I finally escaped Sacramento and headed east to visit family and prepare for my relocation to Costa Rica. I would soon officially be an ex-patriot, an American who lives in another country. I had seen so many of them – men in their forties who looked sixty, pale and depleted, in bad floral shirts, filling the bars all day while talking to their only companion, a pet Chihuahua named Georgia. They never paid taxes and couldn’t get a date, nor a job, in the US. I vowed that would never be me. There was still a great deal of planning to be done. I’ve always traveled abroad but never actually moved someplace overseas.
The closest thing to that is when I traveled around the world for a year in ’99. I started out with a healthy midsection, a lot more hair, and two huge duffel bags containing heaps of clothing, books, a Walkman with speakers, cushy beach towels, and all the encoutraments I thought would come in handy.
I learned that while travelling your luggage is everything – it’s literally like carrying your entire home around with you. Every nook and cranny needed to be utilized correctly in a constant battle for efficiency, to keep only what you really needed, because you had to lug this heavy load around with you at all times. Running for buses, carrying it around chaotic city streets while fending off thieves, lugging it up 4 flights of stairs in hotels rented by the hour in 100 degree heat, my luggage was a inescapable appendage, and I estimate in that year I covered about 70,000 miles with it in tow.
I returned from my odyssey one year later with a much lighter load – I was down to a single duffel bag containing one pair of shorts, two shirts, some socks, a pair of dirty jeans that sagged off of me, a warm dusty fleece jacket, and conspicuously devoid of underwear. My bag was filled with assorted treasures – ceramic pots from Peru, a Turkish rug, a jade mask from Thailand, a gold-leafed Koran from Egypt. Everything else had been stolen, replaced again and stolen again, given away to local friends along the way, or discarded to lighten the load. I learned that I didn’t need much – a good comfortable pair of walking shoes and a great sweatshirt to keep warm. Most of the clothing I brought was now a couple sizes too big for me. My travels left me emaciated from constant stomach sickness due to third-world water, eating food from dirty street vendors, and chowing down mystery meat in China (probably horse). In some places McDonalds was the cleanest, safest meal in town. I was in a daily fight to maintain some shred of hygiene – whirring through a kaleidoscope of filthy cities, nasty cheap hotel rooms and hostels, putrid streets, nasty fly-infested bathrooms, and hiking around jungles, mountains, and rivers practically living off the land. I loved every minute of it.
I began carrying around a huge bottle of pure rubbing alcohol to douse myself in to ward off the bed bugs, mosquitos, rashes, assorted germs, and anytime I kissed a local girl. That only lasted until the bottle broke open in my luggage during a flight, leaving my clothing permanently anaesthetized but susceptible to spontaneous combustion. I ran every time I saw a French person because they are constantly smoking and discarding their cigarettes anywhere that’s convenient. “The world is their personal ashtray” we used to say. I was in amazing shape from doing 300 pushups and walking about 10 miles daily. But my skin was a landmine of mosquito bites and my hair started to fall out from using the cheap soap provided in all hotels. I was so dark from wandering around the sunny deserts of Jordan and beaches of the Red Sea that still to this day, when I show people a photo, they swear that it isn’t me. My prized possessions were my camera and seven notebooks I had filled with the scribblings of a mind expanded. I was a changed man, exposed to a furious collage of humanity’s existence, suffering, and beauty, but my packing strategy had just plain sucked. This time I wanted to get it right, and it was imperative because I was moving to Costa Rica with only two bags, not just visiting.
In early June I settled into a great respite of five weeks in Connecticut. I basked in the warm adoration of my family and old friends – and home cooking. It felt good. I worked out every day and furiously planned my exodus. I was familiar with Costa Rica, having been there in ’99 and again for a month last December.
My biggest concern was making sure that transitioning my employment was secure. Living near the beach sounded warm and fuzzy, but the reality is that things cost money no matter where you go, and often times a lot of money in tourist destinations. I run a debt counseling company contracted by a local Sacramento attorney, and in theory it would be business as usual. My work would be done remotely – through email, phone, and the web. God bless the Internet.
A local Costa Rican friend who needed a roommate found us a decent condo with a pool only two blocks from the beach. I was secure that I would have a home base - place to unpack without hassle. After adding up my new truncated budget I found I could comfortable exist for less than $1,500 a month, still working to earn US dollars, and get to live 300 meters from the beach in a little surf village in the tropics. I would be free to follow my true passion of writing like my pants were on fire, and every day would be a new adventure. Sweet.
