“We’re thinking about moving to Portugal,” my friend Alex said when I ran into her on the street the day after the election. I’ve been hearing lots of countries getting tossed around as Realtors across the valley keep their cell phones charged, lest they miss a call from a potential client who wants to sell their house and flee. When the going gets tough, the tough get going — across the border.
Here’s a few thoughts for those of us who are thinking about adding “ex-pat” to our resumes. The fantasy: a life in paradise, where eco resorts are a thing, tropical fruit grows on trees and perfect waves break with offshore winds all day long. I would let my hair grow long and wild and live on a diet of mangos and avocados with a little bit of rice — the muscles in my lower back hollowing out like little v’s from long paddles out to world renowned reef breaks.
I’d speak fluent Spanish, send Levi to one of the fancy private schools founded by ex-pats and write a slew of best-selling novels. For ex-pats in Costa Rica, paradise comes with a price. It’s oppressively hot and humid, and you might just find a “pica caballo” (tarantula) in the garden.
The reality: What people don’t realize is Costa Rica is a place of extremes. Every time I visit, something terrifying happens. A flash flood that threatens to float my car away.
The first hurricane in 50 years. Mudslides that close all the major roads from here to there. A tarantula in the garden.
A robbery across .