We had made the long, hot drive from Liberia to Playa Grande, located on Costa Rica’s blistering Pacific coast.
Martin made all arrangements for this trip, and every lodging – every single one – was down a minimum of six miles of dusty, rock-strewn roads. Seriously! A minimum of six miles. No sissy paved roads for him, no sir! No gleaming high-rise hotels, no swanky condominiums. We would turn off the pavement onto bone-rattling, pot-holed roads, kicking up dust, and I’d settle in for six miles – or more, often it was much, much more – of bumping and jouncing.
Martin had it all planned out.
But our small, welcoming hotel in Playa Grande was a little piece of paradise. It had pretty green gardens, a sparkling blue swimming pool, a brightly-painted patio and private hammock for each room, and two sweet and friendly dogs.
We also discovered that paradise comes with ants. As Martin and I dropped our bags in the room, we noticed a scattering of red ants making forays across the bathroom floor. I don’t mind spiders on the wall or a few ants on the counter, as long as they stayed out of our luggage and away from us. I hoped they understood the rules.
