We packed up and headed back down to San Isidro, and then up the highway towards San Jose. I had 4 bars of gas on the digital gas meter, a little less than half a tank, so I opted to not get gas before heading up the mountain. I remembered there being some gas stations up on the mountain, so I wasn’t worried.
Heading back on this route was like traveling back in time, the timespan of our trip anyway. We passed the turn for the treehouse, and eventually the trout farm where Alex lost his knife. That seemed like so long ago. We passed the turn for the cabin as well. But before all that, there was some moments of anxiety climbing the Cerro de la Muerto. Namely, my supply of gas.
I had 4 bars when we left San Isidro and started climbing the mountain. It quickly dropped to 2. And before too long, it was down to 1. That’s when you notice a) how there aren’t any gas stations, and b) this f-ing mountain just goes up and up to infinity. It never stops! When you’re low on gas anyway. It never felt like that before when I had a comfortable amount of gas. You only notice the incessant climbing when you’re about to run out. “I’d sell my soul for a bit of downhill.” I’m not sure if I said that out loud, but I was thinking it. We let Ramon’s car know the deal, so they wouldn’t have to wonder why I wasn’t passing any trucks or going faster than 60 kmph. I thought for sure Chesperitos, the truck stop at the summit of the mountain, would have a gas station. We finally made it there, and no gas. We finally saw a sign for gas…in 40 km. The drive was a white-knuckler with my eyes going from the single remaining bar on the gas meter to the speedometer, to the curvy mountain road. I was already formulating a plan if we ran out: Ramon’s car would have to drive until they reached a gas station, then either buy a gas can or borrow one to bring a little gas back to my car. That ordeal would easily cost us two additional hours, plus the price of a gas can, which we would not be taking home as a souvenir.
Finally, the road started descending the mountain, and I had the luxury of knowing that a) I wasn’t burning nearly as much gas to drive, and b) even if I ran out, I could coast a long ways. We still had over 25 km before the gas station, so there was still doubt whether we’d make it. The other annoying this about the Toyota Rush is that when you are going downhill, the engoine revs up. In a stickshift, you can put it in neutral and let your foot off the gas and the engine does practically no work. But in the Rush, even when you’re going down a hill and take your foot off the gas, the car shifts to a lower gear and the engine revs to 3500 rpm. Some kind of built-in engine braking, I guess. Not great for saving precious last drops of gas!
But we made it. The gas station was in a little town just north of the cabin we had stayed at. From that point forward, the trip was comfortable. Lesson learned: fill up the tank before climbing the Mountain of Death!
Our next Airbnb was in Aserri. After the shower debacle of the beach and Hotel Teffany, I messaged the host and asked if her house had hot water in the showers. She said it did not! What the?! At least we were only there one night.
The ride to Aserri was beautiful. The town of Aserri was nothing special, but the house was up a steep hill and had an amazing large grassy yard and an incredible view of the central valley. The beds seemed comfortable, the kitchen was new and decently-equipped.
We got settled, then headed to Escazu for the American Colony 4th of July Celebration. Years ago, this party was held at the U.S. Ambassador’s house, only available to US citizens. Then, after likely outgrowing that, they moved the party to a big fairground at a beer brewery/bottling plant. That was nice too. But for the past few years, they’ve had the party at Avenida Escazu, which I didn’t know what to expect. Was it a street that they blocked off for a block party type experience? We were about to find out.
It turns out Avenida Escazu is the name of a ritzy shopping mall in Escazu, which is the wealthy suburb of San Jose where a lot of ex-pats live. Escazu has many of the creature comforts of the U.S., not that that appeals to us. I really don’t need a mall with a Cinnabon when I come to Costa Rica. Or a P.F. Chang’s. Both of which were at Avenida Escazu.
The “party” was nestled into one little module of the mall (which is an outdoor mall, in case you’re picturing a typical American indoor mall). A small bandstand was arranged, and tables and chairs as a type of audience section, and then food vendors surrounding that. Overpriced hotdogs. Overpriced Cinnabon. It’s worth mentioning that at the previous parties we’d attended, all the food and drinks were free. So from the get-go, this party felt different. Much more commercial and, since it was open to everyone, not quite as special or exclusive.
The Air Force band was there, and they played some jazz tunes. They were great. They had a singer who did a nice job on some American standards, as well as some Latin favorites (in Spanish). The Ambassador spoke briefly. We were not impressed. She seemed like a ditzy Housewives of Orange County type, complete with big sunglasses and little lap dog. A quick Google search showed that she was an insurance agent in South Florida, working in various capacities for the RNC, until landing this gig. Ugg. I joked that Trump probably appointed her because “she had a nice rack.” The sad part is that could be true.
As tempting as it was to quickly leave, we had driven 45 minutes to get there, and the girls wanted to hear the bands, so we stuck it out. Alex found a “gourmet grocery” up an escalator, so he got some snacks to tide him over before we went to dinner.
We left before the fireworks, but nobody cared enough about that to postpone dinner even longer. We looked for a place to eat the whole way back to our house, and finally chose a big chicharronera. It was multi-level, and we were escorted to an upstairs table on a veranda overlooking the city. It was pretty, but cold. I was not dressed properly, so my memories of that meal were being cold. The food was decent, if a little overpriced.
We had no eggs for breakfast, and there were no grocery stores in this part of the city, so when I spotted a little bakery that was open, I stopped. It’s not uncommon for bakeries to sell eggs. I went in by myself, and had an interesting exchange with my limited Spanish, that went like this:
Me: (seeing an empty egg crate on the counter) Tienes huevos? (Do you have eggs?)
Girl behind counter: Si! (Yes)
Me: Quiero uno kilo, por favor. (I want one kilo, please). (I should have said un instead of uno, but whatever.)
Girl: Uno? (slight look of confusion)
Me: Si!
Then she busied herself behind the counter while I waited, feeling happy with my incredible mastery of Spanish. Finally, she held out a plastic bag…with one egg in it.
Me: Oh, uno kilo!
Girl: (finally realizing) Ahhhh! Okay!
In retrospect, I don’t think using uno instead of un was the sole issue here. She just didn’t hear the word kilo, and probably figured that I was a weird gringo who is used to buying single eggs. But it worked out.
Back at the house, exactly zero of us took cold showers before going to bed.
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