A Stumble (or Two) on the Way to Costa Rica

It’s 5:00 p.m. Thursday, January 31, 2019. David’s just come home from an afternoon with our pups Rocky and Ambrose at Kim’s agility classes in farm country outside Lebanon, Indiana.

I’m checking in for tomorrow’s American Airlines flight, and they’re asking for passport numbers. My clothes for the Costa Rica and Panama Canal cruise are laid out on the bed in the guest room, ready to be rolled and packed. We’ll have paella with shrimp for dinner, then pack up and be ready to take the dogs to “jail” first thing in the morning. Our flight to Miami leaves at 12:59 p.m. tomorrow, so we need to be at the Indianapolis Airport by 11:00 a.m.

“Dave, I need your passport number for check-in.”

“Be right back,” says David.

He shows up with a passport card but no passport. We can’t use that for check-in—it’s a different number. But where’s the passport? While he searches, I unearth a photocopy of our passports from previous trips and complete our check-in, then join the search.

Where did we last lay eyes on the passport? It was sometime in August, when I signed up for our cruise and completed the passenger information requirements. Did I hand the passport back to David, or did I put it back in our “foreign travel” drawer in the three-drawer bench at the foot of our bed?

David seems to remember me handing it to him with a stern warning not to lose it. Maybe it’s somewhere on his desk. 

Long story short, we turn the house upside down looking for the passport, upending drawers, going through piles of papers from David’s desk, to no avail. I glue myself to the computer, investigating quick ways for David to get a replacement passport so he can catch up with the ship later in the cruise. No way.

Around 8:00 o’clock, we realize we’re licked. “I guess you’ll be going on the cruise by yourself,” says David. “Are you sure?” I say. I’ve been desperately needing a break from a two-month long battle with web issues as webmaster for my native plant society.

We agree that I’ll travel solo. I’m heartbroken, but so eager to get away. I keep asking, “Dave, shall we cancel the whole thing?” ”No, no,” he insists, “you should go. Have fun.”

I try to make peace with that decision. Neither of us has the stomach for dinner. I prepare one tortilla each with cheese, but we barely get that down, our stomachs so queasy. I finish my packing and head for bed, a nervous wreck.

Next morning, I’m up and ready to go by 10:00 a.m. Once again I ask David, “Shall we bail on this?” but he insists I go on. I gather my belongings, and at the last minute add David’s laptop computer, thinking I may feel like doing some writing on this solo voyage. This turns out to be a wise decision.

We stop at Indiana Members Credit Union on the way to the airport to get me some cash for the trip. I stuff $400 into my little purple shoulder bag that I got in Cambodia for $6.00 many moons ago. It’s a nifty bag with five zippered compartments that I’ve found handy for trips. It’s already stocked with my credit and debit cards, my passport card, addresses of my family and friends for sending postcards, Dramamine, aspirin, hand cream, Chapstick, and hand sanitizer. It fits easily into my Rick Steves carry-on bag, which matches my Rick Steves rolling suitcase.

We kiss goodbye at the airport, David and I, with promises to keep in touch with details of everything I will see and do on the cruise. It’s a bittersweet parting, David kicking himself for not finding the passport, me facing a week away from him on the trip that’s really his dream—passing through the Panama Canal.

The first leg of my flight lands me at Miami Airport. I seek out gate D24 for the next leg to San Jose Airport in Costa Rica. My stomach finally settled enough to take food, I order a blackened fish sandwich from the adjacent restaurant. I pay for the meal in cash, asking the cashier to change some of my $20-dollar bills so I’d have $5s for tips.

I sit down at the self-serve counter outside the restaurant to grab a few bites, but soon move to the gate to finish my meal as passengers begin boarding my flight, American Airlines #1353. I look forward to spending a restful night at the 5-star Barcélo Hotel in San José, having already booked the free 8:30 p.m. shuttle from SJO airport to the hotel. The plan is to get a good night’s sleep, walk around the town in the morning, and then be picked up at 1:00 p.m. at the hotel for the drive to Puerta Caldera where my cruise ship will be docked. The fare for the two-hour drive with Costa Rica Driver will be $120.

