Asher on Aspen: Burnt, bitten, and free

Exploring Santa Teresa, Costa Rica

I pressed my forehead to the glass as the hopper plane climbed through the clouds, my breath fogging the window as Costa Rica spilled open beneath us. We had landed in San José just hours earlier, but already it felt like another lifetime. The plane was small — ten seats, no frills, and a cockpit so open I could practically tap the pilot on the shoulder. We were chasing the coastline south toward Santa Teresa, a lively surf town tucked between jungle and sea — about as far from Aspen as we could get.

Santa Teresa welcomed us with a sweaty hug we never asked for but secretly loved. The kind that smothers you in sweat and wonder and makes your hair misbehave. The sun was setting as we pulled up to our Airbnb. Our friends were already there — barefoot, glowing, beers in hand — and the house felt less like a rental and more like a jungle treehouse dream brought to life. It sat high on a hillside, accessible only by ATV or 4×4, which meant that every journey home felt like a small-scale expedition. Some nights, we’d rip up the dirt road in torrential rain, clinging to our handlebars and screaming with laughter like feral teenagers.

The house itself was a sanctuary: wide open, breezy, with an ocean view that flirted with your peripheral vision. Everything was still. Everything buzzed. Bugs, mostly. Thick-bodied things with wings and legs and vendettas. They outnumbered us, outpaced us, and damn near drove me insane — until they didn’t. By week’s end, I learned to share space with them, like uninvited roommates who weren’t leaving. Alcohol helped. Mosquitoes don’t bite as hard when you’re a little tipsy.

Our days in Santa Teresa were messy and magical, wrapped in a layer of sweat, sunscreen, and mojitos. We’d wake in the mornings and trek down the hill in search of breakfast at The Bakery, a local gem that quickly became our daily pilgrimage. It served up Costa Rican comfort food with strong coffee and even stronger people-watching. The kind of place where you accidentally stay for hours because someone orders another round and the dogs at your feet are too cute to leave behind.

Ah, yes — the dogs. Everywhere. Lounging in the shade, trailing surfers, and trotting through restaurants like they owned the lease. Some had collars; most didn’t. All of them seemed to belong to the town itself, woven into its DNA.

Time moves differently in Santa Teresa; it drifts instead of ticks. There’s no rush, no raised voices, and no one glued to a screen. It’s not about escaping reality so much as resetting your internal clock. Locals cruise past on ATVs and dirt bikes, kicking up dust and weaving through chaos with ease, like some laid-back version of “Mad Max” set to a reggae soundtrack.

One afternoon, we signed up for a surf lesson. I’ve wake-surfed plenty behind boats, but the ocean is a different beast entirely. My instructor was patient for about six minutes before informing me that his dog was a better surfer than me. He wasn’t wrong. The waves were huge, fast, and utterly indifferent to my existence. Still, I kept trying, kept falling, kept swallowing saltwater until I didn’t care anymore. When I finally stood up, even for half a second, the world slowed down like it was holding its breath with me.

It wasn’t all Pura Vida, though. Scorpions made surprise appearances, including one that waltzed into my room like he paid rent. A centipede the size of my hand tried to shower with me, and one night, a poisonous spider known locally as a pica caballo took up residence outside the front door. I screamed. A lot. But eventually, I laughed, too. Nature always wins here. You just have to surrender.

Another afternoon, we went horseback riding, and it ended up being one of the most peaceful things I did all week. My horse, Simba, moved with a quiet confidence, as if he’d done this journey a thousand times and didn’t need my input to do it again. We climbed through dense jungle before emerging onto an empty stretch of beach. The guides didn’t talk much, which I actually loved. It wasn’t your typical touristy horseback ride with constant chatter. The ride felt more like a moving meditation — just us, the horses, and the sound of waves and wind. Simple, still, and kind of magical.

At night, the town came alive. One evening, in the middle of dinner with a friend we ran into by pure cosmic coincidence, a single voice began to sing. I turned without even thinking, completely pulled in by the sound. Hours later, just as we were settling into drinks and conversation, the power suddenly went out. Total blackout. But he kept singing in the dark, and we all just stayed there listening — cocktails in hand, grinning like idiots. Moments like that don’t ask for attention — they simply unfold, and if you’re lucky, you’re there to witness them.

The town felt like a magnet for wanderers: people chasing peace, clarity, or maybe just a break from it all. It’s one of the world’s Blue Zones, and now I get why. Santa Teresa is one of five places in the world where people live longer, healthier lives. It’s not just the beach or the fresh food; it’s the unhurried pace, the eye contact, the way strangers actually see you.

The week ended too soon. We packed up our salt-stiff swimsuits and bug-bitten legs, leaving behind books we never opened and memories we’ll never forget. Next stop: Uvita.