The Streets of San Jose A spur of the moment travelogue

by Michael Morris

Preface Recently, 5 of my co-workers and I went on a business trip to San Jose, Costa Rica. We were on a mission to learn more about a development company with which we are looking to partner. Enzo and Kenny, owners in the company, had graciously agreed to host us during our brief, but busy stay. Both were warm, welcoming, and just about the friendliest guys you'll ever meet. We were really looking forward to spending some time in their hometown and getting to know them better. What ended up transpiring over the next 72 hours was so epic in its astonishment-enducing hilarity that I simply couldn’t keep the experience to myself. Every word of what I’m about to tell you is true.

Chapter 1: Wednesday Enzo had offered to pick us up from the San Jose airport on Wednesday night. Before we arrived, I had been warned that Enzo wasn't a very good driver. I didn't think much about it at the time. How bad could he be? After meeting us in the terminal, Enzo walked us out to the parking lot and looked around for a minute. He had already lost his car. He was in the terminal for 10 minutes and the parking lot is only a couple hundred feet long with 3 rows of cars. Oh boy. While Enzo hit the buttons on his remote key repeatedly, we walked around and found his Kia SUV without much effort. Before long we were exiting the airport and rolling down a 6 lane "highway." As I would soon to discover, this 5-mile stretch of road might be the only proper highway in the entire country. Now let me tell you a little about Enzo. He's a talker. Not just any talker. He must look you in the eyes when he's talking to you. So here we are with me in the front passenger seat and two of my co-workers in the back. Perhaps you’ve heard of "low talkers" or "close talkers?” Enzo is a "turn-around talker.”

While Enzo twisted his neck around the headrest chatting with his passengers, his unsteady left hand jerked the steering wheel back and forth like a metronome. Meanwhile, he had tucked the Kia in behind a VW bus full of tourists in the far left lane traveling about 39 miles an hour. I'll note at this point that traffic is supposed to flow the same way in Costa Rica as it does in the US: slow pokes on the right, passers on the left. Enzo was tailgating this vehicle so closely that I could make out distinct facial features of the passengers in the back seat, who by now were turning around wondering why any other car would possibly want to be going as slow as they were. Meanwhile, cars whizzed by in the 2 right lanes at normal highway speeds, heading towards the streets of Costa Rica’s capital city. Which brings me to the true inspiration for this story: the streets of San Jose. To describe them as difficult to navigate is a gross understatement. The streets of San Jose are an unmarked labyrinth of side streets, back alleys, and mysterious right of ways. No street seems to be longer than a quarter mile, requiring cars to constantly turn one way or the other. Roads that feel like they could be a major artery through the city will suddenly end at a T-intersection with a one lane cross street. After about 23 minutes, you might be able to turn left.

Typical traffic pattern in San Jose. Credit: The Tico Times

To make matters worse, traffic signals are nearly non-existent. Stop signs are universally ignored. The best I can tell is that the thing to do when you get to an intersection is make eye contact with the other drivers who might be there. A subtle nod between car occupants is exchanged, and one or the other moves into position. Meanwhile, hordes of motorcycles ignore all common courtesies and simply weave through the cars, accepting sole responsibility for their own safety. But the most curious thing about the streets of San Jose is that there are virtually no street signs. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a placard that might read “Calle 13” or “Avenida 7.” But they were sparse and impossible to see while moving in a motor vehicle. To find your way requires a substantial base of intimate local knowledge and hands-on experience. How anyone ever gets anywhere is a complete mystery.