The flight to San José is uneventful, except for my moving a few rows forward so a couple can sit together. I end up seated between two young men, one who badly needs a shower, the other who keeps tapping nervously on the window. After the 2-1/2 hour flight, I rendezvous easily with the shuttle from the Barcélo Hotel and manage to help another couple on a Caravan trip who thank me for connecting them with the shuttle driver.

At last, we’re at the hotel. It’s about 9:00 p.m., and I’m more than ready to crash. But that is not to be.

I present myself at the guest registration counter to check in. I reach into my carry-on bag for the little purple handbag with my credit card that will seal the deal on my lodgings for the night. The handbag is not there!

Holding panic at bay, I search everywhere in my carry-on bag, but my handbag is definitely not there. I pause a moment to take in what that means. It’s basically this: I have no credit card, no debit card, and no cash. The hotel will not give me a room. And I have no way to pay the driver fee of $120 that will get me to the cruise ship.

What to do?

I notice there’s a man greeting Caravan customers and making sure they’re checked in and happy for the night. A helper person. I introduce myself and convey my predicament.

Eduardo swings into action. A former private security person, he calls his buddy who’s the head of airport security to see if my bag is in the lost and found. No deal. He checks in again a few minutes later. Still no deal.

Who can I call? Windstar offices in Seattle are closed by now, and even the emergency number doesn’t answer. I leave a desperate message. Meanwhile, my smart phone is running out of juice. I need to get it plugged in and onto the Internet. I brought my iphone charging cable but not the little cube that it plugs into. 

By now I’m numb with panic. What else can go wrong, I wonder. But aha! I have David’s laptop that I can plug into. I plug into a three-prong plug behind the check-in counter, and with that I can recharge my phone. Eduardo talks the hotel people into giving me internet access, I sign in with the hotel’s user name and password, and pretty much become a fixture at that counter for the rest of the evening.

I call David to share the bad news, and we both set about researching what we can do to get me some money pronto. Neither of us has any experience with wiring money. The research I do looks like it could take a day or two to receive any money. Eduardo offers to provide US dollars cash if we could wire money to his Wells Fargo account. He explains another potential difficulty: any money wired to me from the US would be paid out in Costa Rican currency, the colón, which would do for my ride to the ship but maybe not for shipboard expenses and certainly not for anything in Panama. In any case, he’s leading a Caravan tour of San Jose in the morning and won’t be back at the hotel until after my scheduled 1:00 pm pickup. 

Concerned that we may not be able to work out a wire transfer in time, I quickly book a flight back to Indy on a 2:00 pm plane, just in case. It’s the only transaction I can do successfully without an actual credit card. I’m beginning to think this trip was not meant to be.

Having already spent an extremely tense evening before, I’m pretty much blotto by now, and faced with spending the night on the street. But Eduardo has come up with a solution. He says the check-in counter girl, María José, can give me a room for the night at her parents’ home, for free. I can’t believe my good fortune. I accept gratefully.

While I continue to research how to get money wired to me, María José, whose shift is over, hangs out at the hotel bar with friends until I’m ready to leave. I use the laptop to enter a claim at the Miami Airport lost and found, and to recharge my iphone. Hotel business continues quietly around me, and I hear a band playing in the background for some fancy party. Suddenly the computer goes dead. I reboot and it and asks if I want to troubleshoot. Yes, I say, and it goes through troubleshooting machinations for about a half hour while I continue to ponder my fate.

Eduardo shows up again around 11:00 pm, worried about me, and hands me a blanket and $100 to get some food or anything else I might need. My guardian angel. 

Did I mention that my suitcase traveled a different route than I did? Our Indy to Miami flight was too heavy, so they treated my bag to a ride via Dallas/Fort Worth. It will supposedly arrive at SJO at 10:50 pm and eventually be dropped off at the hotel. By midnight it still has not arrived at the hotel, so I phone María José at the bar and we head to her home for the night.

It’s a fifteen-minute drive to the Escazu neighborhood where she lives with her parents and a four-year-old son, Logan, the product of an online romance with a guy from Buffalo, New York. Her parents are still up at midnight and welcome me formally as a guest from the U.S. to their country. Their charming spare room is fully equipped with toiletries, a small bathroom, and a TV. They provide me with a toothbrush and a tray of cookies and an apple if case I’m hungry. Thoughtful, since I haven’t eaten since 5:00 p.m., but my stomach is too stressed to take advantage. I force down the coffee-flavored Biscoff crackers I got on the plane and dive into bed for a fitful sleep.

