Many of you have been here since the beginning of my blog. There weren’t many written about Costa Rica back then, so I chronicled my journey. I didn’t think anyone was reading. But somehow, people found me. And what a wild ride it took me on.

There were no smartphones or GPS when we moved, and in retrospect, it made the adventure more spectacular. Everything felt raw and foreign, with nothing connecting me to the culture I left behind in the States. It was exactly what Rob and I were looking for.

That decision to throw caution to the wind gave me everything: a writing career, a wonderful group of friends, and all of you, who have written me over the years and shared your adventure with me. I’ve saved every single email. Even the nasty ones. Some of those I wrote about in Happier Than A Billionaire: The Sequel. It’s amazing how many people you can annoy by simply being you.

While we are still working on the water issue with our property in Costa Rica, we moved to North Carolina and bought a house in the woods. “It’s the Bates Motel,” I told Rob. But he assured me we could be happy here. “How bad can it be?” he said. It’s been one of the most ridiculous decisions we ever made, and that’s coming from someone who picked up at 37 and moved to Central America.

So, I decided to duck out of society and hide out in the woods. Be one of those writers who takes long, contemplative walks while mumbling to themselves. If you’re looking for a quiet place, living in the woods is worth it. If you think you’ll go crazy, then you probably will. But I know one thing for certain: if you are a writer, artist, or someone who wants to finish a project, this is the place for you. Solitude is underrated in an increasingly loud world. A quiet environment may be exactly what you’re searching for.

Thank you to those who purchased A House in the Woods. My husband never read my first book and had no clue I wrote about all the stupid things he did. Remarkably, he didn’t read this one either. Eventually, someone will send him a message on Facebook or Instagram and ask if he really stood on the roof trying to harpoon a dead raccoon from our vent pipe. And that’s when he’ll turn to me and ask, “For heaven’s sake, what did you write about me?”

I’ll have to fess up. But until then, I’m keeping quiet.

**A House in the Woods is available on AMAZON, KOBO, and iBooks

Importing a car into Costa Rica is an expensive endeavor. Buying one is expensive as well. Either way, be prepared to pay a lot if you want a car. And trust me, there is no way around it. Many think they can drive their vehicle into the country and get around the tax issue. That’s impossible. In fact, if you don’t do your homework, you may purchase a car from someone who did just that and never paid the import tax. Now you’re stuck with an $8000 tax bill to make the car legal. I know someone this happened to.

Many are hearing about the new law (Costa Rica Law N. 9996) that was passed, giving expats the ability to import two cars and household items, tax-free. There is a lot of confusion about this, so allow me to clear some things up.

1. This bill was only for people who are applying for residency. Residency can take upwards of a year. Perhaps longer. This is not an option for perpetual tourists or for people applying for the Digital Nomad Visa.
2. No one is quite sure when, or if,  the government will enact this.

Things move slowly in Costa Rica. And often, a law is passed that is later rescinded. Here is my take on things.

When the pandemic hit, Costa Rica wanted to entice more expats. But the strangest thing happened: they didn’t have to. Thousands of people moved to Costa Rica, flooding the tourist towns and buying up real estate.

I think I can speak for many Ticos in that Costa Rica looked drastically different pre-pandemic. At least from the perspective of living in or near a tourist town. And with that, I’m not sure what will happen to this new law. If everyone is coming anyway, why offer this tax break when the country desperately could use these tax dollars?

This is what I would do. If your heart is set on moving to Costa Rica, just do it. I wouldn’t wait around to see when this law takes effect. The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023 is loaded with useful information, especially on how to get residency. And that is the first step if you want to qualify for this tax exemption.

Many times we wait to begin our adventures. And sometimes, we wait too long. So, if you want to live the pura vida lifestyle,  start today. Take a vacation and travel the country. Talk with expats and investigate if it’s right for you. Maybe the pull will sweep you off your feet like a riptide. “We’re definitely moving!” you say to your wife. Or perhaps the trip was just that, a delightful way to get away from it all. And getting away is often the best thing to do when we need to recharge our batteries. And there is no better place to do that than Costa Rica.

**Find out more about buying a car, paying import taxes, and applying for residency in The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023.

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” ~C. S. Lewis

“I want to move to Costa Rica,” you said, confiding to your spouse, friends, and maybe even your boss while cleaning out your desk. Congratulations! Moving abroad is the adventure of a lifetime, and Costa Rica will guarantee you wonderful moments. Some dream-like. Many hilarious. A few frustrating.

Even if your friends think you’re nuts (they do). Even if your spouse is on the fence (they are). And even if you don’t speak Spanish (you probably don’t). The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023 is the blueprint for making this move as seamless as possible.

