If you know me, you’ll know that making decisions has never been easy for me. It takes me 45 minutes to pick what I want to eat for dinner, so you can imagine the emotional turmoil that I would endure for things like job changes and breakups.
Now imagine both of those things happening the same year. Now, imagine them happening the same month. Or the same week.
Well. They happened the same day.
I promise this will be travel related, but in the midst of a lot of excitement was a lot of tears, and I want to make sure it’s documented that there was a proper reason behind the salt water that wouldn’t stop leaking from my eyeballs.
So, here we go. Here’s the story of how I came to spend New Year’s Eve 2019 at a surf camp in Costa Rica, even though a week ago, I had planned on still being at work today.
Lucky for me, one of my good friends works at United and let me have a buddy pass. So, forced to only pay taxes for a flight that would typically be well over $1,000, this is one decision that seemed pretty easy. So with only a few days to spare before packing my bags, I put my name on the standby list for a direct flight to my 30th country. Then, I told my then-bosses that I would need to leave a few days early. And a few days after that, I made the hardest decision I think I’ve ever made and my live-in boyfriend of 5 years and I parted ways.
Even typing that (sitting in the common area of my hostel in the Costa Rican jungle) I can’t help by to cry a little. Someone said crying is therapeutic. Whatever. It mostly just feels like shit right now. That's the thing with most hard decisions. They can be your idea and you can know they're right, but that doesn't make it easier to sit with the uncertainty. Where would I be living in a month? What would be desk look like in a week and a half? Will my boss like me? Will my dog be mad at me for breaking up with his 3rd favorite human? Was I making a mistake? Hell, was I making TWO mistakes? And then fleeing to another country and possibly making a third by escaping? Sometimes my overthinking, type-A tendencies are a real asset for me. Sometimes, they result in me crying in public. Gotta take the good with the bad, I guess.
So, sobbing so hard that I actually thought I would pop a rib, I packed up my backpack and headed to my best friend’s house. The day before my flight, my friends, in all of their supportive glory, got me wildly intoxicated (and I proceeded to cry at a random Mexican restaurant at 2am) which thus led to my second worst day of the year. (Thankfully, we're still in 2019 at this point, so it's basically almost over.)
Sunday morning, my alarm sounded at 5am. I rolled off of the air mattress and shoved various items into my backpack. I have no details of this because I was, sadly, still drunk. Looking like a puffy-faced mess, I made my way to the airport and sat at the departure gate, hoping to make it on the 8am direct flight to Liberia. But, as luck would have it, a family of SIX booked standby the night before. Guess who had priority? I’ll give you a hint: not me. And so I proceeded to remain seated in O’hare as the doors to my aircraft closed.
Thus sparked Public Cry #1.
So, I gathered myself up, and headed to a new gate, where I hoped to catch a flight to Houston, mourning the loss of my potential direct flight and accepting the fact that my short journey would now involve a layover. Waiting at this gate, Public Cry #2 and #3 occurred. And then, looking up at the board, I realized I was #18 on the standby list. On an already full flight. Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised to not make that flight, however at this point, my drunk was wearing off and a killer hangover had begun. I forced myself to eat a smoothie, and lugged my stuff to the 3rd gate of the day. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again?
Yet again, I was number 18 on the list. I had pretty much given up hope, but decided to wait at this gate anyway. Texted my mom. Public Cry #4. Emailed my landlord about our changing living situations. Public Cry #5. Posted an ad for a subletter. Public Cry #6. (If you know me, you know I often cry during movie previews and cute/happy/sad commercials, so public crying shouldn't be a huge shock to anyone.)
And then the gate agents started rattling off names. I was sitting directly in front of them, looking like I had been hit by a salt-watery, puffy, truck, when they called my name. I hopped up, and they informed me that they *MAY* have good news. A man ran (literally) down the gangway towards the plane, shouting to staff on the plane about some seat 21D. The staff on the plane shouted back about 29D. A man nudged my arm and ushered me through the door at the gate, shouting behind me to have them close the doors. He gently shoved me towards the door of the plane and simply said “the first empty seat you see on your left is yours!” and then he disappeared.
And so that, my friends, is how I made it to Houston. I walked onto the flight to a bunch of people who were already safely buckled into their seats and a few flight attendants who were none to pleased to see me get on the flight that they had already finished clearing. But, I breathed a sigh of relief and spent the next 3 hours in and out of consciousness, drifting in and out of unpleasant, hungover sleep.
In Houston, my flight to Liberia was delayed, I had Public Cry #7, I watched a few episodes of You on Netflix, and attempted to eat dinner (didn’t go well; I ate about 6 bites before I wanted to collapse into a puddle of hungover self-pity.) But I was also graced with a gift from the universe in the form of a helpful gate agent, who, upon taking one look at my face, offered to seat me in the only empty row. I, surprisingly, did not cry at this kindness though that may have more to do with just general dehydration than anything.