Chapter 2: Thursday The next day, after our morning meetings we all headed out to lunch, and here I was again in Enzo's passenger seat. This time I knew what to expect. While he carried on a delightful and fascinating conversation with the backseat passengers, I provided some lookout assistance up front. I did my best to point out cars that he was barreling towards or curbs he was about to hit. We went on and on and on, passing by what seemed like every Applebee's, KFC, and Friday's in Central America. But we didn't stop at any of these establishments. Instead, we kept going, turn by turn, down one unnamed street after another. At one point Enzo was completely stopped in the middle of an intersection talking to Kenny, who was behind us in another car, on his cell phone. I don't speak Spanish, but it didn't take an interpreter to realize that there was some confusion about where we were going. Imagine that. Meanwhile the cars behind simply went around either side of us. No one seemed particularly bothered by Enzo's indecisive pause in the middle of the road. Alas, we finally ended up at an authentic and rustic Costa Rican seafood place, where we stuffed our face with ceviche, fried shrimp, calamari, and fresh fish. With full bellies we get back in the car, dreading the drive back to the office. Inexplicably, though, we arrived back at the office front door after only 5 minutes. Wait, what? Had we hit a wormhole in the streets of San Jose, and somehow been returned to the office in 1/10 the amount of time we had spent driving away from it? "Enzo, what the hell just happened?" It appears that the

conversation with Kenny had resulted in some bit of backtracking, which was impossible to detect by the casual observer. We stood there confused, but glad we weren't in the car anymore. That evening we were invited to our co-worker's home for dinner. Joshua recently moved from the Bay area to live in San Jose with his wife and three boys. Joshua is 6'6" and is one of the least likely candidates you would expect to move to the suburbs of San Jose. He and his family are on one heck of an adventure for the next year and half, and my hat’s off to them. To reach Joshua's home on the outskirts of the city requires more time in a car. This time, though, we took a taxi. Our friendly driver showed up right on time driving a mid-90's minivan of unidentifiable make and model. This thing was a rattletrap, bucket of bolts whose best days were clearly behind it. I sat in the very back, while we bounced along the marginally maintained roadways. There were no seat belts in this vehicle. Big surprise. But I was dismayed to find out that even the "oh shit" handles were missing. I can only imagine they were ripped from the van’s frame by some poor, unsuspecting American like myself. So here we were again meandering through the impenetrable streets of San Jose. After an eternity of what felt like driving on every single street in a 30-mile radius, we eventually arrived in Joshua's neighborhood. Up to this point, our driver had exhibited a supreme amount of confidence in his navigational abilities. As we neared our presumed destination, however, his confidence slowly but steadily eroded. The inevitable had come to fruition- we were lost. Our driver began yelling at anyone within earshot of the van, "ey, jefe, donde esta…" Each gentleman appeared to know exactly where we were supposed to be, pointing confidently in his recommended direction. The problem is that all of these friendly locals were not pointing in the same direction. One would point the way we were headed. Another would point behind us. Each local expert was surer than the last about the advice he was giving. Clearly, they did not want to disappoint by simply admitting they couldn't possibly know where we were going because no one ever really knows where they are going in San Jose unless they've actually been there before.

Typical traffic in San Jose on a Thursday at 6:30pm. Source: Google Maps

After 60 minutes of traveling for what I was told was only about 10 actual miles, we eventually found our destination. Joshua and his wife, Kara, cooked a delicious dinner of pico de gallo and carne tacos. After a few glasses of wine and a quick tour of their lovely home, it was time to be on our way. Joshua offered to take us back to the hotel in his minivan, so we all piled in, grateful that neither Enzo nor our taxi driver was behind the wheel. There were seat belts this time, and for a while, our ride back was bumpy but uneventful. It was clear that Joshua was getting used to driving like a Costa Rican. Let me pause at this point to tell you another fascinating thing about San Jose. Trains of various sorts run through the streets right alongside the cars in alarmingly close proximity. The train tracks can blend into and over top of the streets at any point. There are no signals or warning gates, mind you. You basically just have to watch and listen for them, lest you end up underneath a locomotive.