I’m here as your trusted advisor making this move easier. I’ve done it all: obtained residency, laid sick in the hospital, bought and sold properties, ran a business, and paid Costa Rican taxes. I’ve seen and learned a lot, and I want to share my experiences with you.

Whether you’re planning an extended vacation or permanently relocating, this guide provides the tools necessary to make your Pura Vida dreams come true.

Inside, you’ll find trusted advice from experts in their field. Whether filing for residency, purchasing a home or searching for a rental, The Costa Rica Escape Manual delivers the nuts and bolts on where to begin.

The 2023 edition includes:

• How to apply for the new Digital Nomad Visa
• New residency rules and “what not to do” when applying
• Quick and quirky tips when traveling throughout Costa Rica
• Opening a bank account, Atms and discontinued currency
• Honest advice on staying safe and new ways thieves are committing crime
• How to get health, home, and auto insurance
• Dental Tourism
• New information from Barry the Shipper on how to get your stuff to Costa Rica
• Renting a car or hiring a personal driver
• Selecting a school and the different types of diplomas
• Buying, renting, and even developing raw land from scratch
• Three locations expats are calling home
• Convenient checklists ensuring you meet all your goals
• Popular road trips throughout the country

Read this book before booking those plane tickets, and you’ll be ready for that Pura Vida adventure.

Available on Amazon

We wait to speak with Harry and Jimmy, two men who work at the local hardware store and are known for dishing out helpful advice. While in line, I glance over at a garbage can. A sign above reads, “No Spitting.”

“You know, people spat all over the place back in the tuberculosis days,” I tell Rob. “It was so bad they erected public spittoons. Can you imagine? Walking your Pomeranian, twirling your parasol, and BAM! Showered by spit from every direction.”

Rob shakes his head. By the looks of things, he is not enjoying my history lesson.

“It was like running through a garden sprinkler,” I continue. “People were dodging and weaving, and could you blame them? Seventy-five percent of tuberculosis patients in North Carolina dropped dead in five years.”

I cut my lesson short when the guy ahead of us got the guidance he needed—his septic tank problem will take all day to fix.  And nobody should use the toilet during the repair, an obvious piece of advice but worth emphasizing nonetheless. He walks past the garbage can but does not spit.

Rob approaches Harry and Jimmy and explains that we bought a fixer-upper in desperate need of repair.

“Describe the house,” Harry asks.

“Sure,” Rob says. “It sits on a steep grade—”

“It’s built on a horse face,” I interject. That’s what my neighbor, Rusty, calls a house precariously perched at a forty-five-degree angle.

Harry and Jimmy glance at each other and solemnly nod. It’s a tale as old as time.

“How’s the roof?” Harry asks.

“Luckily, that’s good,” Rob replies. “But I’m concerned about the rest of it. The rain swept away our garage.”

Harry folds his arms across his chest. “It happens,” he says.

Really, Harry? Do people typically christen garages with champagne before yelling, “Bon voyage?” We don’t have these problems in New Jersey. Although, you might hear, “Anyone see Ant’ny and Vinny? They never made it to the pipefitter’s union barbecue.”

I stand there like a dope, gawking at a shelf of galvanized screws while Harry goes into great detail about home repair. Jimmy—noticing my catatonic state—engages in conversation. “Are you planting anything?” he asks.

“Planting?” I repeat. “Hmm. Haven’t thought about it. My husband’s the gardener.”

He leans over and—with a do-or-die expression—asks a question that I fear will decide the future of our relationship. “Have you seen any groundhogs?”

Jimmy catches me off guard. I thought he might ask, “Hey weirdo, why were you staring at the garbage can?” I take a moment to think about my answer. I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting this right, so I go with telling the truth.

“I do remember seeing a family of them,” I answer. “Yes, I saw them eating dandelions in a field.”

Jimmy smacks his hand on the counter. “I knew it! Were they beady-eyed?”

In my city-slicker opinion, there is no right or wrong answer to the shape of a groundhog’s eyes. But Jimmy’s expression gives me reason to pause. It’s clear he has invested a lot into this subject matter, and since this is the only hardware store in town, and I’ll be returning with my own septic pipe catastrophe sooner than later, I need Jimmy more than he needs me.

I answer like a politician canvassing for votes. “I can’t confirm or deny the beadiness of their eyes.”

“Exactly,” Jimmy grunts. “You got a surprise in store for you. Oh, boy. It’s coming all right.”

“Should I really be worried?” I ask with the doltish innocence of someone who has never lived in the Appalachian Mountains.

