I assume you all knew where this was going.

Returning to travel was the first practice of the season, stale old equipment sitting for so long untouched fit surprisingly well, and the old tricks come back to us without much prompting.  Landing in Guatemala City was not nearly the obstacle we expected, because we expected the worst, and this wasn’t it.  By a long shot.

It was Palm Sunday in Antigua, and devilishly hot.

Too quickly, we exited overland to Honduras to see the Copan ruins under cloudy skies.  Our Costa Rican guide could be forgiven for disliking all but his homeland, but Hondurans win hand-down for their conversation, which they tried to have with us regularly, and in all manner of dialect; we are not as bilingual as I want to be.  Yet.

From there, to Roatan, Caribbean paradise overtaken by resorts that hog the ocean and beaches, and the transposition of downtown U.S.A; Applebee’s, Burger King, Church’s Fried Chicken.  We escaped the masses on scooters we should probably not been allowed to rent, but the views of the coral made it worth it, and I do look good in helmets.

Two days’ hard travel across to Nicaragua took us to Grenada, and unbearable heat.  The heart of Central America is sweltering, and hallmarked by volcanoes in all directions.  Here, we found Rushdie’s Jaguar Smile, and thought harder about the people serving us good coffee in posh cafes.  Delicious tuna salad and lemonade hardly seemed all that communist.

Nicaragua, because we’re counting, was 30.  I danced a little at the border, under the sun.

There are sharks in Lake Nicaragua; the Russians meant to finish the canal, but never did, and now, bullsharks – the meanest – lurk around the shores of Ometepe, home to 2 volcanoes and little else.  At least the breeze afforded relief from the heat.

Costa Rica was a breath of fresh air, both because of its tremendously progressive achievements, and because we climbed immediately up to Monteverde, where they grow the coffee, and where it was cooler, at last.  It is easy to love Costa Rica; it is tourist Disneyland.  Services cost significantly more, but are significantly better, and none of us felt taken at the cost of playing superman above the canopy.

In La Fortuna, we were warned almost all visitors never see her; Arenal Volcano lurks behind cloud and ash most of the time, and the star attraction – its far-side lava flows – exist almost purely in postcard form.

We were lucky.  Very. Very.  Lucky.

So it was onto San Jose, and a crash course in driving stick that D-man handled with aplomb and hardly any near-death stalls.  Our final destination was the lesser-traveled central Pacific coast — I found it poetic to see two Oceans — and our rented apartment in Dominical was exactly the respite we required.   We tried surfing and got sunburns.  And then reluctantly came home.

That’s four Central American countries for a grand total 31.  With six months to spare.

There will be photos.  Oh yes.