Today, it huddles in dingy corners of souvenir shops, unloved and forlorn, elbowed aside by travelers who prefer to upload their adventures instantly to social media.

The postcard is dying. And I am fighting for its life.

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I have always sent postcards. As a child on school trips to France, I sent them. As a backpacker riding buses through Southeast Asia, I sent them. Wherever I went, I hunted down the perfect postcard. My mother still has them pinned to a corkboard in her kitchen. Vietnam, Marrakech, Tokyo, Puerto Rico - they’re all represented. They are sun-faded now, and dog-eared, but together they form a map of journeys stretching back decades. On the backs of them, younger me calls out from distant lands: “Greetings from the Grand Canyon!” “Ha Long Bay blows Cornwall out of the water!” and the rather less romantic: “I hate Normandy. It rains all the time and there was a mouse in the bedroom.”

The art of the postcard has largely been lost. Why spend money on cards, take the time to write each one by hand, track down a post office in a foreign country and buy stamps in a language you barely understand, when you can upload a photo from your phone, add a caption and reach a thousand people before you’ve even left the beach? For me, the answer is simple: where's the fun in that?

In the twentieth century, postcards were an essential part of the travel experience. And, like every iconic artefact, they reflected the fashions of their age. Over the decades they showcased hand-drawn illustrations, beautiful photography, and popular humour. From the cheeky British seaside postcards of the 1970s to the novelty designs of the 1980s and 90s, they were as much a representation of the time in which they were sent as the place from which they originated. Ironically, these changing designs may be what save the postcard. Digital communication may have replaced the original purpose, but postcards have become collectable in their own right.

The design, though, was only half of the postcard. And the real magic was never in the image on the front; it was in the process.

First, you had to choose the postcards. This required thought. You did not simply buy a fistful of identical cards and scribble the same message on each one. You considered the recipient. Dad liked birds, so he got the postcard with the parrots. Kelly was a surfer, she got the beach scene. Uncle Mick was a history buff, he got the picture of the castle.

Then came the challenge of writing it. Trying to squeeze as much news as possible into the postcard’s tiny 6x4 space demanded cramped handwriting and a measure of discipline. Long before Twitter imposed character limits, travellers were learning to communicate as efficiently as possible through a few carefully-chosen sentences, sometimes writing sideways or continuing under the address in an attempt to include one final sentiment for the recipient.

Then came the really fun part: sending them. Bonus points if this involved buying stamps in a foreign country. Phrase books were bookmarked at the page where the word for ‘stamp’ could be found, and then recited in terribly-accented French or Spanish at an unsuspecting post office worker. If that didn’t work out, you had to resort to pointing to the part of the postcard where the stamp would be affixed and saying hopefully: “England?” When the stamp was finally licked and adhered, it added a final flourish to your postcard, an unusual and exotic token as collectable as the picture on the other side.

Of course, more often than not you got home before the postcards arrived. Then, weeks later, they would begin to appear on doormats and friends’ fridges. These little echoes of a vacation that had begun to fade from memory were so much fun that I started mailing cards to myself during my trip, with messages to myself on the back like miniature journal entries. Now that I’m constantly on the move, I no longer mail them to myself, but I still buy them and write them, tucking them into my notebook to read later.

This is what social media has struggled to replace. Instagram excels at broadcasting experiences to an audience, but it can sometimes feel as though there is an element of performance involved. The focus is often less on the place itself, and more on announcing your presence with a heavily filtered selfie, cocktail in hand: “Look at where I am!” Postcards served a different purpose. They were never really about showing off where you were, they were about sharing the experience with someone who wasn’t there.

That is why I still send postcards today. They are slower and old-fashioned but, in an era obsessed with instant communication, those qualities are precisely what make them valuable. A postcard demands thought, love, and effort. It asks us to pause long enough to consider who matters to us and what we want to tell them.

So why not make 2026 the summer when, alongside uploading your photos to Instagram, you pause at that old carousel of paper postcards and pick one up? Write a few lines, buy a stamp, and send it to someone you care about back home. A few weeks later, it will arrive as a small reminder that they were part of your journey too. And I promise you, they’ll love it. Who knows? Thirty years from now it might still be pinned to a corkboard somewhere, sun-faded and dog-eared, quietly keeping the memory alive.

