on how honeymoons are fickle creatures

So here it is.

THE EPIC HONEYMOON STORY. (And following weeks.)

First off, let me just say that my wedding day was phenomenally fantastic. It downpoured for two days before the Big Day, and everyone was already expressing regret and advice--"Oh, I'm so sorry it's going to rain! Make sure you take more pictures inside to compensate"--for what they saw as an inevitable disaster. (Little did they know, it rained on Sara George-Kreider's wedding day and nothing was any worse for wear!) Nevertheless, the guardian spirits of weather must've known that I wanted to actually do my hair for my wedding, because it didn't rain. Not only did it not rain, it was beautiful! Sunny and only partly cloudy and like, 40 degrees...which is practically summer for all those who have survived the Virginia Precipitation Catastrophes of Winter '09/'10. The temple was beautiful, as always. The temple ceremony was fantastic, as I expected. All sorts of fabulous people came to D.C. for this wedding, including my bridesmaids, 4 out of 5 of which had to fly/drive some remarkable distance to be there. (Thank you, bridesmaids!) We got so many presents we had to make a second trip to NoVA a week later to get the last half. My makeup did not run, my hair stayed curled, my dress fit, the right food was served, I actually got to EAT food, the cake was delicious, and (what I was most concerned about) everyone looked happy. Like, everyone. Even if they weren't, they faked it very well for my benefit. Anyway, the moral of the story is that everything that could've gone wrong that day did not go wrong. (Take that, Murphy!)

Fast forward to Monday morning, when we're scheduled to fly to El Salvador and then to Costa Rica for the most epic honeymoon that there ever was. First, we leave all the things we don't need in Ricky's car at the hotel, which my parents would later pick up, then we catch the shuttle to Dulles Airport. Halfway to the airport, I clutch Ricky's knee in horror and practically yell, "CAMERA!"--indicating, of course, that I've left my camera in my purse, safely tucked into the backseat of his now-forsaken car. "Oh well," we decide, because there isn't anything we can do without missing our flight. Luckily, both our phones have picture/video functions, so we're sure we'll be fine.

We check in, get through security and to the gate without a single hitch...or line! Apparently Monday mornings are very slow flight days. Off we go to El Salvador! It's all very exciting, and we even get an in-flight meal.

When we land in El Salvador 4 1/2 hours later, everything is very green, and there are lots of trees that remind me of Africa in the sense that they stretch out very wide and flat. You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, it's deliciously warm--but not too warm--and I feel like an idiot carrying a wool peacoat around all these short-sleeved El Salvadorians. Anyway, we stay at the same gate we just got off at for our next flight, which leaves in a very short 40 minutes, and I try and make sense of the foreign language everyone is speaking. Namely, Spanish. Did I mention I don't speak Spanish? I don't. Ricky does, but no one believes him--in fact, when we board our flight to Costa Rica, Ricky says "good morning" in Spanish to the flight attendant, who responds...in English. Yes, I did have a good laugh about it, but not a very long one because the flight to Costa Rica is only an hour.

Flying over San Jose, Costa Rica is nothing like flying over Dulles, or Charlotte, or whatever American city you're in. In America, you see all these neat-and-tidy little subdivisions, with nice spacing between houses and backyard pools and cul-de-sacs. In Costa Rica, there doesn't seem to be ANY space between any buildings at all, and the roofs are all different colors, and it almost looks like houses are trying to climb on top of each other. It's cluttered. And before you say it, I do know that this is a developing country, but still--it's very different once you're there and actually experience culture shock. Anyway, after landing in Costa Rica, we retrieve our luggage (something I had been worrying about the entire flight sequence because of the events in the life of one Sara George-Kreider, who lost her checked luggage on her honeymoon and had to wear the same clothes for four days) and exchange our money and go find the cab/shuttle driver who's taking us to our hotel. We do, and he does. It's a hotel in the city, but there's such a thick barrier of trees seperating it from the main street that you can't hear a thing except birds and bugs and what sound like monkeys...and probably ARE monkeys.