I’m wide awake the next morning at 5:00 a.m., mulling over all the possibilities. Will the wired money get here in time? If not, will Costa Rica Driver accept Eduardo’s gift of $100 cash instead of the $120 fee? Could I borrow the missing $20 from Maria Jose? Could David wire money directly to the ship? Could Windstar convert David’s unused excursion tickets into money for onboard expenses? Windstar may be able to answer some of these questions, but their offices will not open until 10:00 am local time. The window of opportunity is growing steadily smaller. But the more I ponder, the more I’m determined to get to the ship no matter what. The prospect of returning home to the four-inch snow and the stressful few months I’ve been living is hard to contemplate. I miss David terribly, but I need to focus on making it to the cruise.

Suddenly there’s a text from David. It’s good news--a wire transfer is possible within hours. He just needs to go to Kroger with his ID and debit card. María José’s locates an agent in her neighborhood who can complete the transaction.

With this ray of hope, I relax a little, enjoy breakfast with the family, and spend time admiring the beautiful walled garden and the softly clucking chickens in their charming homestead. I share photos of David and the pups and take pictures of María José and the family. Young Logan and I sit on the floor of my guestroom for a spell, enjoying video games together.

Rather than just waiting for the wired money to come through, María José suggests she drive me around the sights of San José and I then accompany her to buy school supplies for Logan’s upcoming school year. Sounds great to me. Just as we’re leaving, there’s more news from the front: David was just at Kroger to wire the money but discovered his ID was no good--his driver’s license was expired! He’s now at the BMV to get his license renewed, number 30 in line. Oy vey!

María José at the wheel, we brave the notoriously congested city traffic to take in the magnificent Neo-Baroque Teatro Nacional, the “Rico” park where expat Nicaraguans hang out on weekends, the pretty post office, the Metropolitan Cathedral, and the Parque Central. Eduardo, bless his heart, checks in with María José, worried about me, and she puts his mind at ease. Logan has insisted I sit in the back seat with him, which I happily do. I show him my binoculars and let him try them out. When he has to pee, which seems to occur frequently, I help hold his little body so he can go in a can his mom keeps for this purpose in the car. I learn more about María José. She’s bored by outdoorsy things like hiking, but she likes to play bingo and go to the beach. She speaks flawless English.

We look for the wire transaction agent in Escazu but can’t find it. We have the address, but even local passersby don’t know where it is. María José gets on the phone to sort things out in rapid-fire Spanish. This is when I learn that you can pick up a wire transfer at any licensed agent in the city. It turns out the simplest is to get it at Walmart, of all places. So that’s where we head. I stand in line for the cashier while María José and Logan shop for school supplies. 

At long last I am again solvent, possessor of a fistful of colóns which I bundle up in a grey Walmart bag and stuff in my carry-on bag. I’m now set to meet my ride to Puerto Caldera at the hotel, plus I have cash to pay for my expenses on the ship. Or so I hope.

I say my grateful goodbyes to María José and Logan at the Barcélo Hotel, where she will go to work later that afternoon. She declines my offer of cash to pay for gas and help with school supplies but gratefully accepts the gift of my favorite beaded necklace made in Kenya by women living with AIDS. She has been my angel, María José. I will miss the necklace but will fondly remember the young woman and family that took me in.

I have little to contribute in the way of conversation on the two-hour drive to Puerto Caldera. I am spent, and my driver is not a talker, so we traverse the hilly countryside mostly in silence. I pay him with my hard-won stash of colóns and am handed off into the enfolding arms of the Windstar cruise staff.

Finally, I’ve made it to the Star Breeze and the long-anticipated cruise, alone but intact, with a wad of cash in my pocket and ready to enjoy myself despite everything that’s gone before. I’m sad that David cannot be with me, but I plan daily texts and photos to help keep him close. There’s a glass of champagne to greet me at the registration table. Promising…

Epilog

I’m back home in Indiana, glad this nightmare is behind me, sort of.

My little purple Cambodian handbag is still missing in action. I’ve filed lost and found reports with American Airlines and Miami Airport and checked with the manager of the restaurant where I thought I must have left it.