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Elsewhere, locations mean coordinates. In Costa Rica, they’re descriptions: ‘Across from the soda, next to the old bridge’ is a valid address, even if the bridge collapsed 25 years ago. My first rental contract listed: ‘The yellow house on the right, across from Jacqueline’s villa, 200m east of Alvaro’s farm.’ Good old Alvaro. I never met him. Then there’s my personal favourite: ‘Behind the fire hydrant, on the old road that leads to the beach.’ Naturally, the fire hydrant is all the orientation that anyone needs.

There’s charm, for sure, in these picture-book illustrations of place. Local landmarks are described fondly, even long after they have vanished. ‘The old bridge’ may no longer exist physically, but its presence lingers in an address lovingly crafted through collective memory.

Luckily for me, when I climbed down from the bus in Quepos, disoriented after a 14-hour flight, the pizza restaurant was still there. Not that this helped much, as I had no idea which direction was west and the sun had already set. After several minutes of wandering back and forth, trying futilely to download a compass app to my phone, I swallowed my pride and asked the pizza waiter where I could find this fabled patio full of plants. With a huge smile he pointed confidently down the street to the left. He knew exactly where the house was.

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Aside from posing a cheeky challenge for the intrepid traveler, this address system offers a snapshot of national life. You can learn a great deal about a culture from the landmarks it values. Here, directions rarely cite banks or official buildings; instead, they favour old fig trees, rivers, and meeting spots like markets or cafes. These rarely appear in Google Maps searches. Sooner or later, you have to stop and ask someone for directions and, in doing so, revive the fading art of human interaction. Unlike most countries where it is entirely possible to cross a city without speaking to another soul, guided by a blue dot on a screen, Costa Rica insists on conversation.

“Where is the Pura Vida pulperia?” you might wonder over a cup of coffee, and the locals gather round to help. Someone points you in the right direction and, before you can thank him, another man drinking cacique at the bar leans over to clarify that the building is “next to where Doña Patricia used to sell empanadas.” Piece by piece, your route comes together like a hand-painted jigsaw puzzle.

It all feels so enjoyably Costa Rican. In the country that gave the world pura vida, nobody seems especially bothered by the Amazon delivery arriving several days late, nobody grows flustered when they get lost, and nobody sends a confused tourist in the wrong direction for sport.

So rest assured that, like me, you will eventually arrive at the right place, and you will have journeyed so much farther than a few streets in a seaside town. Exploring Costa Rica means discovering cherished landmarks and meeting beloved friends and neighbours. And, amid today’s digital tools and impersonal navigation systems, it’s a beautiful reminder that places are best discovered through the people who live there.

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This synergy developed over thirteen centuries. Xi’an’s history of welcoming visitors stretches back more than two millennia, to the Han dynasty of the 2nd century BC, when it was established as the eastern terminus of the Silk Road. The city - then called Chang’an - grew and flourished during the Tang dynasty in the 7th and 8th centuries AD, becoming the largest, most populous and most cosmopolitan city in the world, as caravans from across Eurasia arrived at its gates.

Thinking of the Silk Road, the mind - like the textiles they carried - inevitably sews a multicoloured tapestry of Bactrian camels meandering across miles of desert, their humps swaying under amber sunsets, on a tireless mission towards the markets of the Far East. Laden with spices, cotton, and other treasures from the West, they returned with luxurious silks, porcelain and jade bound for bazaars in the Middle East and Europe, while the legendary horses of Central Asia journeyed to Chang’an and the great emperors of China. The camels and horses may be long gone, but the fusion of cultures endures in these narrow streets and alleys. The traders of the past didn’t only bring goods to Chang’an; they also carried a wealth of less tangible cargo: cultures, ideologies, languages, and religions. Merchants settled permanently, married locally, started families, and established a community that preserved Islamic faith while adopting Chinese language and customs. At the heart of this community was the Great Mosque, built in the 8th century AD and still in use today. Daily worship and local life abounded here, and gradually the neighbourhood grew around it.

The Muslim Quarter is relatively compact compared to the rest of Xi’an, about 1.2 square miles, but its dense concentration of food stalls, shops and people makes it feel much larger than it is. It’s easy to lose yourself for hours in its web of lanes, where each turn unwraps a new gift and holds it up for inspection. The streets around the mosque carry a whisper of incense, and five times a day the neighbourhood resonates with the Adhan, bringing peace to the bustle. Turn a corner and the scene shifts: shops display Chinese carpets, embroidered qipao, and other traditional silk garments. In yet another street, squeezed between the souvenir stalls and herbal medicine shops, are beauty parlours offering fish pedicures and other treatments from the old trade routes.

