Beep Beep

The car horn. Such a simple instrument, yet perhaps the most vital to self preservation while driving. But no one uses it here in Denver. Why? Are we afraid that someone will take offense and shoot us? I suppose that's a possibility, and my wife has often commented that she fully expects me to come to an early demise from my overly generous horn use.

But look at a place like Costa Rica, which I recently visited. Drivers there use the horn as regularly as tuning the radio or turning on the windshield wipers. A few beeps to say, "Here I am. Don't hit me. Look out. Oh my god I'm about to die on this 16-lane roundabout, get out of my way." Seriously, though, liberal use of the horn is just part of the driving technique there.

I've decided I'm going to start using my horn more liberally but with less malice, to tip the balance of its everyday use. This morning I was making a quick trip downtown, a journey I've done so often that I know how to hit all of the green lights. As I approached one intersection, a pedestrian unwisely started to cross, threatening my smooth crossing of the intersection. A few short but stern beeps sent her scurrying across, high-heeled boots and all, to the safety of the other side. Another life saved.

Now I just need a bigger horn. And bullet proof glass.

Travel Expectations

It's been about a week since I returned from a little vacation in Costa Rica. Based on the cynical descriptions provided in the Traveler's Bible (i.e., Lonely Planet), I had expected to find a hot and humid country with too many pale and bloated Americans, and the need to constantly watch my back for fear of being picketpocketed, robbed or scammed at every turn in the country's unpaved roads.

Hmm. Perhaps travel writers really do go to hell ... because that's far from the reality. Yes, the country is about 10 degrees on the sweltering side. There are a fair amount of gringos in the usual tourist traps. And, yes, there are a disconcerting number of barbed wire fences in the cities that would suggest that either Costa Rica has a large domestic market for barbed wire or that not everyone respects the rights of ownership.

But even on a short two-week jaunt it was easy to see that there was so much more to the place. I spent a few days in the very untouristed towns of Heredia and Alaquela, where English speakers were far and few, and the shady town squares, anchored by a Catholic church, offered a welcome respite from tropical sun. A solo trip to one of the nearby rainforests, up a 30-degree-grade dirt road, offered complete solitude. (An old man and young boy added some local flavor to the adventure when they tried to charge me for parking right outside the park. I most politely burned out of there as quickly as I could over the rutted road.)

The volcanoes were perhaps my favorite part. Belching a constant stream of smoke, Arenal is impressive (below), though the gaudy resorts clustering around its flanks like so many weeds were disconcerting.

Even more impressive, and with few tourists, was the crater at Irazu (below), located just north of San Jose and reached by a nice (for a change) paved road that only requires a suicide drive across the edge of the city.

My expectation had been that Costa Rica would be one of those countries to check off the life list of destinations: "been there, done that." Instead, I find myself wondering where I'll go next time. I'll just leave the guidebook at home.