I was in Costa Rica in March, which was a relief from this endless winter. We rented a car and drove around the country, from the wet green mountains to the dry heat of the Pacific coast.
Zip-lining down mountains and rappelling down waterfalls.
Lying on the beach watching the surfers.
Soaking in a hot tub underneath a volcano, watching the green fireflies wake up in the dark.
Ceviche for dinner.
Green hummingbirds outside the window when I woke up.
Stopping to drink tea at a tiny cafe in a village on top of a mountain all wreathed in cloud. The cafe was run by three generations of women who somehow made sense of our broken Spanish. They made the meals on a brown Aga cooker and we sat at the counter and watched while they washed the dishes. Then we watched a football match next door.
The evening our Costa Rican host brought us shots of homemade moonshine made from sugarcane, pineapple, and corn.
Driving through a small village on Sunday morning when everyone was coming out of church carrying long green spiky things, and realizing that it was Palm Sunday and people had carried actual palm fronds to service.