The main thoroughfare in the Muslim Quarter is Beiyuanmen Street, whose proliferation of local street food has earned it the nickname ‘snack street’. The gastronomy on offer is fusion at its finest, Chinese in technique but seasoned with the flavours of the Silk Road. Pork - that ubiquitous staple - is understandably not on the menu here. In its place are sizzling lamb skewers seasoned with cumin and chili peppers, cooked over smoky charcoal, and roujiamo, sometimes called the “world’s oldest sandwich” which combines slow-braised halal meat with cumin and other spices, tucked into freshly baked flatbread. And if that doesn’t fill you up, how about some of Xi’an’s iconic biang biang noodles; thick ribbons of dough coated in chili oil, garlic, and enough heat to banish the winter chill?

Then there’s a personal highlight, “dragon’s beard candy’, which is as much street theatre as it is confectionery. The vendor stretches and pulls long ropes of sugar in the air until they transform into hundreds of hair-thin strands, then wraps them around a crunchy filling of sesame and nut brittle, freshly pounded into pieces with wooden mallets, to resemble Turkish floss halva. The persistent thunk-whop of the vendors’ mallets provides the percussion for Beiyuanmen’s pulsating soundtrack.

For many visitors, dusk is the most magical time to experience the Muslim Quarter. As daylight fades and the evening call to prayer gives way to the clatter of woks and the hiss of charcoal grills, the neighbourhood seems to come fully alive. Lights and lanterns flicker and cast a warm glow over the narrow, ancient lanes. Crowds thicken as locals and tourists alike emerge in search of dinner. And, if you pause, beneath the sizzle of skewers and the thumping of mallets you might hear the softest step of a silk slipper, or the muted tread of a sandy hoof. They belong to those long-ago caravans, which never entirely faded away.

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This is Henry. Henry is not happy.

Henry did not like having a camera pointed at him, so he jumped out of his tree and chased me all the way down the beach to the sea, biting my leg in the process, leading to two doctors’ visits, one tetanus shot, and a medical bill which Henry has yet to reimburse me for.

Henry is an asshole. Don’t be like Henry.

Henry is a senior figure in the local Monkey Mafia, aka the white-faced capuchin monkey. White-faced capuchins are one of the 3 species of monkeys found in Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica, and probably the most iconic and memorable, as much for their mischievous antics as their eye-catching appearance. These are the guys they warned you about when they said, “It’s not only people who will steal your belongings on the beach.”

White-faced capuchins belong to a group known as New World monkeys; species native to Central and South America rather than Africa or Asia. Scientists believe that the ancestors of New World monkeys crossed the ocean from Africa to the American continent around 35 million years ago, probably floating on a mat of vegetation, which conjures up images of monkeys clinging to a raft, Titanic-style, as they navigate the unforgiving tides of the Atlantic.

They adapted quickly to life in the Americas, even landing a number of lucrative TV and movie cameos. But organized crime is where they really excel. They developed semi-prehensile tails, useful for balance and support but - most importantly - leaving their hands conveniently free for theft and vandalism. Over time, those hands became impressively dexterous: using rocks to crack nuts, sticks to probe for insects, and opposable thumbs to rifle through your backpack.

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They’re a sociable bunch, travelling in troops of up to forty monkeys, including an alpha male like Henry, whose primary purpose is to defend the troop while simultaneously adding to it by siring new heirs. Democracy has somehow passed them by. An alpha can hold his position for up to 15 or 20 years, although the occasional violent insurrection can dramatically shorten that tenure. The troop at large communicates through vocal calls and a range of facial expressions that would put Jim Carrey to shame. They’ve even invented their own simian version of a spa day; rubbing plants, insects, or millipedes onto their fur, possibly to repel parasites or maybe because it’s important to be well-groomed if you regularly feature on Instagram.

All of this means that Henry and his associates are considered among the most fearfully intelligent New World monkeys. Intelligent, resourceful, and more than a little chaotic.

An apartment I once rented in the jungle near Manuel Antonio had a beautiful wooden balcony outside the bedroom, an area which I had intended to use as a yoga deck - until the Monkey Mafia showed up. Plants, cushions, an incense burner, even a bottle of wine, were all tossed unceremoniously into the jungle. They also understood how to open the sliding door leading to the bedroom. They weren’t strong enough to actually do it, but you’d better believe they knew how, and every time I left the house, I expected to come home to a monkey-manufactured scene of devastation inside my home. (Fortunately, it didn’t happen and they contented themselves with pulling faces at me through the glass instead).

