Under a pile of yet unpacked books from my trip to the States a few weeks ago, I found a SkyMall magazine. FREE COPY - TAKE IT. WE’LL REPLACE IT! So I did.

After Addison thoroughly looked over the safety flight brochure that hangs in the pouch on the back seat pocket of the plane, he’d slide it into the sleeve and pull out the SkyMall. He found the it thrilling, especially photos of dogs like the cute little Yorkie in a Cool Vest, which regulates the mutt’s body heat. (I thought that was what panting was for, but what do I know?) We’d flip further and find The Pet’s Observation Porthole. This is a round plastic window fitted into a fence so the dog can safely peer through the plastic at passerby’s. There’s the Coolaroo Dog Bed; the PupSTEP for the pet who needs a little help getting up on the furniture; or my favorite: the Hidden Litter Box. It’s a fake plant with a hole in the pot, which holds the kitty litter.

With its Tuscany handfinish, our new Hidden Litter Box looks like a real clay pot, complete with an attractive, artificial decorator plant. Simply turn the entrance to the wall and no one will know (if your cat doesn’t tell)!……A set of two provides decorative balance and your feline friend with both a cozy hideaway and concealed litter box.

Who doesn’t look at the SkyMall? What a perfect location to put a magazine of products we can live without but all fantasize about having: floating wireless speaker for the pool; digital camera swim mask; the world’s largest write-on mural map; and the Multi-functional Margaritaville and complimentary carrying case (shipped for free). And the joy! these things! can bring! to your life! Exclamation points abound to excite us about less germs! Cleaner floors! Colder draft beer right in your home! And easy access storage under the bed!

I can’t look at the SkyMall too long on the plane because I get motion sick even when the craft is not moving. Just the smell of the plane makes me sick. So, I flipped the pages for Addison and pointed out every animal I could to help pass the hour and one-half we sat on the tarmac. Though I can scoff at almost every item in the magazine, there’s the little shopper in me that would just love to have the Perfect Travel Partner or the Cargo Organizer that eliminates spills and clutter! in the car.

SkyMall has been a fixture in flying for as long as I’ve suffered through economy class. Though I’ll never pick up the phone and credit my card for an upside down tomato garden or the pool and pond remote display, I’ll look. Sending things to Costa Rica, though entirely possibly, is as annoying as airline travel. Even though there are laws on “what can be brought into the country; what is to be taxed or not, and how much I can recieve” - it always costs more. Besides shipping, there’s the random custom’s tax -impuesto de la aduana - tacked on by a guy I never see who’s decided through some ancient ritual akin to Tarut reading that my package should be charged whatever moves him that day. Better to live without it.

So, I’ll keep it in a pile and every once and awhile, I’ll peek through it again. It’s almost as satisfying as having that piping-hot mini doughnut maker - the Dough-Nu-Matic right in my kitchen. Almost.

Looking back, I don’t remember the pain in my feet or the ache in my hips. That’s the funny thing about life, we have the ability to remember the good parts. Even the hard parts were good. Here’s until next year, when we’ll try it all over again!

At 8:45 a.m, we hit the streets of San José to join the thousands already on their way to Cartago. With extra shoes in my back pack, some water, and a raincoat, my nanny (turned faithful guide for the day) and I, embarked on a walk to give thanks. I learned it’s all about thanks.

It’s easy to find the way to Cartago: Just follow the flow. We hopped into a stream of people from Tilarán. A town north of San José. They’d already been walking for six days. As we moved through San Jose, the vendors were setting up for sales. Pharmacies sold band aides and aspirins; corner grocery stores put out cold water; and guys parked trucks loaded with fruit along the curb. After an hour of walking, we began to clear San José and entered the crowded suburb of San Pedro. Two hours into the walk, we bought coconut water and drank without stopping. Though people talked as they walked, it was amazingly quiet. Mother’s pushed babies in rickety strollers fathers caressed infants to their chests, and old couples walked hand in hand. I could hear the determination in the steps of the sneakers and the scrape of the sandals. After leaving San Pedro, we sat for a break. People we had passed earlier now passed us by. It felt good to take off my shoes. Everyone’s feet hurt. Along any point in the road, people stop and rub out the cramps and bandage blisters. The Red Cross is stationed all along the route. We packed up and prepared for what my guide said was Ochmogo: the big hill through Tres Rios. We ate food on sticks when we could and kept walking. Everyone just kept walking. After five and on-half hours, we arrived in the courtyard of the church. We walked to the entrance of the church and chose to finish on our knees to the shrine of the La Virgen de los Angeles. Before leaving, I was told it is important to bring a list of those you want to pray for, those that need special help. My nanny got on her knees and pulled out a photo of my daughter and my son. This trip was for Addison and to help him walk she told me. She took out the framed photo she’d hauled all the way down in her backpack and held it over her head as she crawled to the altar saying prayers for my son. The tears of all those around me became mine. Everyone who’d come to this place came to help someone else. They came to give thanks for the blessings already in their life and to help those they loved. This little statue, La Virgen de los Angeles is the mother of Costa Rica, the patron. In the basement of the church hang little charms: limbs, eyes, torsos, children, breasts, feet, …replicas fashioned by a jeweler of the body part cured after coming to Cartago on August 1st-2nd. The walk is a gift of time, energy, and finally deep gratitude for life, including the life of peace in Costa Rica. I saw people all moving together for a few hours, doing nothing more than walking in hopes of all arriving at the same goal. Unlike a marathon or a mountain climb, anyone can join in step and give this walk a try. It’s the people’s marathon I guess. And what better thing to carry on our backs than gratitude? That’s something that will really cover us when it rains. A special note of thanks to all those who wished me well. I carried you with me.