I landed in Costa Rica at 11:30pm, after about 18 hours of travel. Given the day was supposed to consist of just a single 5 hour flight, you can imagine my happiness when I saw my name on a slip of paper outside of baggage claim and staff from my hostel that guided me towards a big black pickup truck to transport me for the final hour and a half of my journey to Rapture Surf Camp.
Don’t worry, after Public Cry #7, I proceeded to go almost 36 hours without leaking from my eyeballs again.
The next morning. I woke up, changed into a swimsuit, and wandered to the common area to indulge in some of the best fresh fruit and granola I could’ve asked for. Then, I lounged around, talking to new friends and sinking deeper and deeper into the beanbag chair by the pool, until surf lessons started at 3pm.
Grabbing my giant beginners foam board, we trekked our way through the national park, through the mangrove trees, and onto the beach. My muscles had already started quitting on me from carrying my board for only 15 minutes, so I wasn’t feeling incredibly confident about the next 2 hours on the board.
But, Luis was an incredible teacher and, surprisingly, I actually did pretty damn good. Best of all, I was fully distracted for 2 full hours. Sitting on my board, out in the warm Pacific Ocean, staring out at the waves as they rolled in was the perfect opportunity to relax for a bit.
The night, we had family dinner at the hostel, and I chatted with an amazing group of people for a few hours, ending the night with a few beers and a chat with a new friend; our feet dipped in the infinity pool that looked out to the jungle as we discussed life and all of its many trials and tribulations.
Surf lessons on Tuesday were at 7am, so I set an alarm nice and early, grabbed my foam board, and headed back out again. Luis spent the next 2 hours watching me catch my very own waves (!!!!!!) and teaching me how to turn the board and recognize left or right breaks. We agreed that it might be time for me to graduate from the foam board to a real life surfboard!!
After the lesson, I had about 10 minutes to make the 15 minutes walk back to camp in time for breakfast, so if you need a chuckle today, please imagine me and my 135 pound self, with limited upper body strength, speed walking through mangrove trees with an 8 foot board balanced atop my head. Don’t worry, this story has a happy ending and I did, in fact, make it back in time for breakfast before they closed the kitchen.
After scarfing down fried eggs, gallo pinto, and more fresh fruit, I sunk back into my trusty beanbag chair and read my book for a little bit, with my feet hanging in the pool and my head slowly wandering back to my real life that was awaiting me back home.
At which point, I commenced Public Cry #8.
To be clear, I think my 36 hours sans crying is a feat to be celebrated! By then, my tear ducts had rehydrated themselves and I facetimed a friend back hope and proceeded to weep atop my bunk bed, surrounded by 5 other beds, in an open air room at the surf hostel. In the list of favorite places to have a good, solid, sob, this is probably near the bottom. Finally, after cutting in and out for a solid 15 minutes, the WiFi decided that it had had enough of my weeping and cut out for one last time, so I swiftly dried my tears, put on concealer in a vain attempt to subdue the creeping, puffy redness threatening to envelop the rest of my face, and headed to the yoga deck. Elevated above the rest of camp, I put on my trusty yoga playlist and did my all time favorite yoga flow, breathing heavily and steadily as I transitioned from pose to pose, focusing on nothing but my breath and balance. (Mostly trying to ignore that my entire life had changed in a matter of a week.)
After a full sweaty hour, and Public Cry #9 during Savasana, I returned back to the hostel, downed a drink, and sat down to write.
The difficult part about writing, especially during solo travel, is that writing during the trip takes away from conversations that you may want to have with other people. But thankfully, the universe has put exactly the right people in my life at exactly the right moment, and despite having a solid cry earlier, I am, overall, feeling immensely better than I was just a few days ago.
Travel has a way of healing people. Heartache, stress, worry -- It all tends to melt away in between the soft sands of a beach, or the chilly water of a pool, or the crisp taste of a beer sipped amongst new friends. Something about forcing yourself into the unknown tends to somehow lead to less stress. Somehow, taking a risk like this makes the rest of life feel just a little bit more manageable.
At least, that’s what I think. And that’s the thought process that I’m going to use as I close out 2019, sitting in my 30th country, technically by myself yet surrounded by new friends, and drinking a couple more beers.
Later tonight, I’ll channel all my energy into enjoying the bonfire on the beach, recognizing the thoughts of home, but letting them pass without hanging on and without tugging at my emotions. I’ll ring in 2020 with fireworks over the ocean and a few beers with a couple dozen new friends.
So cheers, friends, to fresh starts, and unabashedly public crying. May 2020 bring everyone happiness, necessary change, and more growth than you imagined possible.
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