“Well, I can tell you something. Those groundhogs are going to eat more than there dandelions. Dem critters are lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.”

Jimmy proceeds with a groundhog tirade no less impressive than storming the beaches at Normandy. As he shares his harrowing tale, I envision groundhogs sticking out of armored tanks, chin straps dangling from helmets, their beady eyes scanning the horizon; Jimmy crouched in a foxhole, praying a Hail Mary to survive.

It’s a riveting story; these sons-of-bitches were really out to get him. But Jimmy gets distracted by a little old lady looking for a hummingbird feeder and disappears down the feed aisle.

“We need to pull around to their warehouse,” Rob says while we walk to the front of the store.

“What did you buy?”

He grins with the confidence of a man who has no clue what’s he doing. “Only a few things to get started.” The smiling clerk stops what she’s doing and asks us our names.

“Rob and Nadine,” I answer. “You’ll be seeing a lot of us. Possibly too much.”

“I’m Julie, and I’ll be sure to remember you,” she says while ringing up the lady buying a hummingbird feeder.

We jump in the car and drive behind the store. We back into the warehouse and fill our truck with one million bags of ready-to-use concrete mix. Our truck sinks to a few inches from the ground, lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

Rob turns on the radio. A country song plays about a woman—wearing cowboy boots—kicking her cheating man to the curb. I applaud her choice of footwear.

I turn to my husband and ask a question I’ve asked many times in our marriage, one that I already know the answer to. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Rob rolls his window down and hangs his arm outside the truck. “I’m fixing this old house.”

“With ready-to-mix concrete? And advice from two guys from a hardware store? One of which who has a very peculiar relationship with the wildlife around here?”

“Sure. How bad can it be?”

Between fixing up our haunted house located in the woods of North Carolina and visiting its pristine waterfalls, we’ve been trying to get a legal water letter to our building pad in Costa Rica.  This piece of property is where we started our journey.  It’s not the location where we built The Happier House but ironically in a defunct development adjacent to it.  Take two steps to the left, and we would have had legal water.  It’s taking us over sixteen years to sort this out.  It may take another sixteen, but we are optimistic.

This is why I started my consulting business.  Because not everything is as it appears and results may vary when investing in Costa Rica.

I’ve provided consulting for all sorts of people—some long to retire in Costa Rica, while others are preparing to open a business.  And then I met people like me, who impulsively jumped aboard the magical carpet ride and hiked the Osa Peninsula, stood on top of volcanos, and wasted glorious afternoons watching sloths climb trees.  (Pack breakfast, lunch, and dinner for this event.)

But nobody is quite like my latest client, Bridget.  A New Yorker, shaman,  innkeeper, journalist, and a person who once had Stevie Wonder run his fingers across her face.

Her voice has that quick New York cadence that makes me sit at the edge of my chair.  She’s like watching a lit bottle rocket, unsure which direction it may blast off.

She recently graduated from the Jaguar Path School of Yoga and Shamanism and plans to offer retreats, energy clearing ceremonies, and private coaching/energy work.  Bridget enthusiastically peppers me with questions about the property she is purchasing.  She tosses a log on the fire while listening to me explain Costa Rica tax implications and the current COVID situation. She is determined to make this experience everything she dreams it can be.

Bridget has lived a thousand different lives in many different places.  Her father was the owner of The Russian Tea Room and Tavern on the Green.  The latter is where a teenaged Bridget introduced herself to Stevie Wonder.  She kneeled next to him while he gently ran his fingers across her nose and cheeks.  I swoon a bit just imaging that encounter.

Her stepfather is Tony Walton, the celebrated Broadway and film production designer, her mother a renowned children’s book author.  Bridget is a cultural zeitgeist, full of facts and anecdotes that would surprise even the most learned New Yorker.  I want to share a pastrami sandwich with her at the Carnegie Deli and amaze her with my story of asking tired commuters, “Where’s Penn Station?” while standing in front of Penn Station.  (I not only learned where to catch my train but thirty magnificent synonyms for moron.)

She co-founded The East Hampton Independent in 1993, where she interviewed Steven Spielberg, Martha Stewart, Julie Andrews, Linda Ronstadt, and Jane Fonda.  She currently co-hosts “Sundays on the East End” with Oscar-nominated screenwriter Alec Sokolow on 88.3 WLIW FM.

One day I hope she interviews me.  “I see that you started your first book with a fart joke.  Any second thoughts on that creative choice?” she’d ask.

“Well, Bridget,” I’ll return, “it needed to be addressed.” We’d then laugh together before I ask if Julie Andrews smells like sugar cookies.

