The driver of our Costa Rican resort’s free shuttle spoke little English. My travel partner, Lani, and I knew a few useful Spanish phrases like “hello” and “quickly, where is the bathroom,” but not much else. We decided to try our newly purchased English/Spanish translation guide during the three-hour ride to our destination in the Central American mountains. Our driver was a good sport. As we drove, Lani would slowly piece together a question, such as “were you born under Albania” or “what color is that fake hair you’re wearing.” It became a game. The man waited patiently as Lani flipped the pages back and forth to create questions or decipher his answers and piece together a reasonable translation. We all cheered when each understood the other’s reply. Eventually, we ran out of questions and all rode quietly until we approached the center of a small town, when our driver suddenly announced “Dantanatanas.” One of the few Spanish phrases I knew was “please speak more slowly.” With no idea what our driver had blurted out, I replied, “Habla más despacio, por favor.” The driver gave me a puzzled look in the mirror, but said more slowly, “Dan... tan...atanas.” With a blank look on my face, I silently stared back. “Dantanatanas” he repeated. “DANTANATANAS.” Lani, wide-eyed, glanced at me and then hunched forward to quickly thumb back and forth through the translation guide, certain she would find the mysterious word if she flipped the pages at the speed of light. I sat quietly, trying to make sense of the sounds coming from the now frustrated man. At a red traffic light, he turned to face us. “Dantanatanas.” he said again, exasperated. “DANTANATANAS”, he exclaimed, hands out and palms up in the universal sign for ‘what the heck is wrong with you people.’ Lani slid closer to me so we could both stare at the pages of the suddenly useless translation guide. No answer to be found, we sat in the back making “what do we do now” faces at each other in uncomfortable silence. I stared intently through the window at exotic sights, like bananas. And t-shirts. Lani had stopped looking at the book and slid back over to her own window. It became important to avoid eye contact with the driver. Or each other. All communication was now off-limits since the basics had broken down. The light changed, the driver turned back around and shrugged, and we moved forward through the town in silence. I carefully inspected the window trim while Lanie experimented with different methods of tying her shoe. We did anything we could to look distracted and busy. Suddenly, I came face to face with a large sign that said, in big, English letters, Atenas Grocery. I slapped my forehead like a cartoon character and exclaimed, “Atenas aqui!!!” The driver raised his fists in the symbol of victory like I had just solved world hunger. “Si, Senor!” he exclaimed. “Atenas AQUI!” Atenas is here. We were in downtown Atenas, or “dan tan Atenas.” We were both so certain he was still speaking Spanish that we never made the mental jump back to our own language. International crisis averted, we shared a good laugh with our driver and resumed our flip-and-quip method of communication until we arrived at the stunning La Paz Waterfall and Gardens resort. We spent four days in the mountains of Costa Rica, where clouds passed below our balcony and we fed hummingbirds from flower-shaped hand-held feeders. During our stay, the resort’s driver shuttled us to nearby attractions. We zip-lined through the emerald-green rain forest and watched sloths and toucans move through the trees. We rode horseback in the pouring rain, down muddy mountainsides where certain death seemed one misstep away. In the evenings, the driver often joined us for a drink in the lounge or stopped at our dinner table to continue our friendly conversations. During our last day trip, the shuttle wound down steep mountain roads and through little towns. As we passed a familiar little grocery store, all three of us loudly announced “Dantanatanas!” The driver happily grinned at us in the rearview mirror.