A few days ago, an old friend from the States gave me a call. He’d recently retired, gotten divorced, and was dreaming of a fresh start in Costa Rica. With his budget tight, he figured I’d be the perfect person to guide him—after all, I’ve been thriving here on a shoestring for over 30 years. I was thrilled to help, eager to share my hard-earned wisdom about living well in this tropical paradise. But as our conversation unfolded, it became clear his vision of Costa Rica and mine were worlds apart.
His first question hit me right out of the gate: “Can I bring my car down there?” He was proud of his late-model Jeep Cherokee, but I had to break the news—importing it would slap him with a tax of about 50% of the car’s value. There was a long pause on the line. “Sell it up there,” I suggested. “You’ll have plenty of cash to get started here. In the meantime, the buses can get you around.”
Before I could launch into my enthusiastic spiel about Costa Rica’s fantastic bus system—affordable, reliable, and reaching every corner of the country—he cut me off. “Ride the bus?” His tone dripped with disbelief. “I haven’t ridden a bus since junior high.”
“It’s the most economical way to go,” I assured him.
“Not for me,” he shot back. “The bus is for poor folks. If I sell my car here, I’ll just use the cash to buy one down there.”
“Sure,” I said, “there are plenty of solid options from 2005 to 2010 in your price range.”
“Say what?” he exclaimed. “My 2020 Jeep will only get me something 15 years old down there? Damn, man.”
“Let’s move on for now,” I said, steering the conversation elsewhere. “What else do you want to know?”
“Fast food,” he replied. “I love Wendy’s. Eat there a few times a week.”
“No Wendy’s that I know of,” I admitted. “But we’ve got McDonald’s, Subway, and Pizza Hut. Still, if you’re on a budget, cooking at home is the way to go.”
He wasn’t sold. As we kept talking, he rattled off a list of must-haves for his happiness in a new country. Since he wanted to live near the beach, I mentioned laundry—sand and salt mean frequent washing. I described the typical Tico washing machine: two bins, one for washing, one for spinning. Another silence stretched across the line. “What about dryers?” he asked. I explained that many of us hang clothes on a line to dry in the sun. “A clothesline?!” he sputtered. “What is this, 1950s USA?”
“In some ways, yeah,” I said, especially in rural areas. But he wasn’t here for a time warp—he wanted a Costa Rica that mirrored the comforts of the home he was itching to leave. I moved on to air conditioning, explaining the extra costs involved. He couldn’t fathom surviving daily highs in the 80s and 90s without that constant, cool hum. When I told him I keep doors and windows open, relying on fans, he asked, “What about bugs?” My answer—that the geckos scampering across my ceiling handle the pests—drew a stunned, “Are you serious?”
The hits kept coming. Washing dishes by hand? Audible sigh. The “shock shower” for warm water—basically an electric heating element on the showerhead? More sighs. I could feel his retirement dream fading with every word. Then, as if on cue, a sudden downpour started hammering my tin roof. The clatter drowned out our chat. “Hear that, amigo?” I shouted over the noise. “That’s the rain on my uninsulated tin roof!” It roared so loud I didn’t even notice he’d hung up until the storm passed.
I guess Costa Rica’s charms—geckos, buses, and all—weren’t quite what he had in mind. Sometimes, paradise is in the eye of the beholder.