Notes about this hotel:
-the soap smelled like grape Now-and-Laters
-toilet paper = trash can. The septic systems couldn't handle it.
-"Dora the Explorer" was on...in Spanish. Exclusively Spanish. Doesn't this defeat the purpose of Dora? Shouldn't she be teaching Spanish-speaking children how to speak English?
-seriously, I would not be surprised if those were really monkey sounds

The next day, Ricky's uncle David (Da-veed) picks us up in his Geo and it's off to our beach hotel! A note on Costa Rican driving: if you've ever been on the streets of New York, you have it good. Costa Rican drivers make New York drivers look like kids on Big Wheels. Or maybe even tricycles. The situation in CR wouldn't be so terrifying if the roads weren't curved, hilly, cut into the sides of mountains, narrow, and often one-way...but alas, they are all of these things at the same time. David, fortunately for me, speaks English--not an extensive amount, but enough to communicate without a problem. I do, however, make the mistake of asking, "What does the zig-zag white line in the middle of the road mean?" "Zig-zag?" says David. Ricky, in a vain attempt to illustrate, draws out the motion in the air with his finger. What the heck is the Spanish word for "zig-zag"?? We'll never know. "It doesn't matter," David continues. "Whatever it is, people don't pay attention to it anyway." Comforting. All I know is that people are crossing double yellow lines at well over the speed limit like it was the rule. For a while, I get caught up in the amazingly incredible views from the mountain roads, only to be jerked back to reality when David tells us a story about a woman who died "on this road, I think," because the guy driving the car rode the brakes too hard, they gave out, and he abandoned ship. As in, he jumped out of the car and it careened off the side of the mountain...and the other passenger died.

The good news is, we don't die. We do see some wicked huge crocodiles, though, and I hit myself for not bringing my camera because the zoom on my phone is terrible. Anyway, we get to the beach hotel.

Notes on THIS hotel:
-individual cabin-houses for each guest/family, complete with bathroom and porch and all that jazz
-private beach. As in, miles of private beach. And with only two or three other families there at the hotel with us, it was REALLY private.
-pool, with beautiful treeline view. Ricky and I sat on the edge and watched a flock of parrots (yes, a flock of wild parrots) circle over our heads a few times.
-restaurant, with perfect view of skyline and sunset (and free breakfast before 10:00!)
-hammocks! Big ones!
-there were no monkey sounds, but the parrots sort of made up for it

The beach itself is fantastic. It's dark sand, which is b-e-a-utiful, but HOT. Hotter than any beach sand I've ever touched. So hot we have to leave our shoes practically at the water line to walk to the ocean without losing the bottoms of our feet. However, the water is the perfect temperature, and there are tons of those adorable little crabs that scuttle from hole to hole in the sand, and pretty shells, and sand dollars, and even complimentary beach chairs so Ricky and I can sit in the sun and read our books for as long as we can stand the sun. We get a teeny bit sunburned, but only enough to make us think, "Man, all of our friends are buried in snow right now! Aren't we lucky?"

On Thursday, we go to Jaco (Ha-co), the nearest actual town (~30 minutes away from the hotel), to go shopping. We pick up the cutest salt-and-pepper shakers (shaped like hugging dolphins) and a beautiful wooden clock (hand-painted with a night scene of Costa Rican rainforest) and sunglasses and a photo album and a big, beautiful, photographic picture book version of Peter Pan that Ricky found in a used bookstore! It isn't in Spanish, but somehow it made it's way to Costa Rica, so now I have copies of Peter Pan from Europe AND Central America! Cool. :) I have my eye on a bag, but I figure I could find one I liked more when we got to the interior part of Costa Rica the next week. Little do I know....

We grab a taxi back to Esterillos (Ess-te-ree-jos) Este, where the hotel is, and go back to our normal beach routine. The next day, I'm not feeling so well...

...and so we watch some movies and stay inside all day to avoid the sun. I don't have any appetite, but I wonder if it's just too much sun exposure. And by no appetite, I mean I ate two bites of pasta for dinner (after not having eaten since breakfast) and couldn't physically eat any more. Ugh!