Tomorrow I set out for an all day trek to Cartago. Cartago is city about one-half hour south of San Jose. Did I mention I’m going by foot? In fact an estimated 500,000 to one million people in Costa Rica walk to Cartago every year from almost every town in the country, hoping to arrive on August 1st or 2nd for the celebration of “La Virgen de los Angeles.” People leave from their home in hopes of finding a miracle, a cure, or to state how grateful they are just to be alive.

The legend is that on August 2, 1635 a little girl was playing by a river. She found a piece of rock that looked just like the Virgin Mary cuddling a child. Of course the girl thought it a toy, so she played away the afternoon and later took it home. The following day, she went back to play in the same place and found a rock that looked just like the one she discovered the day before. She brought it home to add it to her collection; however, the first one was gone. Same thing happened the third day. So one thing followed another and the little girl brought the priest to the river. He took it to the church and locked it up. But the next day, guess what? The case was empty and the statue reappeared back at the river. Naturally, the priest saw this as a sign to build a church on the site.

As with any legend, there’s a few holes in the story. So, I’m off to see what the people have to say. With a million people all walking in the same direction, it’s going to be fascinating. When we arrive at the church, we’re supposed to walk on our knees to the end and say a quick prayer - the line is long. Some believe this pilgrimage protects Costa Rica from natural disasters, some look for miracles. I am sure there will be a few stories to tell once we return from paying our respects to “La Virgen de los Angeles.” And once my feet have recovered and our clothes have dried out, I’ll be the first to let you know about all the miracles that have come to pass.

Ask most Costa Ricans where they went during the month long school break in June and July and hoards will reply: The beach. The rain stops in the Central Valley; off to the beach.

For two years, I owned a home on the beach and when the holidays come, I miss my little wooden house. All the romantic ideas I’ve ever had about the beach are true, especially on the Caribbean, my coast of choice. In the morning I’d walk along the beach and many days see no one except a few monkeys. The sea is clean and the horizon sucked me in like an endless vacuum of light. The kids loved the sand and our little town was as quaint as a little town in a snow-globe. (Hey, now there’s an original souvenir!) Life brimmed on every leaf, in every tree, and in each drop of water.

Though I did not live full-time at the beach, I got a taste of what it’s really like - after the postcards are sent. Since most vacation spots on the Caribbean are below the port of Limon, it is at least a five to seven hour drive. With kids, it’s a long ride. On the Pacific coast, there are a few spots like Jaco and Punteranus closer to San Jose. However, many choose beaches on the north Pacific and the drive becomes as long. A few places it makes more sense to fly a commuter plane. Living so far away from the city means deciding what you are willing to either live without or be content with fewer choices. You may have to settle for dial-up Internet while you wait for a year or two for DSL. If you depend on special needs services or supplies, do a lot of research before choosing your location. A routine trip to San Jose figures into most ex-pats budget that decide to live on the beach.

My home was a dream tree house. Half wood and half cement, both materials bring challenges. Wood means termites. Cement stays damp and brings lots of mold. The Caribbean rains almost all the time with several small breaks throughout the year. Closets are a no no. In a closed space, mold seems to grow in seconds. Beyond termites every home will have ants, cockroaches, geckos, spiders, more ants, of all sizes, scorpions, and of course mosquitoes. Since Costa Rica has cases of dengue fever, it’s wise to sleep with a toldo - mosquito net. Water supply is iffy, and often so low you can’t flush a toilet. Many people air condition at least one room where computer or other technical equipment is kept.

Petty theft is a problem at the beach. Keeping a guard up is just wise. There’s a lot of drug use. It comes with the territory. We were robbed once because someone staying in our guest room on the bottom floor didn’t shut the little wooden shutter at night. Though the guests lost cameras, phones, and clothes, thankfully no one was hurt. But common sense goes a long, long way at the beach.