Capuchins are extremely curious and can’t resist investigating anything new or unusual in their environment. Anything unexpected immediately becomes Monkey Mafia business. And you can’t fool them; I watched a family carefully cover their picnic with a beach towel weighted down with rocks before heading into the sea for a dip, only for the Monkey Mafia to swoop in as soon as their backs were turned, move the rocks, pick up the towel and throw it to one side, then chow down on a feast of potato chips and popcorn. And what treats are to be found in the trash cans at the end of a long day of human activity on the beach! Leftover pieces of burger, an ice-cream wrapper, an empty bottle of beer - all of it is Christmas dinner if you’re a capuchin. And they don’t always wait for leftovers, either; more than one unsuspecting diner has abandoned their table in a restaurant after Henry’s gang laid claim to their meal.

Food, of course, is what drives most capuchin mischief. And, while no trip to Manuel Antonio is complete without a sighting of these delightful little reprobates, it’s important to show them the proper respect - and that doesn’t mean bribing them with treats, however tempting that might be. In actual fact, it’s illegal to feed the wildlife in Costa Rica. Once monkeys begin associating humans with food, they often become more aggressive and demanding (looking at you, Henry). Over time, all those potato chips and sneaky pieces of sandwich will disrupt their natural foraging behaviour, meaning that they could gradually lose the survival skills they need in the wild. Human food is unhealthy for them, too (and contrary to popular belief, they don’t thrive on bananas, which are generally too sugary to be good for them; that’s a taste they acquired after raiding gardens and being fed tidbits by us). Wild monkeys are healthiest — and safest — when they stay wild.

So, come and enjoy Manuel Antonio’s monkey show - it’s an unforgettable experience - but be sure to admire them from a respectful distance, resist the temptation to feed or touch them, and keep your belongings far out of reach of tiny curious hands.

And pray you don’t run into Henry.

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Then shortly after lunch, as you prepare to shift into lazy mode, it begins. Clouds gather and pile ominously on the horizon. The first few drops of water tap the roofs, slowly at first but quickly gaining pace and hastening into a tumultuous tattoo on tin roofs and tiny houses. That evocative smell of cool rain on hot asphalt fills the streets and makes the pavements steam. A large and ancient creature awakens from a jungle slumber and growls in the distance in its thunder-voice and, as the sky darkens, the first brilliant flash of lightning illuminates the day. Ladies and gentlemen: take your seats, for the show is about to begin!

On the Pacific coast, Costa Rica’s rainy season runs from May through November, peaking in September and October when the monsoon starts around lunchtime and can continue late into the night. And it’s this fact that causes so much trepidation in the uninitiated tourist. Look at any of the social media groups dedicated to Costa Rica tourism and you’ll find the same question asked over and over again: “I’m coming to Costa Rica in June and the weather forecast shows rain every day, should I be worried?” Resist the temptation to reply with the sarcastic (if accurate) “Well, it’s a rainforest, the clue is in the name.” Addressing the question itself: No, you should not be worried. Quite the opposite, in fact. You will see Costa Rica at its very best!

Rain is not always the destroyer of the best-laid vacation plans. And this is not the damp grey drizzle characteristic of Seattle or England. It’s warm, tropical rain. It washes the jungle and makes the vegetation shine an ever brighter green - earning it the fond nickname of ‘green season.’ Raindrops cling to giant ferns and hover on the tips of banana leaves, the foliage becomes emerald and diamond. Waterfalls are in full and enthusiastic flow. The swift change in weather offers a cool evening breeze, far more satisfying than the oscillating fan in your hotel room. The animals feel this, too, and are more active in the rainy season. Sloths grow algae on their fur, which provides camouflage and also serves as a natural habitat for moths. In turn, the moths fertilize the algae - helping to maintain the sloth’s camouflage. It’s a small but essential part of the rainforest’s biodiversity.

If the rainforest is the lungs of the planet, then the monsoon is the 8 glasses of water a day, without which it would dry up and cease to function.

Costa Rica, due to its geographical location and topography, has myriad micro-climates (the Caribbean coast, for example, is an entirely different beast), and weather forecasts are famously inaccurate at best, irrelevant at worst. The local people shrug and say: “Don’t like the weather? Wait 15 minutes.”