No untoward charges have been made on my credit or debit card—I’ve been watching the transactions regularly online. But it’s about time to ask for new cards.

As far as I can tell, trip insurance won’t reimburse any of this.

I learned that you can wire money easily and quickly—wish I had known. I also learned that one should carry the emergency phone number of the trip insurance company. They would have had answers to many questions.

In a nice bit of irony, Hotel Barcélo charged my credit card for the full amount as a no-show.

Our traveling days are not over. David is applying for a new passport.

The Flight Home

Our wake-up call came at 2:30 a.m., Saigon time. 

Instructions were to put bags outside the door by 2:45 and board the bus for the airport at 3:00 for the 5:35 a.m. United Airlines flight to Hong Kong, to be followed by a 14.5-hour trip to Chicago, a four-hour layover, and a last leg getting us back home to Indianapolis. The 23+ hour ordeal would be the customary penalty for a vacation halfway around the world—this time an enlightening journey through Vietnam and Cambodia.

We had traveled in comfort—indeed often luxurious comfort—as promised by our Viking Cruise hosts, ticking off the ancient Khmer temples of Ta Prohm, Angkor Thom, Banteay Srei, and Angkor Wat from our bucket list. Comfort would cease, however, once we boarded the Boeing 777 in Hong Kong for the long haul to O’Hare. This equipment’s engineering claim-to-fame seemed to be packing the maximum number of passengers into the smallest possible space--a three by three by three seat configuration with just enough aisle space between for a skinny person to pass through. With David by my side on the aisle seat, I donned my compression socks and hunkered down with a cozy Maeve Binchy novel to ride it out.

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Once we were airborne, the flight attendants came around offering a drink of juice or water and a bag of Asian rice snacks to get us off to a comfortable start. I accepted a glass of water, grateful to be able to quench my thirst. 

Occupying the middle seat on an airplane is its own special type of hell. There’s no crossing your legs without bumping people both right and left, and you’re guaranteed to inconvenience your neighbor any time Nature calls you to the lavatory. I thought about making a pit stop before any more serving carts blocked the aisle, but just then the ride got a bit bumpy and the captain turned on the fasten seat belt sign. So it was no go.

Timing of the flight was such that our first meal service would be lunch. Under the slightly turbulent conditions, there came a cart carrying trays with a choice of two hot entrees. I selected the cheesy penne with tomato sauce, freed a fork from its plastic wrapping, and tucked into the side of quinoa salad in its tiny rectangular dish. The drink cart was following at some distance behind, and I saw they had red wine. Perfect to wash down the pasta, I thought.

The violent turbulence began the moment I peeled the foil off my entree. Holy cow! It was lurching to the right and lurching to the left, interspersed with moments of sheer weightlessness. Looking for some explanation for the upheaval, I consulted the flight map. It showed our position east of Beijing, skirting the edge of the Japanese islands. No help there, so I refocused on my meal. I gripped the bouncing hot dish near my mouth to make sure the food went into my mouth and not my cheek. The pasta wasn’t bad, but I was looking forward to the red wine to make it even more tolerable. A drink cart was almost here, a mere two rows ahead on my left, as we continued to careen through the angry currents.

Abruptly the beverage service came to a halt. Carts were withdrawn and parked behind the bulkheads by the lavatories, and flight attendants were ordered to sit down. The violent bumping continued unabated as we did our best to finish our meals. It went on and on and on.

Pretty soon passengers who had already been served their drinks were ready for bathroom breaks. Several rose to go despite the seat belt sign and were sent back to their seats by an agitated announcement over the loudspeaker. I heard coughing from various quarters and wondered when the first of us would begin to lose our lunches.

Mind you, I was just two days out from a bout of Ho Chi Minh’s Revenge, which had me running at both ends for twelve hours and projectile vomiting right outside the ship’s dining hall door on my first attempt at a meal afterward. Counting on my stomach to remain sound on this occasion, I fumbled absently through the seat back materials in hopes of locating a barf bag, just in case. Encumbered as I was with headphones, blanket, pillow, Binchy novel, and my tray of lunch debris, I found none.

