Page 19 of From Wink to Kink

9

CHUCK

Savoringthe last sip of my third bottle of Perrier, I stretch out across the backseat of my Costa Rican limo, which, to be honest is just like any other limo I’ve ever been in. The drive from the airport has been smooth sailing so far, aside from what felt like a couple bottomless potholes that bounced me off my seat and actually got me to put my seatbelt on. When I do manage to look up from the sports page I’m reading on my phone, I appreciate the never-ending lush jungle and winding roads. It's almost enough to make a guy forget he's been shipped off to hippie camp by his team.

Almost.

“Nearly there, sir,” the driver says from up front.

“All good, my man.” I’m in no hurry. I have half a mind to tell him to just keep driving and show me as much of the country as he can.

As we round another bend, I catch sight of a wooden sign half-hidden by ferns and other tropical foliage.Pura Vida,it proclaims in scratchy hand-lettering. Damn. They couldn’t afford a real sign?

I raise my eyebrows as the limo pulls up to what I assume is the main entrance, though it looks more like the set ofSurvivor: Costa Ricathan a five-star resort. It’s beautiful, of course, but more rustic than I imagined. I can’t deny I was expecting an upscale relaxation experience. A little on the eco-chic side is fine. I can work with that. But that’s not what I’m currently looking at.

A smiling woman in flowing linen pants approaches as I step out of the car.

"Welcome to Pura Vida, Mr. Newcomb," she says, her sexy, heavily-accented voice as soothing as a pre-game nap. "I'm Luna, the retreat coordinator. We're so excited to have you join us on this journey of self-discovery and inner peace."

Here we go.

Inner peace? Lady, the only inner peace I'm interested in is the kind that comes from winning the Stanley Cup and maybe rubbing one out over some good porn.

But I plaster on my media-friendly smile and shake her hand. "Thanks, Luna. Excited to be here."

As she leads me toward the reception area – and I use that term loosely since it's more of a thatched-roof hut with a desk – I can't help but feel like I've stepped into some kind of parallel universe. One where luxury means ‘minimal carbon footprint’ instead of ‘maximum thread count.’ But the lobby, such as it is, is clean and neat. Warm and welcoming. The chairs may be a little shabby and the ancient rug threadbare, but the place is inviting.

Luna takes a deep breath and exhales out her nose, which is the kind of thing I expect they do here a lot. "Our accommodations might be a bit different from what you're used to," she says as I follow her to my room after she hands me a bulky information packet—so much for saving trees.

“Here at Pura Vida, we find that embracing a simpler way of life really enhances the visitor’s experience."

I nod, taking in my surroundings and only half-listening. Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful in a National Geographic kind of way. Lush greenery everywhere, the sound of waves in the distance, colorful birds I couldn't name if my life depended on it. But where's the spa? The gym? Hell, I'd settle for a vending machine at this point.

I slap at a mosquito on my arm and wipe his squashed carcass on my jeans, earning me a disdainful look from Luna.

Really? It’s not cool to kill mosquitos in the middle of the jungle?

"Oh, and just a heads up," she continues, oblivious to my concerns, "we operate on limited electricity to reduce our environmental impact. Power is available in the evenings from 7 to 11 PM for charging devices and such."

I stop in my tracks. "I'm sorry, what? Limited electricity?"

Her blissful smile persists without a missed beat, like she's just announced we've won an all-expenses-paid trip to the moon. "Yes! It's wonderful, isn't it? Really helps you disconnect and be present in the moment."

Present in the moment? More like present in the Stone Age. But I bite my tongue. I'm here to improve my image, not argue about the virtues of air conditioning even as I wipe my sweaty forehead with the sleeve of my shirt.

We reach my ‘bungalow,’ a generous term for what is essentially a fancy tent on stilts, the sort of thing I would have killed for as a kid. Now? Not such much.

She hands me a key—an actual old school, real key, not a keycard—and gestures toward the door. "Why don't you get settled in? The welcome circle is at 4 p.m. in the main pavilion. Don't forget to bring your yoga mat!" she says, pointing to a stack of them by the door.

You know, just in case someone needed more than one at a time.

With that, she floats away, leaving me alone. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I've survived worse. I mean, I once spent a whole game with a guy's tooth embedded in my forearm. While I know it was much worse for him, this is nothing compared to all the damn antibiotics I had to take for weeks.

I step inside and... it's not terrible. Rustic, sure, but clean and airy and even kind of cool-looking. There's a bed that looks reasonably comfortable, a small desk, and—thank God—a private bathroom. It's no Ritz-Carlton, but it'll do.

I haul my suitcase onto the bed and start unpacking. Workout gear, check. Swimming trunks, check. Ridiculous self-help books my therapist insisted I bring, unfortunately, check.

I pull them out, snorting at the titles.Zen and the Art of Penalty Box Meditation. The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Enforcers. Eat, Pray, Bodycheck: One Man's Journey to Find Himself (and the Puck). Did anyone really think I was going to read these? Doesanyoneread this shit?

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