Fly Me To The Moon

Fly me to the moon…..OR,

                                                                                Costa Rica will do just fine!

I love being Canadian, but, as I’m sure you can understand my fellow peeps, when the winter ice comes a slidin and the snow comes a’blowin, eyes-za got a hankerin for a sizzling southern adventure.  


I would like to share with you the name of this heavenly, the-beach-goes-on-for-miles, with no two-legged beings in sight, (truly I would!), but, (that pesky little conjunction comes up so often doesn’t it!), I’m not allowed, by order of the ex-pats who live here, to reveal said name.  Punishment (which was determined at a rather loud and enthusiastic Tico dinner) is fifty lashes with an unripe grown-right-here Costa Rican banana, by none other than the local howler monkey!  And, with Obama gone and all those plummy pardons he handed out just a distant memory, I can’t take the risk of doing the crime.

You do understand, don’t you mes amigos?

It has been over a week that our little family gang flew outta the ‘6’, for our five-hour flight, filled with laughter and cashews and gummy bears and chippies, (diet doesn’t’ start ‘til I’m actually on the beach!), which was followed by a stomach-jumping, 45 minute flight on a 12-seater plane, a quick cab to the muellesito (small dock), a 35 minute boat ride to the floating-with-the-tides-dock, then a truck ride along the dusty tongue-stuck-to-the-roof of your  mouth road that potholes its way into our pequeno (very small) village.

And Hola! We’re here!

The entourage are all appreciative enthusiasts of the beaches that never end, the sun that never stops sizzling, the crowds that never come and the stress that never happens.

Well almost never.

Our daily routine starts with robust Costa Rican café negro (black coffee), a slice (or 5) of juicy red sandia (watermelon) and a mucho long walk on the damn-aren’t-we-so-blessed beach.

With each walk over 90 minutes, and the weather so unbelievably humid, one tends to feel a teensy bit woozy as one massages her feet through the rippling ocean waters.

My perfect solution to said whoo-hoo-ness is my beloved gummy bears. (Faithful readers will be familiar with my love affair with gummies!)


Every morning, amidst much chirping from the gang, I count out my supply of light red, dark red, light green and dark green lifesaver gummies (nix-ne-yeah on the orange ones, bleech!), drop them into a small zip lock bag, secure bag under my hat, and off we camino, (walk), some going right and some going wrong.

Over the weeks, and somewhere into the no-house-in-sight-drag-our-asses- walk, some chirpers’ mouths have been starting to water as I flip off my hat, and open my little gummy bear bag.  

And this my piars, (peeps) is where the stress comes in.

My head has gotten so hot over the last few walks that my ten little gummy bears have taken to melting into ‘familias’ of three.

Which leaves me with the age-old question.

Does caring REALLY have to mean sharing????

Hasta la proxima (until next time!), when we discuss the merits of rocking your chair on a sleeping bat.


 And don’t forget our contest – you can win a signed, limited edition print from Cece’s travel photos collection. Just Sign up for our newsletter (if you haven’t already) or share this on your Facebook page to be automatically entered to win. Draw takes place on February 10. see the home page for more info.