Our travel service picked us up the next day to head off to the volcano-Arenal, which is some amount of hours drive outside San Jose. First we stopped on the outskirts of the city to pick up a vacationing couple who spoke Castilian Spanish like the aristocrats they were. The woman and Erica had a moment in English where she asked if we’d mind if they cut the blasting A/C off in the frigid tour van. They briefly bonded over always being cold–something women would find camaraderie in.
A few hours later on the same drive the regal Spanish lady broke a tranquil countryside silence to bark at the driver in Spanish, demanding that he turn the A/C on because she was burning up–emergency status.
The journey was on some winding back-country shit and carsickness washed over me like a dick. I tried to sleep it off and when the road straightened out a bit, the country landscape was crowned by Volcano-Arenal straight ahead of us in the distance. It is the unmistakable hot-friend amongst less impressive, more typical appearing ridges. Arenal is the tits and ass of volcanos–fine by anybody’s standards. It’s that v-shaped part of a fit body that points itself down toward the crotch, that both men and women like in their partners.
Arenal is remarkably proper. It’s perfectly conical like a 6th grade science project volcano, crested by a halo of clouds. It looks like Bob Ross drew the shit and even dabbed trees among the splendid falling hillside. If Arenal were a man, he’d be well-off with a flashy car and a big dick. Were it a woman, she’d never buy her own drinks. Arenal is its official name but were I a lucky indigenous Costa Rican native, I’d have named it “Mount Tippy-Tippy Top-Top.”