I’m going to need a shaman to get this water letter.  I want the complete package, every ceremony designed to rid this property of bad energy and give hope to a project that fell flat many years ago.  I want to turn it around and feel like a bottle rocket again, unsure which direction to take off.

I love what I do, helping people navigate the choppy waters of moving to a foreign country and building a different life from scratch.  I still think about that moment I almost backed out, wondering if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.  But I was brave and determined and jumped in feet first.  Qualities I didn’t know I possessed, but so happy they appeared.

When I submitted my first book to literary agents, one sharply replied that no one cares about a woman who moves to Costa Rica.  “Nobody will read it,” he stated in Arial font.  In type so small, I had to squint to read the rejection.

But people did read my book, from Australia to Saudi Arabia.  On islands off Portugal and in Ghana, Africa.  People full of energy and light and searching for something unexplainable.  People like myself who weren’t scared to jump in feet first.

Never underestimate your abilities and surround yourself with encouraging people.  And when given the opportunity, pause to watch a sloth climb a tree.  It’s not high octane excitement, but it taught me that time is fabulously subjective.

With purpose, we’ll get to where we’re going, one sleepy step at a time.

Follow Bridget’s journey at www.BridgetLeRoy.com

Read all about my adventures here.

We continue driving and merge onto a dirt road. Alas, here we are again. I never had hardened opinions concerning dirt roads, but after living on them in Costa Rica, you learn they inevitably wash out. Then you’re the jerk on the other side trying to get to the store.

The road curves, and we drive past a propped open gate, revealing homes built into the mountainside. Some have large propane tanks out front, others with firewood. A few have green cabs on rails that resemble minecarts. Is there a quarry here?

Aside from the gun billboards along the highway, I saw others advertising fun days mining for jewels. “Smoky Mountain Gold and Gem Mine. The family will love it!” promised a cartooned prospector gripping a pickaxe.

I don’t know about you, but I’m signing up for this activity. If it involves not talking to anyone, then my father would join us as well. His goal in life is to be at least fifty yards from any breathing person, and if panning for sapphires keeps him out of the human race, he’d happily move his sifter box to the far edge of the flume. But if someone moseyed too close and asked a well-intentioned, “Find anything good?” my dad would hustle us back into our Chevy Impala, still grasping our bucket of dirt dreams.

My father is a platinum member of the Let’s Get the Hell Outta Here club. Some—meaning me— might say patience is not his virtue. He wielded this power if a son of a bitch cut us in line at Stuckey’s or when overpaying for a hot dog. My dad would have left Prince Harry’s wedding if approached by a valet. Getting the hell out of places was a hallmark of my childhood, leaving me to wonder how anyone ever got the hell into places.

I got excited about sticking my dad in the mud, so I looked up this operation on TripAdvisor, and boy was Jeffrey from Okahumpka, Florida, disappointed.

After hours of sifting, the owner confirmed that Jeffrey’s gem nuggets were nothing but worthless rocks, resulting in him abandoning his dreams of dumping Debra and getting a hair transplant. “The staff was rude and unhelpful,” he complained. “I paid fifty dollars, and my kids left crying. Parking was adequate, and the bathrooms were clean.”

We’ve all been there, Jeffrey. But look on the bright side. You parked your car and whizzed in splendor. It’s the journey, not the destination.

The dirt road narrows as we wind around a switchback. Two cars couldn’t pass each other without one careening down the side. This is exactly like Costa Rica. We approach a house with a “For Sale By Owner” sign nailed to the front. Rickety decking surrounds each creepy floor, and I notice random holes in the eaves like someone drilled into the wood with a two-inch bit. We exit the car and peek around the side.

Crunch, I hear.

A ten-foot snakeskin sticks to the sole of my sneaker. Why is this remarkable? Because I just came from the land of snakes, and I have never seen one this big. There is never just one snake. This guy has a family, and if he’s like my dad, he’s not thrilled that two dimwits showed up unannounced.

“A bit of a fixer-upper, right?” Rob says, but his gleeful expression fades when he sees the snakeskin. I know what he’s thinking. His billboard reads Optimist, Doughnut lover, Convincer. He’s got to sell this Hitchcock house to a buyer who wants no part of it. My interest deflates like a whoopie cushion, tooting the rest of my good mood into the Appalachian Mountains.

“Where’s the owner?” I ask.

Rob walks to a side door and reaches up, sliding a finger over the molding until he finds a key. “He said to let ourselves in.”

Ladies, none of us would walk into this house. We’ve all watched Jason from Friday the 13th chase hapless campers into subbasements. “Don’t worry, I brought bear mace,” Rob whispers, showing me a can the size of a AA battery. Excellent choice. Watching him pepper spray a seven-foot guy sporting a hockey mask is at the top of my wish list. Where’s pantsuit Annie Oakley when you need her?