I felt a huge weight lift off my shoulders. Even though the transition was ongoing, I felt mental space and time open up like I haven’t experienced in a decade. I was starting to be myself again. My anxiety of nonstop hustling and paying bills gradually subsided, and I could actually sit there and have a conversation with a friend or loved one and be 100% present. I didn’t notice it at first, but everyone I talked to about this move said that I seemed really happy and at peace about it. Some lamented the loss of my beautiful house in Sacramento, but honestly I never looked back or even missed it once. Jettisoning possessions, negative people, stress, and obligations actually felt like being emancipated, like I gained something imminently essential and irreplaceable – my life. The fact that I moved away actually made me feel closer to the people there that I really loved and wanted to carry with my always. Now it was time to get packing.
The poor postman had to lug 22 boxes of books to my mom’s house, leaving them stacked on the front porch. Those went in the attic unopened. Next came 17 boxes of clothing, artwork, cd’s, and other personal affects. I brought all of those things down to her basement and went through everything like a POW who just got a Red Cross care package. I settled into a system of categorizing and forming piles of what to try to bring and what to keep in storage.
My entire world had to fit into two suitcases, each weighing less than 50 lbs. Remember that this wasn’t a couple-week vacation I was taking – I was moving down there to live for an indeterminable amount of time (I call it semi-permanent when people asked). It’s a lot harder and expensive to get certain things, and impossible to get others, in Costa Rica. So I deliberated on every item and article of clothing until I had a rough-draft pile. I took out my two oversized duffel bags and filled them up. My stuff didn’t fit. Not even close – my NO pile was bigger than my YES pile. I had to unpack everything while practicing my curses in Spanish, and start over.
Even a small computer printer was way too big and heavy to bring along, and hardcover books were out of the question. I traded my brand new printer for a ride to the airport. But music was absolutely essential so two mini Bose speakers earned a place in my luggage. I gotta have good music in my life as much as I need food, water, and air to breath! Towels and sheets were a huge waste of space and easier to get down there. But I did need a set of hair clippers so I wouldn’t have to pay the village barber every week to keep my hair short. Security is always a concern, so I brought a portable laptop lock and a battery-operated alarm connector that could be stuck up on the French doors out to my room’s balcony.
I knew that I’d need a lot of t-shirts and sleeveless shirts in the hot equatorial climate. Comfy basketball shorts and swimsuits were my everyday garb. I brought a beat up old pair of sneakers, some workout sneakers, and a three pairs of flip flops.
I also wanted to be able to get a great workout anywhere, anytime. So I packed pushup bars, a stretchy exercise band, a jump rope, swim goggles, and a system of straps and handles for pull-ups and other exercises.
Through careful subtraction I ended up barely squeezing everything into those two big bags, having to sit on one of them just to get the zipper closed. My small carry-on looked like I robbed an electronics store: microphones for shooting work video blogs, a headset, chargers, battery packs, Bose speakers, smaller portable Sony speakers, an Ipad, and Ipod, a digital camera, a mini tripod, flash drives for storage, a Leatherman tool, and two pairs of headphones were all put in individual baggies and labeled.
As good-luck talismans I brought a Jesus-piece and a poem my niece wrote me. It went:
“My Uncle”
My Uncle is funny,
My uncle is like a bunny,
My uncle is a riddle,
My uncle is like a Skittle,
My uncle is Norman,
My uncle is like a doorman.
I LOVE MY UNCLE
Hahaha apparently I have some bunny-like tendencies, look like a big Skittle, and have a lot of traits shared with the global league of doormen. Now that I think about it, I do enjoy holding doors open for people….hmmm…..
Of equal concern was the 50 lbs weight limit on my bags. You’d be amazed how the weight added up, and that’s why books or other heavy items were a no-go. I borrowed a scale from my sister’s house and there in the basement I weighed myself, and then weighed myself again holding each colossal piece of luggage. Items were transferred from one bag to another or to my carry-on bag so that everything came in under weight.
Just when I thought I had my luggage issue settled things got curious. Since it’s difficult or ridiculously expensive to get most American goods in Costa Rica, and luggage space is at such a premium for anyone traveling down there, the most efficient way to get desired stuff is to ask people who are visiting to hand-carry them from the states. When someone comes down for a vacation they can easily throw a couple of requested hard-to-get items in their bag and leave them on Costa Rica soil. Tamarindo, Costa Rica is a really international town with a mix of local Guanacastians, transplanted Tico city dwellers from San Jose, Columbianos, Nica migrant workers, Italianos, unfortunately the Frenchies, Germans, Brits, Ausssies, “Loonies” (Canadians), Argentinians, and yes, even gringos walking its equally dusty or muddy streets. Comings and goings are dictated by seasons – September and October being the undesirable rainy season, and December and January the busiest months and best weather. Most foreigners who “live” in Costa Rica are actually there with a tourist visa and have to leave the country every 90 days to get their passport stamped before reentry. People come, buy into the dream of living in paradise, and leave eight months later with an empty bank account and a vicious coke habit. So it’s a real dynamo of activity, languages, and comings and goings. Somehow in all this craziness most people manage to get by and even form friendships. So when someone is travelling down with luggage space word spreads like a brushfire, and a network of requests is presented to that person for delivery.
