Every Tuesday morning, I walked to my local soda*, a small, family-run restaurant, to start the week right.
The sun beat down on the pavement as I crossed the road, dodging motorbikes. There were no formal addresses in Liberia, Costa Rica — just memory guiding me toward the unmarked, garage-style entryway.

Inside, she smiled before I spoke.

“Café negro sin leche, ¿sí?”

“Sí.”

Gallo pinto with scrambled eggs, fried cheese, and sweet plantain arrived on a plate that looked like it came straight from someone’s grandmother’s cupboard. The mug was different every time; I never knew which one I’d get. I sat listening to conversations I barely understood, practising Spanish in my head, watching pedestrians drift past in the heat.

It’s lovely how something so ordinary can begin to make you feel at home.

Five months earlier, I would have come once, taken a photo, ticked “local breakfast” off my list, and moved on.
Instead, I stayed in this small city in Costa Rica’s Guanacaste province, where I had moved to teach English. That decision, to slow down rather than pass through, would change the way I see travel and myself.

Local life in Liberia, Costa Rica, featuring the modest, unmarked entrance of a neighbourhood soda with patrons seated at a wooden table (left) and a close-up of a traditional gallo pinto breakfast—seasoned rice and beans—served as the writer's daily ritual (right).
The unmarked doorway of my neighbourhood soda and the gallo pinto that waited inside – simple details that quietly shaped my life in Liberia.

*Soda Estelita
C. 3 3, Provincia de Guanacaste, Liberia, Costa Rica

The Honeymoon

Before moving to Liberia, I travelled like I was racing an invisible clock. I wanted to see everything, squeezing as much as possible into tight itineraries. Slowing down felt indulgent. If I lingered, I worried I was missing something better somewhere else. But moving quickly meant I rarely stayed long enough to understand a place beyond its surface.

A collage of Costa Rican weekend rituals: a serene, hidden rock pool (poza) surrounded by lush greenery (left) and a traditional casado meal served with a cold Imperial beer (right).
A hidden poza (rock pool) and a casado with an Imperial – the simple weekend adventures that I dreamed of.

When I committed to six months in one small city, I hoped it would help me slow down and experience life abroad more meaningfully. I dreamt of weekdays laughing with students, and weekends of adventures and bonding with friends over beers.

I also worried I’d feel stuck. I was about to find out.

The Frustration

Getting to Liberia was an adventure in itself. Leaving San Ramón, I flagged down a bus with a friend. Our Spanish was limited, and the driver told us there were no seats. A kind passenger leaned out the window and explained we could stand. We squeezed into the aisle, backpacks as makeshift cushions, laughing at ourselves as the bus jolted along the three-hour journey.

The early days of moving to Liberia, showing the writer’s backpacks on a local bus floor during a chaotic transit (left) and a vibrant rainbow stretching across the Guanacaste sky (right).
Backpacks on a bus floor and a rainbow over Liberia – the chaotic beginning and the beauty that followed.

But the harder part wasn’t the bus. It was the quiet, cumulative adjustment of daily life.

Liberia is hot, especially in dry season. The heat lingers in the streets, slowing everything down. Errands stretch longer under the sun, especially when you’re lost. Addresses are informal, so finding places required trial-and-error. My new home existed as a pin on Google Maps and a rough knowing of nearby landmarks.

Quiet moments of Costa Rican daily life: a sun-drenched, empty residential street in Liberia (left) and a large, unbothered green iguana resting on a stone ledge (right).
A quiet street, and unbothered iguana – ordinary moments that slowly became familiar.

Grocery shopping became an exercise in humility. I stood in aisles pretending to compare labels when I couldn’t decipher them. Phone credit had to be topped up in person. Lines became a part of life. Water outages meant keeping emergency bottles filled and occasional power cuts meant adjusting expectations. These weren’t problems, just differences that required patience and perspective to learn to live with.

There were moments of loneliness too. I missed home deeply. Students laughed at my accent before we learned to understand each other. My instinct, when overwhelmed, had always been to leave — to book the next bus and reset somewhere else. But this time was different.

The interior of a local school in Liberia where the writer worked, featuring a bright wall mural with the iconic Costa Rican phrase "Pura Vida."
A school wall that read “Pura Vida” – a phrase I came to understand not in theory, but in practice.

And then there was Pura Vida.

