The flight from BWI to San Jose, Costa Rica's capital, took about five hours, a little less than going to L.A. We arrived shortly before 1 pm local time, collected our bags, and cleared Customs without much delay.
The second leg of our journey was to be a 25-minute flight on local airline Sansa to Quepos, on the southwestern coast and near Arenas Del Mar, our resort. We were told that to get to Sansa's terminal we should exit the airport and follow the signs.
Outside there was a large crowd of people waiting to meet their parties -- and no signage. Fortunately, an entrepreneurial young man took our bags and guided us a block and a half along a busy thoroughfare to an unmarked, uninviting parking lot protected by razor wire and a guard: the entrance to Sansa's terminal.
We tipped the youngster and waited behind another couple in front of a check-in counter. We had booked reservations on a 4:30 flight in case of delays although there was an earlier flight we hoped to be able to catch.
At the counter one clerk was slowly administering another couple and two other workers were killing time, alternately talking with each other at the counter and meandering to the back area. After a very long wait it was finally our turn. We presented passports, hefted our luggage onto the scales, then climbed on ourselves while holding our carry-on bags and were told we had just missed the earlier plane.
After a cursory security check in a small, dank hallway, we entered the bus-station-grade waiting area, replete with several rows of molded plastic chairs and a "cafeteria" -- actually a kiosk that sold ice cream treats, bottled water and not much else. We settled in with a few other souls for what would be a three -hour layover.
At long last it was time to board our tiny, single-engine 12-seat prop plane. The pilot and co-pilot were young but professional and serious-minded. The San Jose-Quepos run, which winds around the ubiquitous mountains, is probably the most routine thing in the world for them. The views of the mountains, rain forest and what we would later learn are groves of African palm oil trees were breathtaking, until a heavy fog obliterated our vision and I hoped the pilot was as familiar with the mountains as I had assumed.
As we neared our destination, the fog lifted to expose not an airport at all but only a narrow landing strip hacked out of the thick jungle. I half expected paramilitary types to restock the plane with bales of narcotics for an off-manifest destination after we deplaned. I don't know for sure that they didn't.
At the end of the strip was the terminal -- a metal open air shed housing a few wooden tables, a couple of hangers-on, a baño, a little concession stand, and two tiny car rental booths.
A driver from the resort greeted us before we got to the terminal, loaded us and our things into a waiting van steps away from the flimsy chain link security fence, and we set off.
There are two towns between the airstrip and Arenas Del Mar: Quepos and Manuel Antonio. Quepos consists of open-air shops -- markets, diners, laundromats, bars -- and a quarry and other industries. Many people work in the nearby palm-oil tree fields.
On the outskirts of Quepos is a posh seaside complex, with restaurants and shops catering to American tourists, and a marina crowded with fine pleasure boats. Our driver took us out of our way to see the marina, and the magnificent sunset over the Pacific.
We then continued our drive and came to Manuel Antonio, which, because of its proximity to the national park of the same name, features local motels, hostels and restaurants that hug hills close by the narrow winding road.
By the time we reached our destination it was dark. We registered, were shown to our room (we were too tired to pay it much attention), found our way to dinner (spectacular local seafood and a lovely poolside setting), returned to our room and crashed.
The second leg of our journey was to be a 25-minute flight on local airline Sansa to Quepos, on the southwestern coast and near Arenas Del Mar, our resort. We were told that to get to Sansa's terminal we should exit the airport and follow the signs.
Outside there was a large crowd of people waiting to meet their parties -- and no signage. Fortunately, an entrepreneurial young man took our bags and guided us a block and a half along a busy thoroughfare to an unmarked, uninviting parking lot protected by razor wire and a guard: the entrance to Sansa's terminal.We tipped the youngster and waited behind another couple in front of a check-in counter. We had booked reservations on a 4:30 flight in case of delays although there was an earlier flight we hoped to be able to catch.
At the counter one clerk was slowly administering another couple and two other workers were killing time, alternately talking with each other at the counter and meandering to the back area. After a very long wait it was finally our turn. We presented passports, hefted our luggage onto the scales, then climbed on ourselves while holding our carry-on bags and were told we had just missed the earlier plane. After a cursory security check in a small, dank hallway, we entered the bus-station-grade waiting area, replete with several rows of molded plastic chairs and a "cafeteria" -- actually a kiosk that sold ice cream treats, bottled water and not much else. We settled in with a few other souls for what would be a three -hour layover.
As we neared our destination, the fog lifted to expose not an airport at all but only a narrow landing strip hacked out of the thick jungle. I half expected paramilitary types to restock the plane with bales of narcotics for an off-manifest destination after we deplaned. I don't know for sure that they didn't.
At the end of the strip was the terminal -- a metal open air shed housing a few wooden tables, a couple of hangers-on, a baño, a little concession stand, and two tiny car rental booths.
There are two towns between the airstrip and Arenas Del Mar: Quepos and Manuel Antonio. Quepos consists of open-air shops -- markets, diners, laundromats, bars -- and a quarry and other industries. Many people work in the nearby palm-oil tree fields.
On the outskirts of Quepos is a posh seaside complex, with restaurants and shops catering to American tourists, and a marina crowded with fine pleasure boats. Our driver took us out of our way to see the marina, and the magnificent sunset over the Pacific.
We then continued our drive and came to Manuel Antonio, which, because of its proximity to the national park of the same name, features local motels, hostels and restaurants that hug hills close by the narrow winding road.
By the time we reached our destination it was dark. We registered, were shown to our room (we were too tired to pay it much attention), found our way to dinner (spectacular local seafood and a lovely poolside setting), returned to our room and crashed.
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