The Arrival (and Immediate Chaos)
Right, so I got off the plane in San José looking like I'd never seen a rainforest before—which, technically, I hadn't. Shorts that were far too short, a linen shirt that screamed "I read travel blogs," and one very optimistic spirit. By the time I'd collected my luggage, the humidity had already convinced me that deodorant was a hoax invented by corporations.
My plan was simple: rent a battered Suzuki, point it north toward La Fortuna, and figure out the rest as I went. That's the beauty of solo travel, innit? No one to answer to except yourself and the increasingly angry taxi driver you accidentally insulted by mispronouncing "gracias."
I made it about forty kilometres before I realised I'd left my credit card at the airport.
La Fortuna: Where the Volcano Judged Me
When I finally rolled into La Fortuna—sweating through my shirt like I'd just run a marathon—the town felt like the kind of place that didn't care whether you had your life sorted or not. Perfect.
I'd booked the Combo 3 Best Tours In La Fortuna Combo 3 Best Tours In La Fortuna because, honestly, I couldn't decide what to do, so why not do everything? The tour promised Arenal volcano views, rainforest trekking, and natural hot springs. What I didn't account for was doing all of it with a bloke named Carlos who seemed personally offended by my inability to identify bird calls.
The hike was proper lush—all moss-covered trees and the kind of green that makes your eyes hurt. Arenal loomed above us like a sleeping giant, and Carlos pointed out about forty different species of birds. I nodded enthusiastically and kept calling them "the pretty ones." He wasn't amused.
But the hot springs at the end? Absolute magic. Soaking in natural-heated water whilst the jungle clicked and whirred around you—that's when I finally felt the knots in my shoulders release. I'd been wound tighter than a tourist's money belt since landing.
Cooking with Doña Chela and My Complete Lack of Knife Skills
The next morning, I stumbled into a kitchen in a small community just outside La Fortuna, where Costa Rica The Chela Cooking Experience Costa Rica The Chela Cooking Experience was waiting to teach me how to make proper food.
Doña Chela was this incredible woman in her sixties who had the patience of a saint and the humour of someone who'd clearly dealt with plenty of hopeless tourists before. She set me to work on gallo pinto—Costa Rica's breakfast staple—and within five minutes, I'd managed to cut my thumb on a knife that I'm convinced was duller than my sense of direction.
"You cook like you drive," she said, watching me navigate a hot pan with all the confidence of a toddler on roller skates.
But here's the thing: two hours in that kitchen, firing up traditional dishes over actual wood, watching Doña Chela move with the kind of ease that comes from forty years of knowing exactly what you're doing—that stuck with me more than any fancy restaurant ever could. We made rice and beans, fresh tortillas, and this ridiculously good slaw with lime and onion. By the end, she'd actually complimented my tortilla-flipping technique, which felt like winning an Olympic medal.
The Night Walk and the Caiman That Judged Me
I wasn't supposed to do the Tour and Night Walk La Fortuna Tour and Night Walk La Fortuna until the next evening, but I was already buzzing off the day, so I signed up for the ANURA night walk instead.
You haven't truly understood the word "dark" until you're wading through jungle trails with nothing but a torch and a guide named Miguel who keeps saying "shhhhh" every two seconds. Our group was tiny—just me, a retired couple from Quebec, and a German woman who photographed everything.
We found frogs the size of my thumb glowing in the undergrowth, some absolutely prehistoric-looking reptile that Miguel assured us was "not dangerous," and—the highlight—a caiman just floating in one of the lagoons, its eyes reflecting our torches like tiny red embers. The whole place felt alive in a way that daylight didn't.
Miguel explained how the jungle operates at night, how different species come out to hunt, how the whole ecosystem shifts. Standing there, torch beam pointed at a tiny tree frog the colour of a neon sign, I genuinely felt like I'd stepped into another world. This is what I come for—those moments when you forget that the rest of the world exists.
The Río Celeste Situation
From La Fortuna, I drove south to the Río Celeste, which is famous for being an improbable shade of turquoise that looks like someone Photoshopped it too hard. Spoiler: they didn't. The colour actually comes from volcanic minerals suspended in the water.
I'd signed up for Tubing in Rio Celeste Tubing in Rio Celeste, and I'll admit I was expecting the usual tourist float—the kind where you're packed in like sardines with fifty other people, all of you pretending the river is somehow more spiritual than it is.
Instead, I got this small-group vibe where we actually tubed down the thing, dodging rocks, soaking up the scenery, and genuinely having a laugh when someone's tube got stuck on a submerged branch. My guide, Rosa, was brilliant—she pointed out wildlife, told stories about the area, and didn't once try to sell me on some overpriced restaurant downstream.
The water was cooler than I expected, and about halfway through the float, I looked up at the jungle canopy above me, at the way the light filtered through the trees, and thought: this is exactly why I do this. Not because it's exotic or Instagram-worthy, but because sometimes you need to float down a turquoise river to remember that you're alive.
Surfing and Humility
From there, I drove to the Pacific coast and booked myself a Surf Lesson + Beach day in Jaco Beach Surf Lesson + Beach day in Jaco Beach!. I'd never surfed before, and my instructor—a patient bloke named Marcos—very quickly established that this was obvious.
"You stand like you're scared of the board," he said after my fifth wipeout.
Jaco Beach is a bit more developed than the inland spots, sure, but there's something honest about it—lots of actual surfers, a proper beach town vibe, and instructors who aren't trying to turn you into a pro in two hours. They just want you to catch a wave and not drown.
I managed to stand up twice. Twice! Both times I fell about three seconds later, but still—there was that glorious moment of actually riding the wave. Marcos took a photo, and I looked absolutely terrified, but also genuinely stoked.
The Bits They Don't Tell You
What no travel writer tells you about solo travel through Costa Rica is how much you'll talk to yourself. How you'll laugh out loud at something ridiculous that happened, then feel self-conscious even though no one's around. How you'll eat dinner alone at a small restaurant and realise you're absolutely fine with that. How you'll wake up without a plan and somehow that feels like the most freedom you've had in months.
I lost another flip-flop somewhere between La Fortuna and Jaco (that's three in two years, I'm setting a personal record). I miscommunicated so badly with a restaurant owner that I accidentally ordered an entire chicken when I just wanted a sandwich. I got sunburned in the shape of my sunglasses.
But I also cooked with a woman who changed my entire relationship with food. I floated down a river that defied belief. I waded through darkness and saw things that existed nowhere else on earth. I stood on a surfboard and, for just a moment, actually did the thing.
That's the trade, innit? A few lost flip-flops and some spectacular failures in exchange for memories that stay with you long after your tan fades.
Costa Rica doesn't need you to have your life sorted. It'll take you as you are—confused, slightly sunburned, and willing to try. And if you're lucky, it'll remind you why you started travelling in the first place.