Apparently the exit we were supposed to take to our hotel was under construction due to a recent washing out of the road, so we were forced to take a detour. No big deal. Through some quick maneuvering, Joshua was able to get us back on track. Literally. On the track! Somehow we ended up with our left wheels in between the rails of the train tracks. We held on for dear life in deafening silence, while Joshua carefully steered us back onto the main thoroughfare before both axles gave out. After of few seconds of mind-boggling wonder about what had just transpired, Joshua broke the silence with, "please don't tell my wife about that." After several minutes of nervous laughter, we arrived back at the hotel without a scratch. Despite his size and skin color, I think Joshua is going to fit right in there.

Chapter 3: Friday By now we had been through several harrowing experiences while traveling in a motor vehicle, so we were relieved that our destination on Friday morning could be reached on foot. Just as we were about to set off we received some unsettling news. Our friend, Enzo, had been in a traffic accident. After all the bad-driving jokes at Enzo's expense, the poor guy had turned into the path of a motorcyclist. He was shaken up, but okay. The motorcyclist, however, was off to a really bad start to his weekend. He flew into Enzo's windshield and ended up in the hospital with a broken shoulder. By the time we saw Enzo later that day, we all felt terrible, but were relieved that the crash wasn't worse than it could have been. Enzo was pretty sure the guy was okay because he didn’t see any bones or blood. I guess he had a point. I asked Enzo about his car and he said the windshield was completely demolished, but otherwise the car was driveable. He said he was thinking about just taking the windshield out and driving without it. He was serious. Classic Enzo.

Typical parking on a Friday night in San Jose. Credit: Michael Morris

Later that evening we made plans to go to dinner with Enzo, Kenny, and Kenny's girlfriend, Elena. We were sitting around the hotel finishing off a tasty bottle of Guatemalan Rum, which Enzo had so graciously given to us, when our hosts arrived in 2 cars to take us to dinner. In what is a true testament to the man's magnificent fortitude and sense of humor, Enzo says "I guess nobody wants to ride with me now, huh." We laughed with him so hard we cried. The rest of the night was one of those perfect nights of good food and good company. I was starting to like San Jose, just in time to have to leave.

Chapter 4: Saturday Saturday came, and I enjoyed a leisurely morning at our quite pleasant eco-hotel. I had asked the guy at the desk to call a taxi for me so I could get to the airport by early afternoon. While I'm checking out, guess who shows up? Yep. Our former taxi driver and his 4-wheeled house of horrors. Great. So I crawl back into his piece-of-shit van and settle

down into the seatbelt-less backseat again. Like last time, I find myself reaching for the invisible handles that he hasn’t gotten around to replacing yet. And once again I find myself riding through a relentless and totally confounding maze of streets. If only I was able to get phone service so I could watch the little blue dot on my GPS-enabled map. During my stay, Kenny actually tried to explain the wild streets of San Jose. He told me that the local government had tried several times to improve the road infrastructure in the city. There were efforts by lawmakers to add street signs, invest in traffic signals, and other basic necessities that are typically required for safe road travel. But, as Kenny tells it, the citizens didn't support it. They like their roads the way they are.

The Hotel Ave del Paraiso in San Jose, Costa Rica. Credit: Michael Morris

As if the streets themselves weren't bizarre enough, there was one last mystifying event that left me truly amazed. While bouncing through one of 400 intersections on the way to the airport we passed by two guys on unicycles juggling bowling pins with each other in the

middle of the road. They were clearly blocking the passage of about 7 or 8 cars lined up on the street behind them, none of which were presently honking. They were just watching and waiting patiently for the jugglejam to clear up. I got the impression this kind thing happens all the time. As my trip came to a close, I was reminded just how different car travel in Costa Rica is from the US. Behind me in the security line at the airport was a supremely well-off family discussing some other supremely well-off family back home. They were describing the heartbreaking story of Sherry, who refused to drive her Range Rover now that Jim had bought a new $110,000 Tesla, and was totally driving all around town, saving loads of gas money. Poor Sherry. Maybe Enzo could take that Range Rover off her hands, because his car is probably going to be in the shop for a while.