Take your lead from the Ticos. They aren’t worried; the rain is normal life for them. It’s always been there, it’s there right now and - god or science willing - it will still be there in 50 years’ time. The rain is part of the rhythm of life in the tropics. Daily chores continue under the shelter of umbrellas; schoolchildren continue their soccer games on the sodden campo, apparently unaware of the deluge soaking them and turning their clothes into the kind of indistinguishable muddy lump that would make any North American or European mother balk with horror. The fishermen and builders, their work completed in the morning sunshine, take nature’s permission to rest and relax in hammocks on their porches, while the hissing of water cascading from the eaves drowns out the sounds of their radios and their neighbor’s voices.

You see, the green season is surprisingly peaceful. In a world where we live with a constant soundtrack of noise pollution that jars the senses - car alarms, motorbikes, roadworks, a loud conversation on speakerphone on the bus - rainy season is like inhabiting a living ADSR recording. The steady, soporific sound of water-on-leaf demands that all activities cease, that movement becomes still, that you tear your attention from your screen and focus on nature instead. Sometimes the storm will cause power cuts: the living rooms and shady interiors are lit instead by the vivid electric of forked lightning and, in the absence of wifi or television, the storm itself becomes the afternoon entertainment. It is a spectacle best enjoyed sitting on a sheltered terrace or in a beach bar, sipping on an ice-cold beer and watching the pyrotechnics out at sea, and it would take a hardened city heart not to be moved by the forces of nature at work. Normal life has been suspended for a few hours while nature takes over - but isn’t the suspension of normal, mundane life exactly the reason you chose Costa Rica in the first place?

Still worried? You really needn’t be; you’ll see plenty of sunshine too! Although not unheard of, it’s rare for the mornings to be a washout. So, that visit to the national park? The kayak adventure? Parasailing triumphantly over the canopy? You can still do all those things, just pack a poncho and set your clock to nature’s rhythm and prepare to get up early (even better, let the howler monkeys be your alarm clock!)

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(Oh and if you’re worried about your hair - let it go wild! Costa Rica is a veritable catwalk of untamed curls and stringy bangs, and we’re all more beautiful for it).

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The sun is starting to set, slipping towards the horizon in shades of ochre and tobacco, casting the distant mountains into smoky silhouettes and turning the ocean from Cerulean blue to a spangled sheet of silver. Frothy white waves wash ashore, welcomed by the soft rhythm of reggae music and Calypso. The dust track that runs alongside the beach is lined with street food stalls and wooden lean-tos with tin roofs masquerading as restaurants, and from these come smells of sizzling shrimp and garlic, mingling in the warm air with the occasional sweet, musty aroma of marijuana coming from the beach itself.

The street is a swarm of sound and motion: craft vendors and artisans are setting up their tables at the night market and vying for the attention of sunburned tourists; colourful signs, hand-painted on driftwood, brightly proclaim ‘Live your life!’ Rent a bike!’ and ‘Happy Hour cocktails!’; hippies with dreadlocks walk shoeless along the side of the road; families unpack their picnics on the sand, and tuk-tuks weave perilously between potholes, carrying their cargo of locals, visitors, and the occasional animal. If there exists such a thing as ‘laid-back bustle’, the air is alive with it.

Welcome to Puerto Viejo, the rough-hewn jewel in Costa Rica’s Caribbean crown.

With its eclectic mix of Creole and Latino, and a smattering of recent transplants from North America and Europe thrown in for good measure, this vibrant little town hits like no other in Costa Rica. Oh, there are similarities, to be sure: here, too, the jungle climbs down to meet the shore, bringing its inhabitants with it, and sloths hang in the trees along the beach like furry hammocks while, at dusk and dawn, the jungle vibrates with the bellowing of howler monkeys. Take a step back, however, and you will find yourself immersed in something altogether different and unique.

The first rays of sunlight shining through the palm leaves breathe morning life into the town. The earliest of early risers are already swimming, tracing the tide in a slow, almost dreamlike fashion, as a chevron of brown pelicans glides overhead. The pelicans come to land on the sand next to a fishing boat, which has just docked with its catch of the day; the fisherman and his mates begin cleaning and prepping the fish right there in the boat - tossing a few entrails to the waiting pelicans every now and then - as a queue of locals forms, coins and banknotes in hand, anxious for the freshest fish that colones can buy. I join the throng, lingering at the back with my camera, while a man with two barefoot children in tow haggles over red snapper, eventually leaving with a big smile and a plastic bag containing his bounty.