What could be the most important thing to do before settling at the beach? Rent. Resist buying if you can. I’ve watched many-a-Gringo pull up stakes after a few years because one or more of all those factors I mentioned above proved too much to handle. Test drive the town and the area before deciding. It’s true you can sell, I did with some great help. In fact you may decide the beach is yours forever, but instead of Cahuita, you prefer Puerto Viejo down the road.

So why even go? We all know the answer to that: it’s the beach, and the sun, and the forest, and the monkeys, and the air. I could never breath enough of that fresh oxygen and plants and life growing on every tree and gate and wire and road. It’s incredible. Days on the sand, the kids would loose themselves in play and imagination and sticks and rocks. We lived very much in the NOW; the beach is all about the NOW. But it’s a lot of work, especially with small kids. Between those moments of surf and sand come the laundry, dinner, fevers, stomach aches, bug bites, whining, and all the other “regular-old-life” challenges. At a different time in my life, I would have kept my home, but single parenting two kids and one with special needs was just too much. A home at the beach demands a lot of on-hands care I couldn’t give.

My daughter must have been trading stories at school with her friends about who did what over the vacation because in the car she asked me out of the blue why we sold her house. I told her what I’ve written here but in the terms a seven year old can handle.

We’re going to go off and see volcanoes for awhile. Plus we’ll be going back to the beach. We’ll always be going back to the beach.

Airplane travel is akin to pregnancy and childbirth: After some times has passed, I forget how painful it is, yet I end up doing all over again. I even get nauseas. Really, we are just cattle in the sky. Shipped from one ranch to the next. It is an amazing feat, getting us all there in one piece. The leg from New York was a long one. A one hour delay in the airport was nothing compared to the one and one-half hours sitting on the tarmac. I’d run out of things to do after an hour and watched the time tick away. Instead of landing at a reasonable hour, I became faced with lugging two - no three- exhausted humans home.

Once up in the air, we whiled away time looking at Coco’s new Ninetendo DS. The little Husky puppy can do all sorts of things that delight a younger brother. The meal came and I took all three (I did pay for three seats!) with the hopes that something would be edible on the compact tray. Addison was unable to eat anything, so he got quite pissed and tossed two of the trays in the isle. Coco was quick to follow by dumping her salad all over the airplane wall. The great thing was this was her first attempt at salad and of course she dolloped lots of dressing on top. I managed to recover most of the plastic wrapped items before someone stepped on them, and Coco found most of her lettuce pieces and wiped the dressing off the wall.

Then we sat with those half-eaten trays in front of us for 45 minutes. I perked up when the movie began. Then I remembered there was music on the headsets. Since the first flight had no movie, music, or headsets, I figured it was another airline cutback. I wrapped the headset around Addison’s ears. He began to rock out. Then Coco rocked out. It bought us enough time until the trays were taken away. As if on cue, Addison hit the wall and decided NOTHING would do. NOTHING could make him happy. Not even that little Husky. Then, I smelled something. Yes. He pooped. It was inevitable. Since the seatbelt light was on, I was stuck. I could deal with diaper rash, I couldn’t deal with changing him. Possibly the bowel activity calmed him down because he sat in his seat and began twirling his hair. This meant he was going to fall asleep. I buckled the seat belt around him and tucked a blanket against the metal arm rest. He zonked. Coco managed thirty minutes of sleep before landing.

When we arrived, I went to the immigration line and felt so content knowing we could go to the resident/citizen’s line. The tourist line snaked back into a coffee shop. However…..however…..I hadn’t gotten any forms. I asked the man for some. He pointed over there. I turned my head to see a gaggle of wandering tourists looking for someone, anyone, because they needed forms too. Since I was the only one who spoke Spanish, I asked anyone with a badge to help. Finally a guy gave me one.

Don’t I need three for my family?

He assured me no. After returning to the line, I was told I needed three forms. No one could find any, and it meant squat that I was the only one with children (let alone that special needs thing). I walked up to the counter with my properly filled out forms, and the man walked away. He walked away. So I began to change lines and just as he came back, I asked him if he was working or should I go to another line.

Whatever you want, he said.

Want? I wanted to be in bed and not have my child’s rear end caked with poo that surely by this time has given him an incredibly rash. I wanted to stop lifting and hauling and being around airplane things. I pushed the stroller back to his desk and watched him slowly address an envelope and put some things inside. Seal it and then walk around his office for a bit. Coco was having an uncontrollable shaky fit because she had never been that tired in her life. I felt as helpless as I did on the plane. Yelling at people who work in immigration cannot be a recommended thing, and I would venture to say possibly land you in a small room for a round of questioning. I took it as a challenge to stay calm. Even getting angry on the inside was only going to use up my last ounces of energy. All the people I’d help to get forms were through the line and picking up their luggage.

