Matty and I woke to the sound of Alajuela’s busy street life bustling outside our room. Looking out the window we saw the lifeless City suburb had woken. The park was now full of old Tican men sitting on stone benches hazily watching younger Tican men and women making their way to work. Children making their way to school in those iconic yellow American school buses you never see in England. The street was full of people, cars, buses and dogs. We soon realised that there are a ridiculous amount of dogs in Costa Rica, unfortunately not all have owners.
That morning we had our first taste of a real Costa Rican breakfast; Gallo Pinto (literally meaning spotted/painted rooster). A mix of rice and black beans, with fried onions and coriander. Gallo pinto accompanied by a cup of strong, black Costa Rican coffee made a perfect way to start the day.
As we set off from the hostel into the street, the heat hit us smack in the face as our backpacks drooped heavily behind us, weighing us down, and slowing the pace as we trudged around the corner. Looking like the true, pale, English tourists we were, we set off in search of Alajuela bus station just two blocks round the corner in order to catch the bus to central San Jose, the Coca Cola terminal. We eventually found it after winding around streets of colourful fruit stalls filled with fruits I had never even seen before. Newspaper stands and cracked concrete paths lead the way. The city was live and bustling with the smell of rice and beans boiling on hobs, plantains frying and casados being served up in every soda on the block. We managed to find our bus with some help from a few smiling locals.