The remainder of the fish will find its way onto the menus of the local eateries, and it’s in the food that one of the biggest cultural influences can be found. The traditional Costa Rican rice-and-bean dish is given a Caribbean twist, cooked slowly in coconut milk with thyme, scallions and a hint of habanero heat; meats are simmered until tender in creamy coconut sauces or bright, fiery salsas, and are accompanied by patacones – flattened and twice-fried plantains that crackle at the edges but are sweet and soft within – as well as cassava, yam and breadfruit. Fresh juices of tamarind, sorrel and guava are poured over ice from plastic jugs, while chilled coconut water is hacked straight from the shell and drunk through a paper straw.

Another local favourite is rondón (“run down”), a creamy, coconut-based stew born of thrift and ingenuity. What began as a way to use up leftovers has become a celebration of abundance: chunks of snapper and root vegetables, simmered together with garlic, pepper and herbs until the broth thickens and the flavours deepen into something rich and comforting. It arrives steaming, ladled generously into bowls, best eaten with a spoon in one hand and a piece of fried plantain in the other.

Street corners offer their own temptations. Grilled meat skewers hiss over open coals, brushed with smoky marinades; empanadas are split and stuffed with spiced beef, chicken or cheese; there is even pizza rolled into a cone and eaten like an ice cream, improbably practical and oddly addictive. Vendors sell johnnycakes and coconut bread in the mornings - perfect with strong, sugary coffee - while late at night there might be a paper plate of fried fish served with a squeeze of lime and a scatter of pickled onions.

The best meals, however, are enjoyed later on, beachside, under twinkling fairy lamps strung between palm trees, the air heavy with charcoal smoke. Plates are piled high, fingers are used without apology, and conversation drifts lazily between tables as Bob Marley’s ever-present voice plays somewhere in the background.

Outside the restaurants, the coast road wanders past on its unhurried way to the beaches south of the town: Playa Cocles with its golden sand and high surf; Punta Uva with its cloak of palm trees, and Manzanilla where a shipwreck still lies slightly offshore - where the intrepid and the imaginative can indulge their inner Caribbean pirate. The road - smoother than the tracks in town but still with its share of bumps - can be traversed on mopeds, bikes, or my personal favourite, the tuk-tuk. There is something undeniably joyful about trundling along the Caribbean coast in one; the jungle breathing its earthy perfume and the waves providing the perfect road trip soundtrack. The afternoon may even deliver one of its characteristic tropical downpours — when the clouds suddenly gang up on the sun and spill their contents over the jungle canopy, raindrops striking the dust into steam and intensifying that deep, loamy scent of the rainforest.

A man with dreadlocks and a bandana, sitting astride a pink ladies’ bicycle on the corner, calls out to me: the usual refrain: ‘Hey lady, lady, where you from?’, but the accent is Jamaican rather than Spanish. He tells me his name, I ask if I can take his photos, and a short conversation about photography ensues, followed by a longer one about the Jamaican culture in the town. It’s a culture with a story to tell. At the turn of the last century, Jamaican migrants arrived in Costa Rica, predominantly to build railroads and work on banana plantations. These workers, along with their language, music, and customs, settled primarily in the Limón province, including Puerto Viejo, and the culture flourished and endured. It sings of itself in the music, it’s stirred into the food, it whispers through the architecture - the houses painted in bright pinks, blues and violets - it announces itself proudly in the Creole name on the town sign: Wolaba, the translation of Old Harbor, or Puerto Viejo. It’s easy to forget that I’m still in Costa Rica; I could just as easily be on a Caribbean island entirely its own. And that’s part of the charm of Puerto Viejo, the feeling that things are moving at a different pace, that normal life has been suspended, obligations have taken a back seat, time has ceased to tick and in its place stretch hazy afternoons and humid, humming evenings; lingering for an hour over coffee or rum taken at a salt-eaten wooden bar, and sandy barefoot walks from bar to beach to hammock.

It’s in a hammock that I find myself now, as the sun begins its familiar coppery descent, the fairy lights flicker on, the vendors arrive to set up their stalls in the night market, and the basslines and reggae beats drift across the sand once again. I find I’ve done nothing I planned and everything I needed. That’s the thing with Puerto Viejo: You arrive as a tourist, ticking boxes on your Costa Rica travel itinerary. You leave... well, you leave when you’re ready, which might be days later than you planned, with sand in your shoes and a slightly slowed-down perspective of life.

As night falls fully and darkness drapes the town, a fire dancer begins a show farther along the beach and distant music, laughter, and clapping reach me. Near my hammock, a firefly blinks once, twice, then vanishes into the night.

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