A truckstop café in Liberia, Costa Rica

We woke up expecting a comfortable van ride north, followed by a taxi ride to our decent hotel. But we had traveled long and hard and slept late. Our breakfast, taken in the courtyard of our old hotel, was some deliciously ripe fruit and rich, smooth Costa Rican coffee. But at the desk the clerk told us that all of the regular minivans had already departed.

Costa Ricans are accommodating folks—probably have seen too many pushy tourists. So she went into a long account of the amazingly expensive options available, including limousine service. We must have looked distressed, and so said, "Or you know, you could take a public bus. That's what I'd recommend."

We took a taxi through the dreary, wet streets and found a shelter of a bus station: concrete blocks and corrugated tin roof. Tickets were a snap and cheap. We listened to the rain drum on the roof of the bus station, staring at a sign that said "Absolutely no farm animals allowed on the bus." In one corner there were six dirty men throwing dice, arguing, drinking; in another a café serving up piles of rice and beans. And the assorted panhandlers of the area who took our worldly wealth a quarter at a time.

A half hour later, and we and twenty Costa Ricans were on a bus, with the air blowing through our hair. We sputtered through a tropical mountain range, ringed by emerald green grass and fields of banana trees and lumpy white cows.

Our goal was Liberia, a transit town consisting of a small grid of muddy streets, a few supermarkets, three bus stops and a dozen hotels. The PanAmerican Highway, which runs through its heart, makes it loud, but otherwise it's pleasant. After getting to our hotel, we walked out to the nearest restaurant, which happened to be in a truckstop. We ordered plates of meat and rice and beans—Costa Rican food is underrated—and set to with gusto.