crusted fish, so it was a win overall. The experience was topped off by our waiter, Walter, teaching us proper tipping customs and encouraging me to correctly pronounce the French name of our dessert Рa weird m̩lange of different elements including avocado ice cream and hot watermelon.
We returned to our room and immediately headed for bed. The next morning would be the first of many early, early wake-up calls.
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