PUERTO VIEJO DE TALAMANCA, Costa Rica -- The locals on the southeastern Caribbean coast of Costa Rica are a warm, friendly lot. Show your manners, throw in a few words in Spanish, and the residents are more than ready to answer your questions or point you in the right direction. Some of them even want to expand your consciousness beyond the beautiful waters and lush foliage.

Kent Gilbert, Associated Press A tourist catches rays on the beach in Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica. In Spanish, the words mean "Old Harbor" and "Rich Coast." Click photo for larger image. Costa Rica The Web site www.greencoast.com offers ample information on Costa Rica's Caribbean coast. The Cabinas Guarana Web site, www.hotelguarana.com, provides photos of the lodge and information on making reservations and room rates. If you would like to lend a hand, visit www.elpuente-thebridge.org, a Web site that describes the organization's efforts to aid the BriBri indigenous people of southeastern Costa Rica and northern Panama. For information on tourist attractions throughout the country, try www.visitcostarica.com, the Web site of the Instituto Costarricense de Turismo.

A case in point: Sunday morning, our first day in Puerto Viejo de Talamanca. We were strolling on an almost deserted beach. We encountered a man walking in the opposite direction. His face was framed by dreadlocks. He was wearing a yellow jacket and cutoffs, his shoulders supporting a backpack. Decorum demanded a "Buenos Dias." He responded in kind. Perhaps 20 feet had distanced us before he called out softly and asked me if I'd like a good smoke. I don't think he was talking about Cuban cigars. No, thank you, I politely responded.

Susan and I had been to the Caribbean seven times: part of a honeymoon on Isla Mujeres when there was one major hotel and it was closed; Cozumel before it was overrun by tourists off the cruise ships; and Dominica, the ecological paradise that was resisting efforts to build an airport to accommodate jetliners. (So far, there's no international airport.) I planned every trip. This time, I told Susan that our next vacation was in her hands.

The Internet took her to numerous Costa Rican Web sites, and once she had guided the keystrokes to Puerto Viejo, Susan knew that she had found our place in the sun.

From the Costa Rican capital of San Jose, it's a four-hour bus ride over mountains and down a coastal plain. Puerto Viejo -- in English, "Old Harbor" -- is not for everyone. No plush resorts. No fancy restaurants. Roads that punish any manner of motorized vehicles and bicycles. Unpaved streets that puddle up with minuscule rainfall. Trash barrels and recycle bins that overflow. Too much litter on the beaches. It has begun to suffer from civilization creep: bar-restaurants with satellite dishes to pull in international soccer matches; big and mini SUVs and compact cars; and a few air-conditioned establishments, including the Arctic-like Banco de Costa Rica branch.

What's the attraction? Sun and sea, miles of beach, coral reefs for snorkeling and scuba diving, for surfers a reef called Salsa Brava, horseback riding, inexpensive lodging in attached cottages called cabinas, and inexpensive restaurants that cater to hordes of young gringos, Canadians, Brits and Europeans.

The well-behaved young folk are everywhere, arriving or departing with their huge backpacks, and in between, flitting about on bicycles and scooters, sunning themselves, pecking away in Internet cafes, and feasting on pizza or other simple fare. This and other little towns up and down the coast are an ephemeral refuge for wandering youth. For us, the lure is a healthy dose of solitude, a retreat from bright lights, voice mail, e-mail and the cell phone culture.

Susan and I stayed for 10 nights at Cabinas Guarana, a lodging with 12 rooms and communal kitchen, The rooms surround a beautiful garden filled with birds of paradise, coconut palms and bromeliads. It's "high-season," and for $35 a night, you get the basics: a simple room, bed, table with two chairs, a bathroom, screens on the window, and ceiling fan that keeps you comfortable in the heat of day and at night. Yes, there are tiny mosquitoes; that's why they invented repellent. And one night I had to do battle with a cucaracha in the bathroom. No contest.

The Guarana touts itself as ecological-friendly, and it is. You're asked to conserve water, and a notice on the back of the door to the room informs you that the lodge uses cleaning products approved by a university in San Jose.