At first, it felt like a slogan. Living there revealed it as something much richer. It meant the bus might be late and nobody panicked. Conversations stretched because connection mattered more than efficiency. Things worked; just not always urgently, or in the way I planned or expected.

It was confronting at times. It was also freeing.

The Adjustment

Liberia wasn’t the cinematic Costa Rica of glossy travel brochures. It was local, lived-in, and unapologetically real. A magnificent white cathedral overlooks the main park where children play and elderly couples walk hand in hand. Vendors call out “piiipppaaasss” as they sell coconuts from carts. Motorbikes weave through traffic. Life hums steadily along.

The steady rhythm of Guanacaste's capital: the striking white cathedral of Liberia (left) and the bustling main town square at sunset, filled with locals gathering for the evening (right).
A white cathedral, a humming main square – the steady rhythm of Liberia (Images by author)

Slowly, routines anchored me.

Tuesday mornings at my soda became ritual. I no longer needed Google Maps to find my way home from my walks to grab a smoothie or lesson plan at a cafe. In the evenings, when the town cooled, I joined the teachers’ run club before we cooked together in our kitchen.

Everyday comforts in Liberia: the storefront of "The Popeye" smoothie shop (left) and the writer holding up a fresh green smoothie, her go-to local order (right).
The corner smoothie shop and my go-to order, “The Popeye” – the kind of everyday comfort that turns a town into home.

Batidos Liberia
Centro Comercial El Bambu, Guanacaste Province, Liberia, Costa Rica

Saturdays became my favourite. Morning classes. Sharing patacones (fried green plantains) in the staffroom. Dancing to The Wiggles with my kids’ class like I had no dignity to protect. After-work drinks at our local pub, a chiliguaro shot we’d laugh about later, then gatherings at the “Yellow House” filled with card games, water balloon fights, and conversations that drifted from cultural misunderstandings to future dreams.

A glimpse into teaching life: a selfie of the writer in her Saturday classroom (left) and a whiteboard covered in English and Spanish vocabulary notes (right).
A Saturday classroom and a whiteboard full of new words – the quiet, imperfect moments where growth happened for my students and for me.

One Saturday, I even convinced my advanced adults class to try Vegemite. Their reactions ranged from polite nods to dramatic disgust. We laughed and told stories about Australia, Costa Rica, and the strange foods we grew up loving.

Weekends unfolded gently. Some Sundays we took the bus to Playas del Coco, floating in the ocean until the sky turned pink and the mosquitoes reminded us it was time to leave. Other nights were simpler — walking across town for pizza, carrying cardboard boxes home, watching familiar films.

Simple weekend escapes: a dramatic sunset sky over the coast at Playas del Coco (left) and a casual evening with takeaway pizza boxes and a bottle of Birra Moretti (right).
Sunset skies in Playas del Coco and takeaway pizza – simple weekends that became some of my favourites.

Los Juanchos Pizzeria
Casa Liberia, Provincia de Guanacaste, Liberia, Condega, Costa Rica
Website: https://losjuanchos-liberia.ola.click/products
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LosJuanchosPizza/

It wasn’t extraordinary. It was every day, which made it meaningful.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped measuring time in bucket-list ticks. I started measuring it in familiarity; in the wave from the shopkeeper, in recognising faces, in feeling known. That was the real lesson of Pura Vida.

The Acceptance

The real shift came when my mum visited.

When she walked through the airport gates, I broke. Relief first, overwhelming and childlike. It had been the longest I’d gone without her. But after the tears came pride. For months, I had been adjusting, questioning, growing quietly. And here she was, stepping into the life I had built.

A personal milestone: the writer and her mother smiling as they share their first glasses of Imperial, the national beer of Costa Rica.
My Mum and I sharing our first Imperial together.

On the first night, I took her to dinner at Señor Patacones. We sat on the veranda beneath fairy lights looking onto streets that were familiar to me but overwhelming to her. She tried her first Imperial beer and the biggest plate of patacones in town — the ultimate Costa Rican welcome dinner.

While we talked and caught up, I looked up and recognised familiar faces walking past; teachers and friends from Liberia. I introduced her to them, exchanging quick hellos. It struck me how surreal it was to recognise people halfway across the world. I wasn’t visiting. I lived here. I had community and relationships to share.