I was the LAST person to leave the airport from our flight. Back on the plane - I think it was when the dressing hit the wall - I swore I wouldn’t fly again. But I think anyone who has more than one child or has bought those airline tickets yet once again, understands all to well that it sucks us back in. As soon as I walked outside I smelled the fresh green and wet life of Costa Rica. Isn’t it funny how quickly we can forget the pain? Thank goodness or many of us would have been born.

I do believe there is someplace for everybody. Costa Rica is the place for me now. Though I love to come and visit friends and relatives, it seems that little Central American country has me wrapped around it’s finger for now. Most ex-pats make a trip home every year to reconnect and see family, shop, and possibly get a break from paradise. Costa Rica is wonderful, but getting away from even paradise gives me the ability to stand back and ask those same questions as to why I live where I live.

I try to imagine jamming Addison’s little limp legs into snow boots, and I can almost feel a panic attack coming on. Just that factor alone keeps me in Costa Rica. Then of course, there’s those wonderful nannies. It’s a shame the Western world has priced itself out of help for mothers. We need it. We deserve it. There’s more to life than being a mother. Costa Rica gives me a tad more of a chance to break away here and there and work, study, and develop myself as the person I can be here on this whirling orb of ours.

So good-bye to the old and hello to the new. For what is new will be old again. I guess then I’ll have to pack up the kids, and the blender, and peas, and stuffed animals and return to ask those same questions all over again. Because didn’t someone once say: Where ever you go, there you are. After it all, I’m still following myself no matter where I go.

It’s amazing how much I let slide while traveling. Those golden moments I capture on the digital camera take over the entire scope of life. Plus there’s still the feeding of the children, I can’t seem to get them over that hunger thing. My teeth are caked with strange substances, and I wear the same thing over and over again. This is traveling. If you’re a traveler - if Costa Rica’s on your agenda or possibly Holland - you know what I mean.

Floss? That’s not really necessary anyway, is it?

Bathing? Well, we can stretch it out just one more day.

Greens? Isn’t ketchup a vegetable?

Ripping fingernails off counts as a manicure, doesn’t it?

I can eat ice cream four times a day, can’t I? And the children too?

But I believe I am finished. Toast. It’s not that I’m itching to be away from this place. Heck, there’s at least a few more weeks until it snows. No, I want to be home and be around my stuff. I want to once again be thrilled with dental hygiene. I want my kitchen and my refrigerator full of the strange, exotic food I like to eat like papaya, coconuts, and avocados. I’m tired of milling through a pile of clothes and debating with myself which ones are clean and which ones cannot under any circumstances be worn again until they are heavily treated with chemicals.

One more day until we fly again. I can see it now: Washing dishes after a lovely meal and sending the kids off to school. Yes. Back they go. We’re done with the tourist thing. It’s time to return to paradise.

Home is where the heart is and the car seat is where the nap is. The lull of the car and the warm sun in back seat is too much for Addison. He conks. When we first started traveling, he took this luscious two hour nap on a bed. That was over last week when he decided not to participate in any sort of sleeping activity until 6 p.m. After dozing off for one-half hour, he woke up and proceeded to scream for two hours straight.

I give him tons of credit. He’s a champ, and he’s really putting up with a lot. He played quietly with all the toys grandma has in her secret chest for two hours while I installed the printer and wireless mouse (I so want that!) on her new computer. On the way home, he began this contorted yoga thing and fell asleep a few miles before I pulled into the driveway.

And there he stayed for another 45 minutes. When he awoke, he was not refreshed and again cried for awhile. He’s getting adjusted to our new schedule. Funny thing is, I’ll be throwing him back into his old routine in less than a week. Oh what we do to these kids. It makes me tired just thinking about it.

So, we did it. we be hung around a giant-sized mall all day waiting in lines for over-priced rides and scoped out stores for cute Minnesota souvenirs to bring home to friend’s in Costa Rica. In all the years I lived in Minnesota, I went to the Mall once. I was handed a map upon entering; got dizzy; left without buying a thing.

Now I go every time I am in Minnesota. I can’t help it. With kids, it’s easy. And they do have fun. Honestly, I’d rather be hiking along one of those trails I mentioned before, but with a chance of rain in the forecast and four antsy kids - it’s off to the Mall again.

What is it that draws us to stand next to giant sized, colorful, fluffy, strange, yet hugely popular animals or cartoons? Maybe this is the beginning of our inner drive to rub shoulders with the stars. After a few cuddly photos with Blue or Sponge Bob, the next thing you know, we’re telling everyone how we rode the elevator with Rob Lowe or saw Alan Page at a gun show or had Matt Damon’s mom over for dinner one night.

I’m just as much a sucker as the next mom or dad. I waited in-line for a photo shot and even encouraged Addison to give Blue a kiss. No, it’s not Matt Damon’s mom, but it’ll do. It’ll do.