"How much is it?"

"A lot." She didn't bother arguing.

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Our casita had three rooms. The bedroom was fully enclosed, with the first air-conditioning unit we'd seen on the trip, and it had a mosquito-netted king-size bed. The living room contained many more comfortable chairs than we could handle, and our bathroom was entirely open-air, with an outdoor shower and a sunken concrete tub.

In the lobby, the hostess handed us two virgin guava margaritas. The locally picked fruit is goopy and stringy at the same time. It tasted like a mango dipped in honey.

We'd accidentally landed in someone else's vacation, a fantasyland of beach walks, swimming-pool dips, fancy drinks, and sushi under the stars. But we had to leave the luxury behind, because we couldn't possibly afford another day.

Everyone warned us that part of the road up the Pacific side of the peninsula was literally on the beach. At high tide, it's covered by water. We left at 9:30 a.m. and followed the rough road out of Santa Teresa. Within minutes we had said good-bye to overgrown development. Just when we thought the driving couldn't get any better, the road dipped down and we found ourselves cruising along the sand. The tide was coming in, lapping over the road.

"Follow the tire tracks," I said to Regina. She complied, flooring it like they do on the commercials. We came to an estuary, where I got out of the car, took off my shoes, and stepped in. The water came up past my knees.

We backed up a couple of miles and took an alternate route, spending the rest of the day slinking through little towns and past small beachside communities that obviously intended to remain secret. Gorgeous view stacked upon gorgeous view. We became blase about foaming surf crashing against rocks with a backdrop of rolling farmland and jungle-foliaged volcano-scapes.

At a bend in the main road, we were thwarted by a river. This was beyond our skills. We gazed at the water for several minutes, not saying anything, just awed, realizing that driving in Costa Rica will eventually defeat everyone, no matter how sturdy or determined.

As though we'd dreamed it, an electric company truck pulled alongside us, and the driver indicated that we should follow him. He maneuvered his truck into the water, curved left, and then cut sharply right. He was submerged to well above his tires, and then he pulled the truck onto the bank and sat there, waiting.

Regina followed his path precisely. The water came halfway up our doors. In my mind, I composed explanations to the rental car company about why their vehicle had washed out to sea. Suddenly we were on the bank. But we couldn't dwell on our success. It was still more than 100 miles to Playa Hermosa, our final stop.

After the spectacular places we'd seen, Playa Hermosa seemed like your standard beach town. But on the main drag, just before the turn down to the beach, a restaurant called Ginger set it apart. An expat from Montreal is the chef and owner. She served us a meringue filled with and ringed by mango, pineapple, kiwi, and strawberry. It was one of the best desserts I've had anywhere.