Restaurante Sr. Patacón
Detrás De La Iglesia Católica Central, Provincia de Guanacaste, Liberia, Costa Rica
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sr.patacon

Sharing the routine: a traditional Gallo Pinto breakfast at a local soda with the writer’s mum (left) and the writer showing her mother around her Guanacaste classroom (right).
A soda breakfast with my Mum and showing her my classroom – sharing the routine that became my everyday life.

After that dinner, I continued showing her my routine. I took her to my Tuesday soda and ordered confidently in Spanish. I brought her on my bakery run between classes. I introduced her to my students. The ones who had once intimidated me, now greeting us with smiles and inside jokes. We cooked in my kitchen. I took her to my local pub, where friends handed her an Imperial and welcomed her like she belonged. We went for pizza on our last night and carried the boxes home like I had many times before.

She wasn’t seeing a tourist version of Costa Rica. She was seeing my life. That’s when it clicked. I hadn’t just been visiting Liberia — I had been living in it.

The Reflection

On my final Saturday, the power went out at school and we finished early. Instead of heading home, we gathered at Bar El Barquito, once again with buckets of Imperial and a round of chiliguaro shots. The balcony breeze softened the heat as we played cards and laughed, pretending it was just another weekend.

Farewell celebrations: spicy Chiliguaro shots being poured into small glasses at Bar El Barquito (left) and a group of friends standing outside the Sushi Fusión restaurant (right).
Last Saturday night in Liberia – Chiliguaro shots at Bar El Barquito and dinner at Sushi Fusión.

Bar El Barquito
C. 7, Provincia de Guanacaste, Liberia, Los Cerros, Costa Rica
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BarElBarquito/

Sushi Fusión
150 metros sur de la imprenta, Provincia de Guanacaste, Liberia, Costa Rica
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063639684503#

At Sushi Fusión we picked up poke bowls; at La Lico we stocked up on Imperials for the Yellow House. In that courtyard, flowers drifting down from the tree above, nostalgia arrived before I had even left. I felt deep gratitude for a town I had never heard of — until it became my home.

The mood, as it often did, shifted quickly. Red cups appeared. Water balloons were filled. Someone declared beer pong and suddenly it was on. Laughter echoed off the courtyard walls. We spoke about reunions as if geography were a minor inconvenience.

Memories of a traditional Costa Rican home: the vibrant exterior of "The Yellow House" (left) and a courtyard tree at dusk, decorated with glowing lanterns and pink blossoms (right).
The Yellow House: a traditional house with a courtyard tree that dropped pink blossoms like confetti, marking nights of friendship and slow, ordinary magic.

Goodbyes came in small moments: a longer hug, a quiet pause, a few tears. The morning the Uber waited outside my house. Some stayed to wave me off. I held on for a little longer than usual. And I left with memories tied to almost every corner.

Culture shock had shaped the journey. The honeymoon phase showed me possibility. The heat, language barriers, and water outages humbled me. There were days of doubt and loneliness. But staying meant confronting those feelings instead of running. The adjustment built resilience. I learned to teach by doing, to communicate imperfectly, and to trust that growth happens in discomfort. Acceptance gave me confidence: I discovered I could step into the unknown and figure it out.

Liberia changed how I see myself and showed me that I was capable of more than I imagined.

It also changed how I travel. I used to move quickly, collecting places. Now I value depth. Slow travel is not about perfection or constant highlight reels. It is about presence — learning routines, meeting people, letting a place shape you. Ordinary moments become meaningful: a cafe that remembers your order, a shared meal, a familiar street.

Liberia, thank you for the resilience, the friendships, and the lessons in Pura Vida. Thank you for showing me that life abroad is both beautiful and challenging, and that both parts matter.

A special shoutout to the housemate who baked homemade sourdough; thank you for filling our home with hygge and turning our kitchen into a place of warmth and belonging.

A collaborative moment of creativity: the writer and her friend painting a colourful, detailed mural on a school wall in Liberia to leave a lasting mark on the community.
Painting a school mural with friends – adding colour, creativity, and a little piece of our time in Liberia to the walls of the classroom.

I don’t have all the answers about travel or growth. I am still learning. But I know this: you don’t need to constantly move across the world to experience that shift. You can slow down. Return to the same cafe. Learn a name. Stay a little longer.

Sometimes the smallest decisions lead to the biggest changes, not because everything is easy, but because you choose to show up and grow.

And that, for me, is the heart of slow travel.

All photos were taken and provided by the writer.