Storytime with Rob: Costa Rica Edition, Chapter 3

I awoke on the second day after “the incident” with the sole mission to find a Western Union, so that I might receive the money my friend had been so kind to send in order to get a new passport, and find my way back home.

My hostel had one meal per day included with my stay. After obliterating what snacks I had on the first day, this would be my sole source of sustenance until I got some money. I waited for my “free lunch” and then started my 2 hr journey. While I was driving, a friend in NYC with whom I’d left my car, had scanned and emailed an image of a Government Passport I kept in my glovebox from my Army days. Expired, but was still the only form of ID I had, as my passport and driver’s license had been in my stolen pack. I prayed it would be sufficient.

2 hrs later, I arrived at what could be best described as a Costa Rican Walmart. it featured a grocery store, retail store, bank, but most importantly, a Western Union. I waited in a surprisingly long line and wondered if any of my neighbors had stories to compare with mine, or were simply cashing paychecks. I approached the counter, stated my name and that a transfer had been initiated for me. They asked for identification. I opened my laptop and spun it around on the counter, to show the image of my face from 7 years ago, and hoped they wouldn’t notice the expiration date. I attempted a countenance of “I do this all the time” but a deeper look into my eyes would reveal a desperate appeal to her humanity. The cashier was stunned at my form of ID, and called on a manager.

The manager kindly informed me that they required a physical form of ID. I explained my predicament, evoking surprise and thankfully, commiseration, as they attempted to work with me towards a solution. If I had a printed version, they could help me, they manager offered. She disappeared into the bank across the store and came back with a thumb drive and the offer to print it out for me with their printer. This is going to work, I thought. I’m almost home. Photocopied passport photo page in hand, I tried again.
The cashier examined the document and furrowed her brow. The rest of her face quickly turned from a cheery customer service provider to that of a doctor about to inform me that despite their best efforts, my loved one had succumbed to their injuries.

"I"m sorry, this passport is expired" she said, gravely.

“Yes, but my current one was stolen. You can see, this is still me, though," I offered, as I posed next to the document, recreating the smile perfectly, despite not having anything worth smiling about. It didn't work. She couldn't do anything. I closed my laptop, turned and headed outside. A young woman with a child approached me. She’d heard my story, and wanted to help. If perhaps my friend could wire her the money, she could accept it on my behalf. I was touched. I was also, very wary about having my friend’s money stolen before I even touched it. I thanked her emphatically, but declined. I had a plan. . . (what letter was I on now?) D.
Time for plan D: Get to San Jose, obtain new passport, meet friend with whom I’d already planned on spending the last couple days of my trip, and return home. I drove back to the hostel empty handed, knowing I'd wasted all that gas for nothing, and hoping that I hadn’t underestimated how much I’d need to get to San Jose the next day.

That night I received an email from a recruiter. He had lined up some job interviews for me in San Diego the following week. It was a hiring conference for veterans. I had known about it, but not planned on attending, as none of the companies attended had jobs I was interested in. He shared some new developments, so that was no longer the case. Could I make it? "I'll be there," I replied. The timing worked out so that I would arrive in NYC Sunday morning, and fly out the same afternoon. I booked the ticket, using miles (as I had no credit card).

The next morning, after receiving a charitable donation from a kitchen worker at the hostel, (as I would miss that day’s free lunch) I left for San Jose.

I’d been in contact with my college friend Mariana who lived there, and was aware of my misfortune. My initial plan had been to meet her and her husband at Monteverde National Park the following day, but I asked if she'd meet me at the Embassy that afternoon instead, as I expected to be flat broke, and out of gas upon arrival. During my 3 hr journey I had to pay a bridge toll of 20% of my total assets, bringing cash on hand to the equivalent of $2.00. My fuel light was on for the final hour of the journey. I kept glancing down at it, as if the gauge would climb back towards “full”, but it never did. I drove as conservatively as I could and finally arrived at the embassy. I parked on the designated corner where I would meet Mariana later that day. Not having a phone, I was just going to have to wait there until she arrived, like it was the 90s. Remember back when we just had to make plans to be somewhere and then actually be there at that time, like a character in a novel who waits at a train station every Thursday for 10 years until their beloved arrives?

That’s enough for today. I shall conclude this story in my next entry where I *spoiler alert* return home, and travel across the US for a job interview the next day.