I had a group of casual friends in Tamarindo who knew I was coming and started jockeying for space in my luggage. At first I followed traveller protocol and asked around to see what they needed. They requested small things for themselves, or their group of friends and family; a handwritten letter from mom, a little jewelry box as a birthday present from sis, a tiny transistor radio. That’s cool. I jettisoned a couple things from my luggage to make room and weight and delusionally thought the requests were over. They kept coming. Someone wanted to send their son a hardcover book. Whoaaa! We’re talking some serious weight now. But I could fit it in my carry-on backpack so I didn’t say no. Magazines and more letters came in the mail, this time unannounced. Special batteries and more letters arrived. For most of these things I barely knew whom they were going to, but I acquiesced out of obligation as a fellow world traveller.
Someone hit me up and said they desperately needed a fuel pump for a Chevy SUV delivered down there. Don’t worry – it wasn’t too big, and oh by the way it was already on the way in the mail. Shit. It was starting to get ridiculous and now a whole corner of my duffel bag was dedicated to other people’s property. I feared saying no and risking being ostracized from the Tamarindo community, which come to think of it would probably be a good thing considering all of the knuckleheads down here. A bottle of much-needed organic fertilizer soon arrived for delivery. I carefully checked every single package to make sure I wasn’t inadvertently being a drug mule, but as far as I can tell the ya-yo finds its way north, not south.
Then things got weird. I got a few “special requests” from a Tico friend who knew half the town. He said he needed me to bring something down for his girlfriend that was impossible to get in Tama, and he’d be eternally grateful. With politeness like that how could I decline? What was it, I asked? A purse? Shoes? Some special brand of cosmetics? No, it was a dildo.
I couldn’t help but crack up laughing. He was serious. I don’t even know his girlfriend, but he gave me very specific instructions on which one she wanted. The humiliating thing was that he wanted me to order it and then pay me back once I got down there.
I’m not to hip on this stuff so I don’t know if the correct term is vibrator or if people say dildo? Not sure – and not sure I want to know. But I sheepishly logged on to Drugstore.com and placed a covert order for the “Pipedreams Mutli-Speed Deluxe Rabbit Pearl, in Pink.” It costs $29.99 and would be delivered in 3-5 business days. Super. It’s a damn good thing that this guy was so cool or I would have told him to let his girlfriend fend for herself. Honestly it was so surreal to think of transporting a dildo across international boarders that the comedic value alone would make it impossible for me to say no. The package came, which I whisked into the basement before it could be discovered like a grade school kid hiding a bad report card.
Now I had a dilemma on my hands – how and where to pack it? There was no way in hell I was going to put that in my carry-on bags and risk getting exposed with a pink dildo going through airport x-ray machines. And should I leave it in the box and original packaging? It was taking up a lot of space, so I decided to open it up and wrap it in a t-shirt and conceal it deep in the recesses of my clothing. The box was ripped into tiny pieces and hidden in the trash, which I volunteered to take out that night.
I reported back to my buddy that “the eagle had landed” and his soon-to-be happy girlfriend was all set. He had bad news. His girlfriend told her cousin and SHE wanted one too. Could I bring another one down? Ahhh what the hell, like I always say, what’s one more dildo between friends you don’t even know? I was becoming a connoisseur in ordering sex toys, so I ordered another Rabbit, but this time in a lovely purple shade. My order of two dildos within a week must have triggered some Drugstore.com preferred customer auto-preference, because all of a sudden I was getting daily emails offering all sorts of freaky stuff. Delete. Delete. Delete.
The purple monstrosity got delivered, removed from the box, and wrapped up in a pair of basketball shorts. I stuffed it deep in my luggage right next to its partner in crime. I quickly confirmed with my friend. He emailed me another request – his girlfriend had told her cousin who told one of her girlfriends, and she really wanted personal lubricant. Jesus Christ – lube? Really? Now I was flirting with violating the laws of nature, if not man. I logged back onto Drugstore.com and they gleefully welcomed back their best customer since Ron Jeremy, offering ten pop-up suggestions for my shopping cart. I said no to the leather mask, more because I didn’t like the zipper over the mouth than anything else, and went about my business of ordering “Aqua Warming-to-the-Touch Personal Lubricant” for $14.99 and being done with the whole sordid affair once and for all. Get in get off get out – that was my mission.
