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Ronaldo puts my suitcase into the back of the van along with the sign he’s carrying that says my name.
“So where are you from, Ronaldo?” I ask him as we ride through the Costa Rican capital of San Jose. Palm trees and colorful houses dot the roads.
“I’m from Costa Rica. My father is American and my mother is from here.”
We make small talk for a while and then I shut my eyes.
The sleep that eluded me on the plane finds me.
* * *
I feelthe van turn onto a dirt road and I flutter my eyes open. I see bigger trees lining the drive now than in the city.
I open my phone by instinct to check my GPS.
“Uh, where are we going, Sir?”
“Short cut.”
My stomach lurches with anxiety.
I have an inherent distrust of strangers, which I think is normal.
I remind myself that Ronaldo’s not a stranger, though, he’s the driver that the yoga retreathiredto take me to the retreat center.
“So, tell me about this town,” I say. “Playa de los Corazones. What does that mean in English?”
“In English you would say, ‘Beach of the Hearts.’ It doesn’t translate so well because in Spanish we would say, ‘Oh, mi corazon!’ to someone we love. But you wouldn’t say ‘oh my heart,’ to someone in English.”
“I see.” The road narrows and the brush seems to get thicker and thicker. “You have a good grasp on English translation.”
“This is la jungla del corazon,” he says. “The jungle of the hearts.”
I roll down the window, and I hear a strange noise.
“What is that animal?”
“Those are monkeys, of course.” I notice him glance in the rear view mirror at my face. “Are you scared?”
He must notice I’m clutching my heart.
“Of those little things? No. Of course not.” He laughs. “It’s okay to be scared. They’re very strong. But usually friendly. The jaguar is really the one you need to look out for.”
My eyes widen. “There are real life jaguars here?”
“Less now. Very rare. But yes. You may see them from time to time.”
The dirt road ends and we turn onto pavement, which relieves me in light of the fact that the GPS on my phone isn’t working anymore.
On the right, there is a humongous mansion we’re approaching.
Or, rather, it’s an estate. It’s surrounded by an eight foot fence with a taller gate lined with foliage.
Just as we’re about to pass it, the gate opens and Ronaldo slows to a stop.
“Who lives there?” I ask, “and why are you stopping?”
A baby blue jaguar convertible pulls out through the gates.
