Picture this: You’ve just landed in San José, buzzing with excitement… until you realize your “eco-luxe” Airbnb is next to a frat hostel blasting reggaeton at 3 AM. You Google “hidden beaches,” end up in a parking lot with a $50 “waterfall tour” sign, and accidentally order mondongo soup (spoiler: it’s cow stomach). By day three, you’re sunburned, scammed, and wondering why pura vida feels like a cruel joke.
 
I wrote this book after 13 years of those exact facepalm moments—getting lost in Corcovado’s swamps, bargaining with bus drivers who laughed at my Spanish, and watching resorts fence off secret hot springs. But I also found the real Costa Rica: empty beaches where howler monkeys outnumber tourists, $1 sodas where grandmothers sneak you extra plantains, and jungle trails so quiet, you’ll hear sloths chewing leaves.
 
Inside, you’ll get:
The GPS coordinates I’ve guarded like a jaguar—waterfalls, bioluminescent bays, and surf breaks untouched by influencers.
 
Bus routes so cheap, you’ll cross the country for the price of a Starbucks latte.
 
Scripts to dodge scams, charm park rangers, and order food without accidentally eating organs.
 
Real-time safety nets—trusted mechanics, clinics, and guides who’ll rescue you mid-monsoon.
 
 
 
This isn’t a guide. It’s a backstage pass to the Costa Rica tourists never see—where “getting lost” means stumbling onto a beach you’ll name yourself, and “luxury” is a hammock strung between mango trees.
 
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