As the vigorous buffeting continued, I began to feel fuzzy headed and flushed, not to mention I still had to pee. Presently an announcement came over the loudspeaker (in the customary English, Mandarin, and Cantonese) explaining that beverage service had been halted due to turbulence but would resume as soon as the turbulence ended. By now I was less interested in red wine than in some explanation of what was going on outside. The violence had gone on now for at least a half-hour, and Uncle Ho was threatening to wreak vengeance again on my poor stomach. I pictured a nightmare scenario coming on—desperate passengers rising up en masse to take the lavatories, others puking their guts out over the debris on their tray tables, horrified flight attendants hiding in the galleys, me peeing my pants.

Just then, all was suddenly quiet. A few more bumps came, but an ever more certain calm ensued. My digestive system experienced palpable relief. The flight attendants regrouped. Beverage service resumed. I gratefully accepted a soothing diet Coke—no red wine for me today, thank you. My chance for a bathroom break came and I took it, extricating myself from the middle seat by means of a complex set of handoffs of two sets of finished lunch trays between me and Dave, both getting out and climbing back in. A little carton of vanilla ice cream and wooden paddle ended the meal with a sweet touch. I felt lucky to have survived lunch with my dignity intact.

Calm restored, the hours ground on as we passed over the Aleutian Islands, Fairbanks, Alaska, and Minnesota, making a beeline for Chicago. There was time for a long nap with my head against the seatback in front of me, time for an in-flight movie, and time for me to finish my novel.

It was smooth sailing from then on, and a welcome chance to savor the pull of home. 

The Companions

I have many regrets about how my mother spent her last few years, but her companions are not among them.

Ever since her second stroke, Mom was wheelchair-bound and needed help dressing, toileting, and transfering from chair to bed—in short, complete custodial care. It was a scattershot stroke, so many parts of her brain were affected. She had trouble speaking coherently. We weren’t always sure she knew who we were. Her hearing aid batteries would die, her glasses would go missing. Clearly she could not advocate for herself, and we were anxious about her quality of life.

What to do? My sister Rosemary lived nearby but had a full-time job and could only visit on weekends. The rest of us siblings were scattered in Indiana, Missouri, Colorado, and California.

To the rescue came Team Betty, a group of hired companions who took turns looking in on Mom at least three days a week. The first was Jan, an Oberlin graduate like Mom, and an ardent dog rescue advocate and professional dog walker. She was suggested by Rosemary’s sightless husband Andrew, who had employed Jan once to drive him to a conference and had enjoyed her company. Jan recommended some of her fellow dog lovers to be companions, and gradually the team was assembled.

And what a team it was! There was Nita, the Zumba instructor with a heart of gold. Barb C of the sparkling wit who was also caring for her own aged mother. Barb S, retired nurse and accomplished artist. Marcey, the intuitive swim instructor and reiki practitioner. Ebulient Kerry with the warm southern accent who often brought along her small dog Monty. And feisty Vera, the former health administrator who loved to take on challenges.

The team worked out among themselves who would visit regularly on which day, and they put magnets with their photos on a calendar in Mom’s room so she would know whom to expect each day. Soon we had coverage every weekday for two hour sessions.

Team Betty gave Mom the royal treatment. They took her to Cafe Louise on the third floor for a cappucino, to the library on the seventh floor to return books and select new ones. They sat with her at meals and engaged her tablemates in conversation. They read together, and spun stories about the various tropical fish in the large tank by the dining room. They took Mom to art class and bingo, and for strolls outside in the neighborhood when the weather was nice. They threw her birthday parties. They took her to Friday happy hour and helped the staff serve tiny plastic stemmed glasses of wine and punch.

Despite the modest sums they were being paid, and the distances some of them had to drive to get there, the companions just seemed to love doing for my mom. They took their reward in the form of her sweet smiles, cute shoulder shrugs when they were kidding her, her occasional lucid and sometimes suprising comments, and their parting hugs and kisses.

The best part for us siblings were the companions’ nightly email reports. We knew exactly what Mom’s day had been like, what they had done together, and how she had reacted, as though we had been there in person. Plus they were our eyes and ears on the care Mom was given. They spotted when she was vague and sleepy and might have another urinary tract infection. They checked that her hearing aids were in place and had live batteries. They noticed when she had a chipped tooth and accompanied her to the on-site dentist. They shared their daily reports with each other so all could stay current with any developments. They were also Mom’s advocates. They sat in on care conferences that I could attend only by phone, often lessening the bullshit factor. Vera fought like a bulldog to get Mom a wheelchair that really fit her, not just whatever clunky hand-me-down was available from Physical Therapy.