Saturday, we pack up and head back to San Jose/Alajuela (A-lay-huay-la) to spend the weekend with Ricky's grandparents, whom he hasn't seen in years. It's a grand reunion! I get to meet not only his grandparents, but numerous aunts, uncles, and other relatives I don't remember the names of. Only about three in the group speak any English at all, so it's a fun guessing, miming, head nodding/shaking game as we try to convey meanings. Ricky does the best he can with translating, but he's also getting accustomed to being in an all-Spanish environment, so sometimes it's a struggle. Later in the night, we go to Nino's (Ricky's uncle) house for some fun couple games, like having the husband guess things about the wife. Ricky and I play against the older, longer-married relatives and get the best score. If you'd like to know why, it's because years ago in Mod 7, we all made notecards with our favorite foods, songs, movie, candy, flowers, etc. to give to future significant others. Well, when Ricky and I had been dating for a while, I gave him my notecard (he kept forgetting my birthday!), and he's used it as a scripture marker ever since. As in, he sees it every day. So basically, the only questions about me that Ricky missed were 1) my favorite food (I have two--he picked the one I didn't) and 2) the name of my maternal grandmother. Isn't he awesome?

Sunday I'm feeling really terrible, but I don't want my new extended family to think I'm a weeny, so I'm up and ready for church. Going to church in Costa Rica is VERY bizarre. For one thing, every piece of land in San Jose is gated. Not just fenced, but seven-foot-high, barbed wire-topped gates, with bars over the doors and windows. Why? Because crime is a problem, and the police don't do anything about it. So when we arrive at the chapel, someone has to unluck the gate around the grounds, drive the car in, lock the gate behind us, and then we have to open the barred door to get inside. There isn't carpet, only tile (probably because it's cooler), and when sacrament meeting is over, the chapel is split into three parts with accordion dividers for Sunday School classes. Then, since there isn't a nursery, all the kids that aren't old enough to be in Primary gather in with the Relief Society/Elders' Quorum for a 5th Sunday Lesson. All three church meetings are completely in Spanish, so I spend a lot of time translating Spanish hymns and trying to match them up with their English counterparts, and reading my scriptures. (I sing all the hymns in Spanish, by the way. Ricky is very impressed. Thanks, Chamber Choir!)

After church, I flop down on the guest bed and don't get up the whole night. I feel awful. Abuelo ("grandfather") makes me this delicious herbal drink from these seeds, and it makes my throat feel better, but I still have a high fever and no desire to move, ever. There's no air conditioning, which normally isn't a problem, but since I'm burning up I'm even more uncomfortable. On top of that, I can't sleep--outside, election week is coming up, and people are in the streets yelling and car honking and generally being noisy. Then, at 5 a.m., I'm awoken by a rooster. Yes, a rooster, in the capital city of Costa Rica. It was very weird. The moral of the story is that I'm not sleeping well the entire weekend, which means I'm even sicker on Monday. Our plan is supposed to be to leave from Ricky's grandparents' house and go to a hotel in the rainforest, but at this point we're not sure I'm going to make it. My glands are swollen, my fever is high, and my throat hurts like a best, so instead we go back to the first hotel we stayed in--the one in the city, by the airport. On Tuesday morning, when I'm literally crying from pain and the inability to swallow and/or eat, we're positive that I'm not going to be making it to any rainforest...which makes me cry more, because I was really looking forward to it (duh). Ricky, being the new and zealous husband that he is, gets on the phone with TACA Airlines and changes our Friday flight to that afternoon, costing us an arm and a leg but ensuring that I'll be able to see an American doctor the next day.

