BEHIND THE PHOTO: Costa Rican Ben

I went to Costa Rica in 2007 in the pre-Facebook era before social media-spurred travel envy.

Why does this matter? It might not. I mention it because in a similar scenario now, or even 10 years ago, the trip, the story, and conclusion may be different.

We spent five or six days on Costa Rica’s west coast, staying in a family friend’s remote cottage near Jaco Beach. It was the rainy season, so sunbathing wasn’t on the agenda, but we spent a time relaxing by wandering the relatively undeveloped town stopping in little bars with beach views, and meeting locals.

At our friend’s recommendation, we left early one morning for a daytrip to Manuel Antonio National Park to the south. Along the way you pass through some small towns, use some aging transportation infrastructure, and see a lot of palm trees.

We spent a beautiful day hiking the rain forest, spotting sloths and monkeys, and exploring the beach. The overcast day didn’t dampen Costa Rica’s natural beauty, and I’d never experienced a tide quite like the one that rolled in while we were in the park. At the end of the day, after stopping for a meal, we got back in the car to return to Jaco.

Fifteen or 20 minutes into our trip out of town we hit traffic. People were outside of their cars, talking and yelling…in Spanish, so we didn’t know what was going on. After 30 minutes or so, we asked someone what was going on (in English), and they said the bridge was out. We had crossed this bridge on our way to Manuel Antonio (remember I mentioned “aging infrastructure”). It turned out a truck crossing the bridge had damaged the bridge and it would not be repaired until morning.

Left with few options and fewer overnight items like toothpaste or pajamas, we turned around and made our way back toward the park entrance to find a hotel. We found an affordable hotel quickly, and it was beautiful in a tropical, authentic Costa Rican way. (See photo.) We got settled, which didn’t take long because we had no belongings, and headed to the bar.

We secured a place at a window next to the kitchen, which may not have appealed to most people, but was perfect for us. We snacked, had some drinks, and generally observed our surroundings. At some point, we were joined by another American traveler.

Our fellow traveler was our age, so mid-to-late 20s, was traveling alone, and his stop in Costa Rica was part of a longer Central American adventure. He entertained us with the story of how he arrived at Manuel Antonio, which made our journey seem generic. He had taken a small plane, and when he boarded the attendant asked him his weight because they had to be sure the plane was balanced and could fly safely. At the time, that concept seemed wild to me, now having flown in small aircraft in remote parts of the world, I understand.

We spent what felt like a couple hours talking to this stranger. I can’t recall any other topics we discussed, stories we shared, or how we parted ways.

Looking back, what I find most remarkable is that in the hours we spent talking with him, we never even asked his name. In my head I’ve named him Ben.

In today’s world we would have connected with Facebook or Instagram while still sharing snacks. We’d probably still be “liking” one another’s photos. But in 2007, the three of us were content just to share stories.