On the other side was Malpaís, a place that bore the signs of having recently been a sleepy fishing village. Much of the beachfront remains undeveloped, but not for long. The Pacific side of the peninsula is undergoing a land rush unlike any in Costa Rica's history. Ten or fifteen years from now, chances are good the area will resemble southern Florida, or at least the Yucatán.

Large groups of college students were wandering the rocks, and ATVs roared along the dirt roads. We followed a dirt road toward the restaurant Soda Piedra Mar. The name literally means "ocean rock," and we could see why. Twenty feet in front of us was an inlet, framed by jagged rocks. The surf roared in and shot up through the rocks like a geyser, but always away from our table. On the other side was pristine beach. People pay top dollar to eat in settings like this. Our bill was $14, and only because I ordered the lobster, which still smelled like the ocean. Regina had fried chicken and rice, and it was delicious. We ate at a couple of relatively fancy, and very good, restaurants later in the trip. But the setting, combined with the high-quality home cooking, made Soda Piedra Mar one of the finest places I've ever eaten. I would have gone back 20 times if I could.

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Our hotel was down the road a couple of miles, in Santa Teresa, a town that's become a hangout for cool surfers and yuppies. I had booked a room at the Tropico Latino Lodge, just off the main road, months before. They had asked me to wire money for a deposit. Driving in, the wiring seemed worth it. Bungalows were spaced evenly along pathways lined with pretty foliage. A two-tier pool beckoned, overlooking a lovely stretch of private beach. In the middle was a buzzing bar. We checked in with the bartender, who was the head person on duty. He was named Richard, and he was laid-back, slick, and handsome, like a surf version of Peter Krause on Six Feet Under. He also resembled that character in that he didn't really seem to want any responsibility.

After disappearing for 20 minutes, he returned to the bar and said, "There's someone in your room already." He shrugged. "I'm just here to make drinks."

"Kick them out," I said. "I wired money."

Apparently, a French gentleman had seen my name on the reservation sheet and pretended to be me, therefore stealing the last bungalow. The woman working the morning shift didn't seem to notice, or think to check his ID. Richard didn't know how to contact the hotel's owner, or perhaps he didn't want to try.

In retrospect, I should've been wary of a hotel that wanted me to wire money ahead. But what could I have done differently? A confirmation number wouldn't have helped much on the Richard front. I stood at the bar for the next three hours as he mixed margaritas and chatted up everything that walked. In between, Richard made a few calls on our behalf, trying to find us a room.

By the time I retreated in disgust--with a full refund--I looked like Richard had put me in a blender. I was wild-eyed. Sweat plastered my hair against my forehead. Regina and I drove up and down the road. Every hotel, at every price range, was full. We'd have to traverse the coast until dark. Maybe we'd find a place.

As a last option, we turned in at a sign that read florblanca. Regina parked and I got out of the car to see what they had. The restaurant and bar looked like something on the Fine Living Channel, all cool concrete and wooden beams and tables. The hotel was filled with gorgeous, tanned people of many nationalities. I walked up to the front desk. Even though I must have looked scary, they smiled at me.

"I need a room!" I said. "Now!"

"Of course," the receptionist calmly replied. She showed me a room. I went to get Regina.

"This is where we're staying," I said.