The door creaks open, and the smell of suspense slaps us in the face. I’ve owned rental properties, so I can identify almost anything: cat urine, old baby diapers, or crack cocaine (burned rubber). I’ve got a nose for it. What I don’t have is a nose for murder.

I once purchased a bargain rental property in an unsavory neighborhood. “When are you replacing the floor?” the tenant asked before lifting a throw rug, exposing a dried, blood-soaked patch underneath. It’s then I learned that the previous tenant got her head bashed in by a baseball bat. And every month, the murdered woman’s sister came to the house in the middle of the night, banged on the front door, and screamed, “You’ll be slaughtered by dawn!”

When the current tenant left for reasons I couldn’t possibly imagine, I scheduled a showing for ten qualified applicants. I let myself in the back and sat in the kitchen, but no one showed up for their appointment. I didn’t know that the town crier scribbled one of her masterpieces and taped it to the front door. “You and your family will die here!” it stated in red ink. I eventually rented it to college kids who seemed less bothered by the murderous vibe and more interested in punching two hundred holes in the walls. I sold the property soon afterward.

We walk into the kitchen, where Rob continues his Good-News Realtor Tour. “Look at these vintage appliances! How cool,” he says while opening a Brady Bunch refrigerator. It makes a clicking sound like a playing card stuck in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. “And a matching stove! I’ll turn on the oven and see if it heats.”

I wouldn’t classify these appliances as vintage. A 1946 Westinghouse refrigerator is vintage. My grandmother had one in her basement. It was as thick as a nuclear reactor and took all your strength to open it. The freezer had aluminum ice cube trays with a lever that, when lifted, promised to separate the cubes but instead launched them like bottle rockets.

“This place is great. We should check out downstairs,” he says. “Can you believe there are two more floors below this one?” I can’t believe any of this, Rob, but let’s continue.

We weave through multiple rooms, making me wonder if this was once a boarding house. But in the mountains? I imagine a bunch of bearded hillbillies, cooking squirrels, and quarreling about Vern.

“He never gathers firewood, but dang sure partakes in the heat, grinning like a groundhog shitting on a maple leaf.”

We walk down another flight of stairs to the basement and find the hot water heater, a discovery that prompts a stoic Rob to deliver his “Never Give In” speech.

“With all the challenges we are facing and the uncertainties of the world, it’s comforting to know we’ll have a hot shower at the end of a winter’s day.” My husband would make a great timeshare salesman, but the company wouldn’t appoint him beautiful properties in the Bahamas or Hawaii. He’d get the grittier assignments like the Atlantic City gig, enticing you into a windowless van before expounding the virtues of a point system more complicated than organic chemistry.

I ignore his grandstanding and scan the room. Multiple doors lead to the outside. “This house is creepy. Listen when I walk.” I stomp my feet on the basement floor. “It sounds hollow.”

We open one of the many doors and step onto more decking. This house has expansive lake and mountain views from all three stories. I hear a motor in the distance and watch a boat pull someone holding onto a tube like a chariot racer.

Weeee, she screams as the waves bounce her into the air. You can’t help but smile when you hear a weeee. Weees are from the heart. They’re better than woo-hoos. Those you hear at bars when friends urge you to drink a Flaming Sambuca. Weeeeing is finding convenient parking and clean bathrooms. It’s the simplest expression of happiness.

“This is the right house. I’m sure of it,” Rob pleads.

“Do we really want a fixer-upper?”

“We don’t have to do everything right away. We’ll take our time.”

“It’s too remote,” I reply. “There isn’t a store for miles.”

“What do we always say? The best adventures are down a dirt road.”

“It’s infested with snakes. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

A car pulls up, and a door slams. The owner has arrived.

(Follow us and our Haunted House in The Great Smoky Mountains on our Facebook Page: Adventures of Happier Than A Billionaire

“Trust me, this house looks great online,” Rob says before turning up the car radio. It’s a country station, and Rob hums to a song he never heard before.

The highway connecting Georgia and Western North Carolina has incredible views of the Blue Ridge Mountains, along with billboards that put to rest any question about the locals’ feelings toward the second amendment.

This road is the Rodeo Drive for gun lovers, and businesses have jumped on the theme. Like the one I just passed, realtors dressed like 007 gripping pistols. “Licensed To Sell,” it read.

Across the street, another realtor in a snazzy pantsuit promotes her attributes, “Hunter, Wife, Realtor.” Annie Oakley certainly adds a level of suspense to her open houses.

