Costa Rica changed something in me: Part I - Tamarindo

I recently came back from a trip that I think altered my brain chemistry in a way that none of the other places I’ve traveled to ever have. There is far too much to say about Costa Rica to fit into one post. Too many moments, too many versions of myself that seemed to emerge there, too many small details that somehow became life-sized in memory.

So this is not the whole story.

This is only Part I. This is Tamarindo.

This wasn’t my favourite place I’ve ever been. That title still belongs to Barcelona - the city that still makes me wonder what would happen if I simply left my life behind and moved there.

But this trip was different.

It was my first time in a long while spending nearly two weeks in one country. If you know me, or know the way I’ve traveled over the last few years, you know I rarely stay in one place long enough to let it know me back. I’ve moved through countries quickly, chaotically, efficiently. Collecting moments, maybe, but not always absorbing them. Not staying long enough to feel local anywhere.

This time, I stayed.

And I’m not sure I’ll be able to give the experience the justice it deserves, but here is my best attempt.

From the moment I boarded the plane to Liberia, I knew this trip would feel different. Most of my travel has happened in Europe - a continent where airports flow into train stations, buses arrive with logic, and infrastructure often seems to anticipate your confusion before you even feel it.

Costa Rica was not like that.

Nothing felt overly polished or handed to you. Especially because I wasn’t staying in Liberia. I was heading to Tamarindo - a beach town affectionately and critically nicknamed Gringo-rindo, a place heavily shaped by tourism, where locals have often been pushed to the edges of what was once theirs. But I arrived during Semana Santa, the week of Easter, when locals also had time off. And suddenly Tamarindo felt like something fuller.

It was alive with vibration, electricity, laughter, movement. The beach belonged to everyone at once. Tourists and locals standing in the same sand, chasing the same sunset, listening to the same music, living under the same warm sky.

That felt special from the very beginning.

I stayed at a small place called Mai Ke Kai Surf House - a surf hostel where surfers and travellers crossed paths under one roof. When I first arrived, I was surprised by how small it was. I got there in the middle of the day, when everyone was either at the beach or somewhere else entirely. It was quiet. Too quiet. I felt uneasy walking in. This was the longest leg of my trip, and I was desperately hoping that I’d make friends there. Friendship in adulthood often feels like something you have to accidentally stumble into.

There were two girls sitting in the kitchen, eating and chatting.

I said hi.

They said hi.

Ten minutes later, I was walking to the beach with them to watch the sunset.

That one small yes turned into everything that made Mai Ke Kai one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever stayed.

They were two girls from Quebec who had known each other for years. Within the hour, they introduced me to another friend they had made there - a guy from Quebec who was also staying at the hostel.

Somewhere between the sand, the conversations, and the ease of it all, the four of us became inseparable.

We only had three days together, but they felt strangely full. The kind of days that stretch longer in memory than they did in real time.

That same night we met more people - a firefighter from Toronto, a scientist from Ottawa - and went to a night market. The next day we piled into a car and drove to another beach.

And somewhere in those simple plans, things in me started to make sense again.

I felt welcomed.

I felt appreciated.

I felt seen.

I felt, for a brief moment, that I could stop thinking about everything waiting for me back home and simply live inside the day that was in front of me.

One of the girls said something to me that touched me more than she probably realized.

She told me she loved how I appreciated every little thing. That if sunlight hit a flower in a certain way, I stopped to notice it. That if there was a dog on the street, I would light up and call out to it like I always do. That no matter how small the detail was, I never seemed to miss it. She admired that I moved through life actually seeing it.

And the strange thing was, hearing that felt both beautiful and uncomfortable.

Because who I was there felt like the person I want to be all the time - but not always the person I believe myself to be. Reality can harden you. Routine can dull you. The places we live in shape how brightly we allow ourselves to show up. So part of me felt like an imposter wearing the version of myself I liked most.

But maybe she saw something I forgot.

Maybe that softness, that noticing, that wonder - is me. Even when life makes me feel far from it.

On the Quebec girls’ last full day in Tamarindo, we decided to go surfing. It was all of our first times. The lesson began on land, where everything felt manageable enough -the instructor explaining technique, how to position yourself, when to pop up, where to place your feet. Things that sound simple in theory and entirely different once an actual wave is involved.

I am not a particularly coordinated person. I’m not naturally athletic in the way some people seem to be. I used to swim competitively, but balance, timing, hand-eye coordination - those have never felt like gifts I was given.

So I certainly did not expect to be someone who would stand on a surfboard.

And yet, somehow, I did. The moment my feet planted themselves on that board and I realized I was actually riding the wave, I let out the most involuntary squeal of joy.

The kind of joy that bypasses dignity entirely and that comes from surprising yourself.

By the end of the lesson, we all sat there in disbelief, sore and laughing, our bodies marked with what felt like rug burns from the friction of boards against bare skin. Later, the salt water would sting every raw spot it touched.

I didn’t care.

Some discomforts are worth earning. Because in exchange, I got one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. The sound I made when I realized I was standing on that board will probably live rent-free in my mind forever.

