Asher on Aspen: Jungle solitude

Luxury, lost, and found

I don’t remember deciding to stay behind. It just happened — like a dare I gave myself and couldn’t take back. Four extra days in Costa Rica, just me and the mental clutter I’d been avoiding for months. I hugged my friends goodbye and turned back toward the hills—skin still warm from the sun, hair tangled from the sea. Alone, and by choice. The car ride up felt steeper this time. Lonelier. More real. Somewhere between the switchbacks and the distant sound of howler monkeys, panic crept in. What the hell was I doing here by myself? 

Solitude stung at first, but the edges blurred as soon as Kurà came into view at the top of the hill. Perched high above the coastline of Uvita, Kurà feels less like a hotel and more like a dream you stepped into by accident. With just eight suites floating above the jungle canopy, the place feels more like a mirage than a structure — weightless, intentional, and impossibly serene. Each room is a sleek glass cocoon, open to the elements and staring straight down at the Pacific like it holds some ancient secret. 

My room had a king bed big enough to get lost in and a double rainfall shower that made me question the point of returning to civilization. There was a hammock for existential pondering, floor-to-ceiling glass for uninterrupted awe, and bamboo ceilings that smelled faintly of earth and sunlight. From my veranda, the iconic Whale’s Tail of Marino Ballena National Park stretched out below, perfectly framed and impossibly surreal. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did. 

I woke with the sun to the sound of birds every morning, no alarm needed. Just light spilling in through the glass walls, soft and gold and impossible to ignore. And like clockwork, a quiet knock at my door signaled the arrival of what felt like a royal offering: breakfast. A carafe of coffee, hot tea, juice of the day, handpicked fruit, warm banana bread—and then whichever breakfast dish I chose that day. Eggs one day, Gallo Pinto the next. It felt less like room service and more like a daily feast prepared merely for me. A small but grounding luxury. A ritual. A reason to rise.

I never left the property. Not once for four days. I didn’t need to. On day two (or was it three?), I booked a Swedish massage at the spa. I’m not usually a spa person. Too much fuss. But I gave in, and thank God I did. I don’t remember the therapist’s name — only her hands, like warm waves rolling over my back, unraveling years of tension in a single session. I left my body for a while, floated somewhere above the infinity pool, and drifted into a half-dream where everything was soft and slow and forgiving.

Later, on a whim, I signed up for a cooking class. It wasn’t on the agenda — I just felt like doing something with my hands. No one else showed up. Simply me and a local chef with gentle eyes and broken English, working side by side over a cutting board stacked with fresh-caught fish. We made tuna tartare, ceviche two ways, and sashimi so fresh it felt alive. We paired everything with cold local beers and sat on the open-air deck to eat our creations. The ocean glittered below, unbothered and infinite. I licked lime juice from my fingers and thought, this isn’t something you book — this is something you stumble into and never forget.

Kurà is sustainable, too—no plastic, no pesticides, no greenwashing nonsense. Their herbs grow in a glass greenhouse fed by compost. The straws are bamboo. The beer’s local. Even the staff — 80% from surrounding villages. They smile with ease and extend a kind of hospitality that feels real, not rehearsed. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel better for just existing near it.

By the end of my stay, I wasn’t so afraid of being alone. In fact, I reveled in it. I read books. I journaled. I listened to the same songs on repeat because they made me feel good. I stared into the jungle and let my brain rinse clean, like rain off a tin roof. I remembered who I was when no one else was around to remind me.

On the four-hour drive back to the airport through the winding Costa Rican countryside, I slowed down at the infamous crocodile bridge in the town of Tarcoles. Tourists crowded the railing, leaning over to snap photos of prehistoric beasts lounging on the riverbank below—massive crocodiles soaking up the sun like ancient kings. I leaned over the edge, camera in hand, capturing a few frames to remember the moment. Mostly, though, I just watched—quiet, present, and more alive than I’d felt in days.

Sometimes you don’t need answers. You just need stillness, perspective, and someone to bring you fresh pineapple while you figure it out.