Next is a pharmacy advertisement designed for the multitaskers in all of us; a picture of a prescription bottle with “Drug and Gun, Refills and Reloads” scribbled above it.

Although these are quick to get my attention, I enjoy the smaller signs stuck in the grass—the kind a person might use to alert a yard sale. One store planted a dozen “Gun, Ammo, Gun, Ammo” hand-painted signs along the highway. I repeat them quickly, sounding like a gangster rapper.

There is one notable profession not advertising along this highway: lawyers. Surprising, because they wrote the playbook on cheesy billboards. Like “Need a DUI Attorney? Call 1-888-GET-SLOSHED.” Or “Injured? Call the Sledgehammer.” I’d love to toss my hat into the mix at their next marketing meeting. “Shot Your Hunting Buddy in the Ass? Call 1-800-Im-LosingMyHouse.”

Rob is oblivious to these billboards, only excited to find Dunkin’ Donuts, a treat we haven’t had for fourteen years. I can live another fourteen without eating a Boston Kreme, but Rob is already turning into the parking lot. Some things are a reminder of a life we had so long ago. Strange and familiar at the same time. He asks for a large coffee, which is the size of a mop bucket. He then orders enough donuts to fill a pizza-sized cardboard box. Everything seems bigger here than in Costa Rica. And if we’re not careful, so will Rob and I be in a few months.

I know little about firearms, as you can tell from me calling it a pistol in the 007 billboard. We owned a gun in Costa Rica, and I still can’t tell you the model. It had a black handle, and the pointing thing was silver. It went pew pew when shot.

I fade out whenever anyone discusses them. The same way when my accountant explains a new tax code. These facts fly on a carrier pigeon from my brain destined for someone who cares about changes to depreciation rates.

Growing up in New Jersey, firearms never came up in conversations. But it’s clear I better learn a few things if I’m assimilating to mountain life. I must be a chameleon. Their pigmented cells change color depending on light, temperature, or mood. If cold, they darken to absorb more sunlight. When frisky, a male turns purple to attract the hottie ignoring him on an adjacent branch. I’ll need a color that stops me from saying anything stupid, which is bound to happen since saying stupid things has been a trademark of my life here on earth. (Razzmatazz—a reddish-pink, similar to rose but with a smidgen more magenta.)

“Hey, look, a turkey!” Rob says as it waddles in front of the car.

Pine trees tower on either side of the street. Their branches reach across, forming a green tunnel one might see in a Disney movie. If I were in a good mood, the story would be happy with singing princesses and talking bunny rabbits. But I’m depressed and anxious and hungry, wondering if I should eat that Boston Kreme in the back seat. An explosive bout of Irritable Bowel Syndrome seems appropriate right about now.

What am I doing here? How did Rob convince me to buy a house in the backwoods? Rob shuts off the radio and starts the How Great It’s Going to Be speech.

“Wow, I bet we see deer.”

“Smell that fresh air.”

“Nice and shady. You always complained about the heat at the beach.”

“Simple livin’. Can’t beat it.”

Can’t beat it? I want to beat the optimism right out of him.

The sky brightens as the road bends, landing us on the shores of Nantahala Lake. Cumulus clouds reflect off the surface, and fish—the size of raccoons—jump from the water like dolphins. We pull over and walk to the edge. The water is so clear we see straight to the bottom.

The surrounding mountains explain why I felt my ears pop. We are standing at 3200 feet, which is about the altitude of the house we rented in Grecia, Costa Rica. That house was where I saw a kinkajou for the first time and where I experienced the magic of living in the woods.

The morning fog spirals vertically from the forest like campfires, and I take a deep breath, noting a shift in my mood. I feel pretty good. It must be the altitude. Maybe it’s the smell of powdered sugar coming from Rob’s t-shirt.

A kingfisher dives into the lake but returns empty-handed, shaking his plumed head and scattering droplets of water around us. I hear a sound to my right. A brown bunny rabbit jumps from a bush, shaking her fluffy tail and perking her ears as if waiting for a response from me. I approach, but she zig-zags away.

While standing alongside this lake, my brain flips a switch—I imagine a life here. One that zig-zags me into the woods, fly-fishing, and moving away from the hustle and bustle of life. A fairytale involving bunny rabbits and songs in the forest. A handsome prince, promising me that everything will be okay.

Happiness rides on neuro pathways. Some people have more extensive networks than others, and can refill and reload a good mood with ease. But that doesn’t mean the rest of us are out of luck. I was sad once and became happy in Costa Rica. It took leaving everything behind to begin a new adventure. And during that move, I realized that when you’re unhappy and can’t escape its grasp, it’s best to go search for it.