I knew it even then, while the sand still clung to my skin and adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet: That day was the best day. And it felt like it.

The girls left on the second last day I had there.

The Quebec boy was staying a few days longer and he became my sidekick for the remainder of my time there. We went to the beach. He surfed. I baked in the sun.

When we got back, I said I’d shower and maybe take a nap. Saltwater, sand, sunscreen and the sun was all I knew.

The shower was outside. And I cannot begin to explain how an outdoor shower feels in a hot climate like Costa Rica. Water that is not too cold but not too warm, landing on sun-heated skin. Washing your hair while the air still carries the day’s heat. Smelling the soap. Watching grains of sand run down your body and disappear through the slats below. It was simple and it made perfect sense.

Once I was clean, fatigue took over me completely.

I could have gone to my dark room, but upstairs there was a daybed beneath the roof, open on all sides to the air, and empty.

So I chose that instead.

I laid down with wet hair and felt the small breeze begin drying it strand by strand. I fell asleep to birds chirping, to distant voices drifting through the surf house, to the quiet sounds of life continuing around me.

Two hours later, I woke when the sun had shifted and was pouring directly onto my shoulders.

It felt warm. Good, even.

But I knew if I didn’t get up then, I’d wake later with the kind of sunburn that punishes joy.

So I stood, still hazy from sleep, and walked back downstairs.

And somehow, as it had all week, life was waiting for me again.

That night, we all decided we would stay in and hang out at the hostel.

Some drinks, pizza, and more cigarettes than I should probably admit to sharing with the Danish boys carried us through the evening.

Two new girls had arrived - also from Toronto and determined to go out.

I wasn’t particularly keen on it at first.

But once again, I said yes.

And once again, that yes gave me more than I expected.

The bar next door was hosting karaoke.

That karaoke night became one of those nights you tell the stories about. It was loud, funny, unplanned, filled with strangers who somehow feel familiar by midnight. We laughed, danced, sang badly, played beer pong, and forgot whatever version of ourselves existed outside that moment.

Later, I walked back to the surf house alone (after somewhat irish exiting), tired and grateful, realizing how fortunate I was to be living a night like that with people I had only just met. People who were already shaping everything about my trip.

The next day was my last full day there. After that, I would be leaving the coast behind and heading into the cloud forests of Monteverde. So I made the beach the priority.

That morning, a Danish girl, the Quebec boy, and I went there with no real plan beyond the sun, ocean, and time. After a while she left first, and the two of us followed hunger to the smoothie place we had now gone to for what felt like four days in a row. By then it had become one of those little rituals travel gives you - a place you’ve only just discovered, yet somehow already feels like yours.

The day moved strangely fast.

I spent time with the Finnish girl who had been traveling full-time and was now volunteering at the surf house. I spoke with my friend from Mexico who was also volunteering there.

And then, it was time for one last sunset.

This time with my dear friend, the Quebec boy.

That last sunset felt different. Different because once the silly photos were taken, silence took over naturally.

We sat beside each other and watched the sun lower itself into the horizon until it disappeared completely, and the sky began doing what it does best after loss - becoming even more beautiful. When the colours changed, we spotted our Danish boys nearby and joined them.

On the walk back, we ran into the rest of the group, this time with a new girl from Canada who also happened to live in Toronto. For whatever reason, something clicked immediately. Some people feel instantly familiar.

Back at the hostel, we all sat on the couches together talking, reflecting, laughing. At some point the conversation dissolved and we each drifted onto our phones while music played in the background.

Nothing needed to be said.

The presence of one another was enough.

I think I’ll carry that with me for a long time.

There was even a moment when we noticed two little lizards playing above our heads, and all of us stopped to watch them in delight.

It sounds small.

It was small.

And it was perfect.

That night, the new Toronto girl was in my dorm.

We talked until the lights were finally turned off.

She told me she wished we had met earlier, because her trip was only just beginning and she still had a week left. I told her my shuttle was leaving at 1 p.m. the next day, but before I left, I wanted one last morning at the beach.

She said she’d come with me.

So the next morning, it was the two of us and our Quebec friend - who by then felt more like a brother than someone I had met days ago.

We sat in the sun.

We played in the water.

We laughed in that easy way people do once introductions are no longer necessary.

In the middle of it all, I convinced her to reroute part of her trip so she could meet me again for the final leg of mine.

And she did.

By the time my shuttle arrived, I already knew I’d be seeing her again in a few days. In the meantime, she would continue enjoying the sun and I passed the baton over to her to become besties with my Quebec friend.

Leaving was harder than I expected.

There were hugs coming from every direction, kind wishes layered over one another, people waving as if we had known each other much longer than we had.

And maybe that is the strange generosity of travel.

Sometimes people are placed in your life for only a few days, yet leave with pieces of you all the same.

I couldn’t have asked for a better beginning.

And if Costa Rica changed something in me, I think it started there.

In Tamarindo.

With strangers who no longer feel like strangers at all.