Rosemary and I grew to love these women, and not just because they obviously loved our mother. We loved them because each was strong in her own way, and tender-hearted, and interesting. They came to the memorial “happy hour” we staged at the retirement community—it seemed a fitting tribute to our mom, who so loved sociability—and afterward came to Rosemary’s home for dinner and reminiscing. We set out some of Mom’s chotchkies on the grand piano and invited them each to take one as a memento. And later we republished Mom’s memoir in a special edition dedicated to Team Betty.

I still have their magnetized photos on my refrigerator, their sweet faces reminding me that we did our best to give Mom a good quality of life and, in the process, reaped a bounty of love. 

Best Party Ever

December 27, 2015, the day after my birthday

My dear sister filling the house with brilliant silk flowers

Singing my praises in verses of her own composition

Best friends meeting and mingling with my family

Croaking out old standards together, karaoke style

Sampling exotic vegan appetizers with savory sauces

Marble cake and Duo’s famous lemon bars

Grandkids reprising their performance at Purdue’s Christmas show

Surrounded by loved ones to grow old with

My boys by my side, a husband who loves me

Best. Party. Ever!

The Big 7-0

Creeping in on little cat’s feet, the seventieth anniversary of my birth arrived the other day, largely unexpected.

Who ever expects to find herself old? Not me, certainly. I take for granted that I’ll live forever. But this birthday marks a milestone to be reckoned with, signaling the inevitable decline to come, the changes that will have to be made, the losses I’ll have to adjust to. Will I still be me?

Reaching back through the span of decades, I look for reassuring connections to my younger selves. Yes, there I am, the chubby-cheeked toddler clutching Raffie, her plush toy giraffe. I recognize the little girl who drew pictures of flowers and landscapes. Who believed in fairies. The grade schooler who wanted to be a ballerina and later an opera singer. The young woman who played piano and loved singing and performing. Who journeyed far to go to college, had adventures and made mistakes. Who married her sweetheart, gave birth to sweet babies. Who enjoyed and endured everything that came after.

They’re all there, my memories of me, comforting me that I’m still who I am and have always been. They will be my companions in old age. I’m counting on them to sustain me for as long as memory serves. 

Uh-oh! Hearing Aids

It’s time, says the audiologist. 

She shows me the chart. The exes and ohs representing my hearing on the right and left meander downward off the normal range. The high pitches are going first.

My poor ears. They’ve served me well through the years despite occasional blockage by earwax, and despite the raging forest of cicadas in my head that is tinnitus. But I’ve noticed lately that I have to cup my hand to my ears to hear soft-spoken voices at meetings. The optimal TV volume is creeping up. And forget trying to interpret foreign accents; it’s subtitles for me. (I keep wondering about the damage done early on by the loud music at the kids’ roller rink and that nighclub where we danced in front of giant speakers.)

I should give hearing aids a try, reiterates the audiologist, to prevent further loss of word recognition. She wants me to wear them all day, even though I spend most of the time alone at the computer or in the garden.

From the ENT physician I get a conflicting message. Why bother with hearing aids if you’re not normally in situations where good hearing is essential? I like his view of this better.

David has kindly brought brochures from Costco, where I can get hearing aids cheaper. I’m steeling myself to go there and learn more.

Ffffft!

Another year gone. And what a whirlwind it was: Springtime in Olympia, Ephesis, Pompeii. Having my ovaries removed. Fishing and jazz in Colorado. Lunch atop the new World Trade Center. Havana by night in a ’57 Chevy.

Those were the highlights making 2015 a year to remember. But most of the time went to the same old same old: Me sitting in front of my computer doing routine things for my nonprofits. Dreaming up landscapes for my clients, ordering plants, placing them for the installers. Weeding and planting with my Master Gardener friends at our pro bono projects. Misplacing my smart phone and finding it again. Watching endless hours of television with Dave, Rocky nestled between us on the couch. Attending the grandkids’ soccer and basketball games. Cooking dinners. Doing dishes. Reading in bed. Zumba!

Life is sweet, every minute of it, and oh so fleeting.