But happiness will never throw a ticker-tape parade or shoot fireworks over your head. It’s subtle, only a graceful feeling in a strange place. When the air you breathe expands your chest like a hot-air balloon, lifting you on your tippy-toes, and seeing everything from a different perspective. And if you pay attention, happiness will bring along her sidekick, curiosity. He’s never subtle. He’s loud, courageous, and horseback rides on steep mountain passes. He’s the gatekeeper right before something incredible happens. You can’t get anywhere fun without him. And he finally showed up for me, appearing in this foggy forest, miles away from the place I thought would be my forever home.

“Things happen gradually, then suddenly,” said Hemingway. I’m gradually falling for this lake, but I don’t want it to be a fling. I want a monogamous relationship of mutual respect. The kind where he opens the car door and gives me his jacket when I’m cold. If I do fall in love with this place, I want it to love me back. I don’t want my heart broken.

And that’s a lot to ask from a lake in the woods.

(Follow our whacky journey on Facebook Adventures of Happier Than A Billionaire)

Comparing Cost of Living: Costa Rica Electric Bill at The Happier House —$300 | Electric Bill in North Carolina — $80

“You want a southern experience? Check out their apple festival,” the car salesperson says. “They have apple jerky, apple pie, applesauce, apple…”

I’ve never passed up a county fair or hayride. I’ll even stop on the side of a highway to witness the biggest ball of rubber bands or to enter a house shaped like a shoe. America may not have Europe’s lengthy history, with its spired cathedrals and cities buried under volcanic ash, but it has curiosity attractions.

We are somewhere on the border of Georgia and North Carolina, home to apple festivals, waffle houses, and Bigfoot. I don’t recall much about Bigfoot except a grainy film where, by all accounts, a man dressed like Chewbacca walks through the woods. But here, he is a media sensation with ten-foot silhouette cutouts placed aside the road, which scare the shit out of you while driving at night.

These folks love Bigfoot. Occasionally, we’ll pass a Sasquatch graffitied on the side of a building like a Banksy creation. Or discover a life-sized furry model positioned outside a gas station. Bigfoot even has his own museum in Cherry Log, Georgia, claiming “The World’s Largest! With 3700 sq feet of self-guided exhibits.” Self-guided? That’s unfortunate because I’d rather have a crusty old-timer show me around and explain why the Abominable Snowman has his own section, surely taking attention away from the headliner. And why is there a Bigfoot Museum in Georgia when the grainy film took place in Northern California? But alas, I keep my Yankee mouth shut which, for any Yankee, is hard to do.

I’m oddly attracted to the bizarre. I’ll stop at any roadside attraction that will ensure a mediocre experience. Preferably one with an eight-dollar admission and a bored teenager leaning against the register. The attraction should have a thin layer of dust, not enough to look unkept, but sufficient to remind you not to take any of this too seriously. The real profit is in the souvenirs which I will buy in excess.

I’m moving to the Smoky Mountains, searching for happiness the same way I did in Costa Rica. And like the Costa Rica move, Rob opened a map. But this time, instead of pointing to Central America, his index finger tapped on a tiny lake in North Carolina.

“How would you like to live on one of the cleanest lakes in the country?” he said.

We’ve been entertaining splitting our time in Costa Rica. Being a snowbird sounds attractive. I’ll be closer to my aging parents, which has taken a priority, especially after the pandemic that has mentally tumbled everyone’s brain in an industrial dryer. Everything has changed is putting it lightly. And I almost croaked from the virus, which is a story need not told.

We still have a property in Costa Rica that still doesn’t have legal water. Coincidently, it’s only a half-mile from The Happier House, but in a defunct development. If we could get that water letter, we’ll build a smaller vacation home. But to make this dream possible, we had to sell The Happier House. So off it went, feeling like an amputation, a piece of me gone forever.

“While we work on getting legal water, we could go here,” Rob had said while playing a YouTube video of Nantahala Lake. “It’s the prettiest place I’ve ever seen, and it looks exactly like the mountains of Costa Rica. And can you imagine living in the woods? Miles from any store? It’ll be great.”

It did look like Grecia, the tiny town that started our Costa Rica adventure. Rob found the next best thing, a lake nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains surrounded by rolling carpets of green that went on as far as the eye could see.

We’ve never been to North Carolina or lived anywhere in the South. And I’m not sure how South this area is. Is it sweet tea on the porch, South? Dolly Parton, South? Deliverance in the woods, South? Or are those just stereotypes, like how everyone assumes people from New Jersey have big mouths?

