Semana Santa (literally ?Holy Week?, or in English, Easter) is one of the busiest (if not the busiest) weeks of the year across Latin America. Up there with Christmas, New Years, and the countries that celebrate ?Carnival?, prices everywhere skyrocket as all vacation spots are fully booked out by those lucky enough be able to afford to reserve ahead. Everyone else just shows up to enjoy the festivities for the day or pitches a tent where they can. I had actually heard horror stories of streets in San Juan Del Sur being so overcrowded with people, that cars weren?t allowed into the town and would have to drop everyone outside so they could push in, by foot. So with Semana Santa right around the corner, I wasn?t too sure what I should be doing with myself! One of those universal lessons which keep repeating themselves, if you can convince yourself to see it through, proved its validity yet again: Don?t bother worrying about things, they will work themselves out. Don?t just sit on your ass? take an interest and do what you can beforehand. But there are always variables and unexpected elements outside of your control, that try as you might, you can?t anticipate. So as long as you are aware, observant and functional, just take things as they come and everything ends up ok. All the worries aren?t worth the wrinkles and gray hair. Thus entered Rolando to the Semana Santa dilemma. I had met Rolando down in Key Largo, Florida when I was seventeen years old. My good friend Jessie knew Rolando from middle school in Queens, New York. Rolo moved down to Florida when he was fifteen, and then back to Costa Rica (where his family is from) after college. When Aniela, Jessie and I descended upon Miami for two weeks the summer before senior year in high school, we decided that going down to visit Rolo in the Keys for a house party was definitely a must-do. It didn?t matter at the time that he still didn?t even have his drivers license when he came to pick us up and drive us down? And so, it made perfect sense that Rolo and I meet up again in his native land thirteen years later. Luckily, the only time he had off from his current studies fell right during Semana Santa! Likewise, his plans included going down to his friend?s beautiful, spacious, private villa on Playa Hermosa, the legendary surf spot a stone?s throw away from Jaco. Dominical is located relatively far south along the Pacific coast in Costa Rica. Up the coast is the popular, beautiful Antonio National Park, and a bit further north is Jaco, which habéis the distinction of being the closest beach to the capital, San Jose. The approximately two-hour drive, in addition to the highly regular, fun waves breaking right along the city?s beach, made Jaco the ultimate weekend getaway/surf spot for the masses. The place is extremely built-up, with everything from huge nightclub complexes to bodybuilding gyms lining the streets. If people think Tamarindo is full-on, then Jaco is its local older brother: bigger, busier, and with no lack of Gringos thrown in with your Tico (Costa Rican) mix. Playa Hermosa was five minutes south of Jaco, but couldn?t be more different. It was quiet and more serious surf scene, with some of the most powerful and consistent waves in the country attracting surfers from all over Costa Rica and the world. So when Rolo invited me up to hang out at the villa for holiday, it was indeed a Semana Santa God-sent! After a couple of hours on the local bus up from Dominical, I found myself being scooped up by Rolo in his jeep at Playa Hermosa and whisked off the villa, a few minutes away. Rolo?s friend Alvarro was currently renting the house, but it had been occupied by various friends from their group for years. This villa was legendary. Complete with bunk beds, there were enough beds for the whole crew that came down? and our surfboards! I knew it would be a good time, but after having been on the road for a couple of months now on a backpacker?s budget, skimping on accommodations and scrounging around for cheap food, that week I was absolutely spoiled rotten. There was such a difference between trying to get your bearings living out of a hostel, and living local. The first few days were mellow and relaxing. Rolo showed me around Hermosa and Jaco, checking out where we wanted to surf and how the tides were working, picking up groceries and taking in the various cliff-side views. A couple of days later the rest of the gang came down from San Jose, with the most overwhelming selection of food and drink in tow. I didn?t know anyone else, but when the first act upon their arrival was to start grilling up endless pounds of steak, I knew we would get along just fine! Reminiscent of my friends from Israel and NY, Rolo?s international band of merrymakers came from everywhere from Fiji and Poland to Texas. The majority of the time the next few days was spent crowding around the kitchen/dining room area cooking and drinking. ?The kitchen really is the heart of the home!? mused Alvarro at one point. Indeed, as soon the pots where cleaned and the kitchen moderately wiped down, another round of culinary exuberance began, with someone running out for more racks of ribs and cases of beer. I am not over-exaggerating how serious everyone was about food; Don and Agnieszka actually started a Vietnamese restaurant, ?Pho?, in San Jose? this was no joke. The only breaks we took were to go to the beach, hang out on the balcony at night, replete and immobile from too much eating, or heading out to the bars and clubs for some dancing. We would alternate taking it easy in Hermosa, or go straight into the heart of the Semana Santa action in Jaco. It was an arduous holiday regime but someone had to do it. The week didn?t pass without some invaluable philosophical musings as well. After being inspired by a huge ?YOLO? sticker on the biggest paddle board in Jaco, Rolo decided to embrace its message to the maximum. ?You Only Live Once? is a common maxim recently permeating mainstream culture in the form of shirts and instagram photo hashtags (see below). I threw caution to the wind and just started rolling around with fresh, gelatinous Aloe Vera rubbed all over my face (earning me the temporary moniker of ?DJ Aloe Face? while supervising the music playlist in the villa) to rejuvenate my skin. Rolo started sporting Jorts (again, jean shorts) and in his attempt to make them as ?hip? as possible, kept cutting them shorter and shorter until they bordered on Jongs. Coupled with a few other questionable wardrobe choices (including a shirt that was gifted to me, and onwardly gifted to him), a lesser man might have experienced shame in his appearance. For Rolo it was just another page from the book of YOLO. That was, of course, until everyone else had enough of the jorts and decided to cut strategically placed holes in them, rendering them unwearable, even for Rolo. As one can imagine, all this Semana-Santaing and YOLOing about had its toll, and by Saturday it was time to pack the party in. It might have also been the revelation that the ?salt? I was putting on all of my food for the past two weeks (which tasted very little like salt), turned out to be ?Magnesium Sulfide? in English, otherwise known colloquially as the inedible Epsom Salts (bath salts). So in case you are tempted to buy ?Sal Ingleterre? from the condiment section of your local Costa Rican supermarket, you might want to think twice about it, unless your intention is to keep things exciting for your digestive system. And thus, after my week of decadence, it was time to travel to the ultimate surf mecca that everyone had been telling me about for years: the hallowed beaches of Santa Teresa in the Nicoya Peninsula.
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ymoreno