The size of lube she had ordered was ridiculous – I buy my ketchup at Costco in smaller sizes. It was as big as a medium soda at the movies. So as a compromise I bought three small bottles. They got delivered by postman growing ever more curious, whisked into the basement, wrapped in a plastic bag with the opening taped over and then stuffed deep in the luggage n case they broke. I didn’t bother confirming with my friend for fear of him ordering fuzzy handcuffs for his Tia or a blow-up doll for his grandmother.
I was ready to get the hell out. Five months of planning my great escape, shifting my lifestyle 180 degrees, and careful packing on the east coast had run it’s course. I was a fireball of anticipation. I felt like a boxer about to go into the ring, but who had to wait six months with the pre-fight adrenaline. My last week in Connecticut I paced the house, worked out harder, yelled at my mom for driving too slow, and re-weighed my bags five times.
While I was staying at my sister’s house my nephew lovingly volunteered his bed. In exchange I promised him that we would completely remodel “our room.” We conferred our punch list included a hot tub, a mini bar, and a disco ball. And lots of candy. We only got around to the “lots of candy” part by the time I left, but I appreciated his sacrifice none-the-less. I slept one last night in his junior bed with my legs hanging off, and then awoke at 5am. My sis drove me to the Newark airport on uncharacteristically silent New York City byways.
The airport was a madhouse, and Continental had my sprint from end to end with my luggage in tow three times before finally getting everything checked. My bags weighed in at 52.8 and 54 lbs, further confirming my theory that airlines rig their scales in order to set people up for bullshit fees. But a little small talk distracted the airline worker and I didn’t get charged the $8,000 over-weight baggage fee. I sat down in my window seat, put on my headphones, and started to doze as the plane gently lifted off for a 4 ½ hour flight to Liberia airport in Costa Rica.
I woke up with a start, jarred out of a pleasant snooze by a terrible thought. I had made it through security but on international flights you have to go through customs once you land. Last time I visited Costa Rica the customs agents went through my luggage with a fine-toothed comb. Oh my God – my contraband would be found and I’d be exposed as a sexually deviant who incorporates Chevy fuel pumps and bio-fertilizer into my love making repertoire! They would keep pulling strange items out of my luggage until it was all-too apparent that I was building a Kinky Bomb. Oh the shame, the embarrassment! I envisioned lube-sniffing German Shepherds barking ferociously at my luggage and the customs officers ripping through my bags and waving pink and purple dildos overheard while yelling for security. A crowd or tourists would amass, pointing and laughing at me, mothers shielding their children’s eyes from the Love Terrorist. Though not illegal nor technically against airline policy, it was downright nasty. I was mortified by this thought, sweating in my seat at 30,000 feet. I thought for sure I would be busted and subject to the most humiliating moment of my life. I looked around for an escape. Maybe I could find a nice drug trafficker and switch contraband with him before we hit customs? We could do the switch-a-roo in the tiny airplane bathroom where I’d duct tape his cargo to my abdomen. I’d rather take the fall for 10 kilos of coke and do 20 years in jail than have a whole airport full of people think I’m one of those double-dildo fuel pump freaks. Much to my chagrin no one around my seat looked remotely like a drug trafficker, though that nun with a mustache in First Class looked super suspicious.
Everyone else was excited to land but I asked the flight attendant if we could take a couple more laps over Costa Rica to delay the inevitable for an hour or so. She told me to buckle up and bring my tray table up. We landed and walked outdoors among palm trees to the little open-air terminal. I got my bags off the luggage conveyor and took my place in the queue I was sweating like a hostage from razor-frail nerves and 700% humidity. I tried to look normal, but only managed to look like a guy trying to look normal. I tried not to sweat, but that only made me sweat more. There were two lines and the stern customs agents were checking approximately every other bag. They were really going through them. I tried to time my approach to coordinate not being checked, letting a family go in front of me and throwing an elbow to cut in front of an old lady in a wheelchair, but it was a crapshoot at best.
Finally it was my turn. My shirt was soaked. My hair was wet. My eyes were bulging with trepidation. I sheepishly put my bags on the metal table and tried not to make eye contact with the guard, but not to fully avoid his gaze either. He looked me over for what seemed like an hour. I thought for sure this was the moment of truth. He handed me my passport back and smiled. “Pura Vida. Welcome to Costa Rica.” I was free. I walked out of the airport into a wall of heat amid a chaotic throng of taxi drivers, tour guides, and luggage handlers. A sly grin hit my face. I was officially an ex-patriot.
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