Change is scary, more so for me than Rob. He wants to live a hundred different lives. I’m okay with just a few. I need a push, and this push has taken me to the land of Big Foot and the Smoky Mountains. A place where I’m unsure if a couple from Brooklyn and Jersey will fit in.

But like phantom limb syndrome, I can still feel my Costa Rica life. I smell salty breezes and hear the distant call of howler monkeys. Memories so strong I’m not sure if I can ever be that happy again, and maybe I’ll always feel a little wounded no matter where I live.

And that’s when I meet a guy who was bit through his foot by a black bear…

Costa Rica Cost of Living Update: Trawick COVID insurance to visit Costa Rica for 90 days—$40 to $60

I remember first moving to Costa Rica, coming off a stressful job and looking for a moment to exhale. It’s easy to assume that having a moment to breathe and the stillness it brought was a sign of laziness or boredom. I’ve heard that a lot over the years.

But stillness does the opposite. It gives clarity, and clarity feels like momentum. Not the speed of a racecar driving around a track, but more like a moving walkway at an airport, quietly standing next to your carry-on while looking down at the food court below.

Our fourteen years in Costa Rica have taught us how to live life. Simply. Honestly. Living abroad and adapting to a different culture is one of the biggest adventures anyone can have in their lifetime. You can no longer approach obstacles with the same rigidness you had before. Instead, you learn to be flexible and bend in the wind like a willow branch.

When COVID hit, I got extremely sick after a flight back from the States. Rob raced me to a hospital in Liberia, and true to my husband, we didn’t have enough gas in the tank. We barely coasted to a gas station where I whispered to Rob the location of all the passwords to our computer. It’s weird the stuff that goes through your mind when you think you’re dying and your husband barely knows how to open his email account.

After I recovered, I had problems with my lungs, especially during the rainy season. Each full breath felt like a struggle, and walking the mountain became a Herculean feat. Costa Rica was on lockdown, and we weren’t allowed to leave the country without risking losing our residency. We couldn’t get home to see our aging parents when they needed us the most. It’s all I thought about during those walks. Of all the things you try to plan for, this wasn’t in the Pisani’s Costa Rica Escape Manual.

But in the mess of that year, good things started happening. Our Pacific Heights lot which has been problematic for 14 years, finally got a water letter. Without it, you can’t get a building permit. We put it up for sale on Happier Facebook and it is now in escrow. We also own another property that has a view of the long-anticipated Flamingo Marina. It’s located in a struggling development called Rincon Largo where water letters are still not available. We ultimately want to build Happier House Dos there, or in another growing development. The future is wide open and I know something great is about to happen.

During this year, Rob and I felt forward momentum again. The same feeling we had when we quit our jobs and moved to Costa Rica. We started daydreaming about other adventures that were waiting for us. But the toughest thing about new adventures is letting go of the old ones. It’s always difficult leaving your comfort zone. Some days I wonder what it would have been like if I stopped moving and stayed in one place. But I’m an insufferable dreamer and refuse to believe that there is a cap to the people you’ll meet or the happiness that fills your heart.

Our plans have shifted but the goals remain the same, live freely, happily, and continue writing about all of it. I would love to spend time in Ireland. Or Switzerland. Split our time in Costa Rica with other places around the world. But most importantly, we need to be around for our parents.

Our goal is to become snowbirds, spend much of the year in Costa Rica and some of our time elsewhere. I’m not sure how this plan will work, but I’m flexible, bending each day, letting go of the old, and making room for the new. Holding onto The Happier House made this plan impossible. Selling it was the right choice. It gave us the freedom and finances to jump onto another rollercoaster ride.

So now we are on a quest to get this water letter for our Flamingo Marina lot. It will take many trips to the municipality, many more odd encounters with people who insist they can help us but can’t. It’s one piece of a puzzle that can have us building again. There was a time when I gave up on that dream and I felt this loss was just part of the story. But maybe getting a water letter to that lot will be the biggest surprise of all. Or maybe we will find a completely new community eager to work with those crazy Happier people.

I’m strapping into this rollercoaster and ready for the rickety ride it will take me on. We are back to owning only a handful of belongings. And a cat. We are taking Sabertooth with us wherever we go. She is hard to strap in but I couldn’t leave her behind. She’s as much a part of the story as anything else and a piece of Costa Rica that we’ll take with us.

The lesson I learned this year is that you can’t plan for everything, and letting go may be the only way to get your momentum back. I can feel the lightness and freedom to travel down another road. One that I’m sure will be dirt, on top of a mountain, surrounded by the things that inspire me the most.

And like Rob always says, “How bad can it be?” Only this time we made sure we will be traveling on a full tank of gas.