The price of the room and ambiance are no measure of the reward: the pleasure of the company of the owners, Paolo, a 61-year-old Sicilian civil engineer, and his wife, Giovanna. Paolo worked on projects in Africa for more than 20 years and had a hand in the construction of the Caracas Metro. He returned to Italy for a few years, married Giovanna and landed in Costa Rica, Some 15 years ago, the couple began transforming the dream into Guarana.

	David Peters, Post-Gazette Costa Rica's Caribbean coast abounds with colorful plants, such as this one in the garden of the Cabinas Guarana lodge. Click photo for larger image.

Costa Rica prides itself on its national parks. We took a less than a half-hour bus ride up the coast to the south entrance of Cahuita National Park. While collecting the $12 entrance fee, the perky park attendant told us that if we left our camera or any other articles unattended, they well could become the property of the howler or white-faced monkeys. Not knowing what we were getting into, we walked the park's five-mile trail. Even a 10 a.m. start didn't prepare us for the heat, and the last gulps of bottled water barely made it to the finish line.

The park is lush with all manner of trees and flowers, and the only sounds besides our conversation came from monkeys and birds, and the small lizards whose footfalls on the leaves captured our attention. The highlight of the trek came courtesy of Susan's observant eye: She spotted a venomous yellow snake sunning itself on a tree and managed to snap a photo of it -- although she probably would have taken a better picture if not for her cowardly husband warning her not to get too close. After all, it was a small snake -- we're not talking boa constrictor here.

A refreshing amenity that eluded us, thanks to my nonfunctioning brain, was the beautiful water that surrounds the park. The park extends into the Caribbean, and you are most welcome to swim or snorkel in the transparent waters or lie on pristine beaches. If only I had thought of toting the swimsuits.

Puerto Viejo nightlife? Well, there are nights. In the off-season, you can sit for hours in an open-air restaurant, enjoying a leisurely meal and after-dinner drinks. The restaurants rarely are half-full, so you won't have to endure the hostile stares of patrons who lust for your vacated table.

If it's good music you want, try the bar that's attached to the Hotel Maritza. The bar features live bands four or five nights a week. You don't have to plunk down a buck or two to listen to the reggae, salsa or merengue. You can dance in the street.

Maybe there isn't a Steelers fan in every outpost, but we always manage to come across a Pittsburgh connection.

That first Sunday morning, after our encounter with Mr. Dreadlocks, we went to Bread and Chocolate for breakfast. A tall, good-looking young man waited on us. We were speaking Spanish to each other until we discovered that we were gringos. He graduated from Bucknell two years ago, found his way to Puerto, worked at the restaurant and purchased it from the Americanos who had decided to return to the States.

From Pittsburgh? He said his brother was a student at Carnegie Mellon.

Sunday night, we dined at the Patagonia Steak House. It was the most expensive meal during our stay: $40. It's all relative -- Argentine steak, pink trout, vegetables and rice, wine and my first taste of Argentine beer.

A warm middle-age couple attended us in Spanish and excellent English. The wife disappeared for a few minutes, and her husband, the chef, asked us where we're from. Pennsylvania. "Where in Pennsylvania?" he asked. "Pittsburgh." He lit up. "Wait until my wife hears this. She loves Pittsburgh."

In the 1960s, the senora lived with a family in Pleasant Hills for a year and taught bilingual courses in a public school as part of a teacher exchange program. Her first question: Does Pittsburgh still have the steel mills? She explained that her American "father" was an engineer who worked in one of the mills, and that he gave her a tour of his workplace.

Her husband commented that he has one unforgettable memory of Pittsburgh. In a few sentences accompanied by arm and hand motions that go up and down, he related his experience on a wild ride at an amusement park. I knew immediately where he had felt that sense of elation and fear: Kennywood! Yes, he said, that's it!

Late in our stay, while taking our customary after-dinner walk through the somnolent side streets I finally had a brief conversation with the bicycle man.

Not long after our arrival in Puerto, we saw him peddling about. A shock of gray hair protruded from a cap, complemented by a huge gray beard. Susan's immediate reaction: "Jerry Garcia." My silent reaction: an aging hippie, right out of California.

We saw bicycle man several times during the vacation. This night it was time for talk. As he slowly passed by, he asked me in almost a whisper if I would like some "good bud." He wasn't referring to that malt beverage that once was hyped as the king of beers. "No, thank you."

Did I mention that some of the locals are very generous, ready to help you get through the night?