The flight is one of the worst things I've ever experienced. Because I can't clear my ears from sickness, I can't equalize, which means takeoff and landing make my eardrums and my brain scream in agony. Again, Ricky is trying ever-so-hard to take care of me, but the poor guy is at a loss as to what to do. After many painful, painful, PAINFUL hours, a few bites of dry airport sandwich, and about 10 Tylenol capsules, we make it back to Dulles a little after midnight. My poor father didn't get my email that said what time we'd be getting in, so he waits at the airport from 6:00 until 11:00 p.m....arriving back at the house around midnight, just 20 minutes before I call to tell him that we've landed. So, he comes back, we get our luggage (still there), and trudge through the newly-fallen snow to the car.

The next day, I wait the eternity until 2:00 when I have a doctor's appointment in NoVA. My poor mother takes me to a doctor who has fooled her into thinking he is a nice person, which he is not. His first order of business is to not check my eyes, ears, or nose, and jump straight to my throat, proclaiming that I have mono (apparently Ricky had it in high school and the germs can reactivate every few years in saliva...joy) and possibly strep. Did I mention that he has a yuppy med school student with him, the same age as I am, dressed impeccably, with expensive boots and perfect makeup? Yeah, that's helpful, especially since I'm in the same sweats from the day before, no bra, and with huge dark bags under my eyes. (Did I mention that when they weigh me, I clock in at 120 pounds?! That's between 10 and 15 pounds lost in a very small amount of time.) Anyway, the doctor says he's going to do a culture sample to check for strep, which as you may know, involves swiping your tonsils with a long q-tip. Well, I have a terrible gag reflex, and last time a doctor tried to do this, I dry heaved and came very close to puking my guts out. Since my throat is so closed I can barely breathe, I tell the doctor that the strep test/me throwing up would be a REALLY bad idea. As in, "step off, you quack!" My mom asks if I can do it lying down, which has proved to be helpful before. You know what the doctor says? "Don't be ridiculous. I'm highly skilled at this." Who are you, Dr. Gregory House? Quit trying to show off for your intern and listen to me, jerkface! So what does he do? Sticks the thing down my throat. What do I do? Start gagging uncontrollably, which means I can't breathe through my already narrow airway and also irritates my tender throat, which makes me cry from pain (again). At this point, the intern is looking very uncomfortable, I'm furious, my husband is flabbergasted, and the jerk doctor says to me, "Now don't be like that." I thought I was going to hit him! Or, at the very least, throw up on his stupid lab coat! I told you he was a terrible person. Then he asks if I can "handle" a blood test, which I say that I can (I'm speaking in whispers because now my throat is a raw mess), and then he sends me down the hall to do a urine sample to. The intern escorts me there, along the way asking me if my "tummy" hurts, and explaining how to use the urine cup with the "potty" (I am not exaggerating--she really used those words). In addition to being humiliated and puffy-eyed, I am also exhausted, because that's what mono does. The blood drawing goes off without a hitch, and I sit on the floor while they work out my insurance.

FINALLY, I make it back home, and I spend the next 5 days lying on the couch sipping chicken broth through a straw and watching "Law and Order." My parents pull a twin mattress up from the downstairs room, and Ricky sleeps on the floor next to me in case I need something in the middle of the night...which I do almost consistently, because I either wake up from pain and need painkillers, or from cold and need another blanket, or from choking on my own mucus and need water. He is a very dutiful husband during this time. :) I'm also taking medicine the doctor prescribed to get rid of the strep throat/mucus on my tonsils. Little do I know, the aforementioned imbecile of a doctor has given me medicine extremely similar to penicilin, which he knows I am allergic to (because he asked me right before he prescribed it), and which makes me break out in a very itchy full-body rash. (When we looked the medicine up on WebMD, it even says that those allergic to penicilin should avoid it. Great.) So now I am itchy, mucusy, feverish mess, and my speech is so impeded by the swollen glands that I (no offense intended) sound very much like a hearing-impaired person. It's not a fun time, but eventually I feel well enough to come back to BV. I stop taking the medicine, because the mucus is gone and I'm uncomfortably itchy, and I take the week off from work because I can barely stand up long enough to take a shower. After a week of rest, we drive back up to D.C. to fly out for our Idaho reception, and whole other saga begins...

[to be continued]