For my last day, I had decided to stay in Alajuela, a town located close to the airport, 18 kilometres from San José. I had already visited the capital when I flew in and I thought being in a new place would be fun, that exploring may keep me busy, may prevent me from thinking too much.

The hostel in Jacó was by far the weirdest place I have stayed in—and people were quite “interesting” too.

Second and last day in Jacó-the-Sin-City. I woke up rested and decided to head to Playa Hermosa, South of Jacó. Why not? I wasn’t going to pace the same old main street all day long. “How far is Playa Hermosa?” I asked around at the hostel. “Far,” some said. “Not far,” others insisted.

My expectations were low. Jacó is a resort town on the coast, by the Pacific Ocean. It was one of the first places where gringos flocked into and bought land. I had pictured a cross between Playa Del Carmen, Playa Tamarindo and Cancun. I was close enough.

Transportation is a bit of an issue here, like it was in Omotepe. There are no paved roads. You can rent a quad but it’s expensive and frankly, I wouldn’t be able to drive it (okay, maybe I would but I ain’t trying). Bus service is erratic and they are not direct, you have to go first to Cóbano and then take another bus… and of course, the buses don’t connect. But this is not really an issue because most of the time, buses don’t show up, break down, and service stops around 3 p.m.

Montezuma hasn’t changed that much. Considering how fast Costa Rica has been developing and growing, I had half expected beachfront condos and skyscrapers at the tip of the Nicoya Peninsula. Nope. Not yet. Montezuma is still just three streets of hostels and hotels, restaurants and sodas, a small village surrounded by amazing beaches. This may have to do with the fact it’s hard to get there.

The first part of the hike was relatively easy and, soon enough, I saw several coatis (members of the raccoon family) and a long snake in a tree (then I started to be paranoid and really watched where I was stepping!). The hike became harder and I had to focus on… well, putting one foot in front of the other.

This is the kind of place where backpackers gather to celebrate the anniversary of Bob Marley’s birth—no, really, it was apparently yesterday’s excuse to have a reggae night on the beach—, where hostels are long-term accommodation choices, where sleeping in a hammock is an alternative to paying for a dorm bed, where dreadlocks is the preferred hairstyle, where no one really has money, a job or a plan for the following day.

“Is it okay to walk to the bus station alone with my backpack?” I inquired at the hostel. The Tico owner pouted, slightly offended. “Of course! This is Costa Rica, it’s a safe country! It’s not like Nicaragua, you know.”

On one hand, Avenida Central is lined up with posh flagship stores and foreign brand sold at foreign prices—Levis, Desigual, Aldo, etc. but on the other hand, hawkers sell socks, underwear, calendars and religious items in the middle of the pedestrian traffic.

I really shouldn’t have stepped into the Mercado Central right after breakfast. No because I was grossed out by all the meat on display but because the food looked delicious, and I was full!

I explored the barrio chino, Costa Rica’s tiny Chinatown, and the many plazas and parques— Parque Morazán by my hostel (with a lot of hippies juggling fire torches), Plaza de la Democracia (with office people eating ice cream) and Plaza de la Cultura (with kids chasing pigeons).

“Maman love you very much, sweety pie. And you know that mommies always come back,…