Off-the-shoulder top: Revolve Clothing; Skirt: Thrifted from Paris; Sandals (that were broken at the time of this photo): Zara from a million years ago; Necklace: Thrifted, from when I was 12 years old
The first thing about Costa Rica I noticed when I stepped out of the airport: any semblance of makeup on my face ended up by my ankles. All tropical destinations seem to have the same ability to cancel out any efforts to look done up – everyone’s on an equal playing field. The in-and-out luxury resort travelers, the grimy backpackers, the locals.
After all, it’s about 30-35 degrees with 80% humidity. It’s not looking good for some well-intentioned eyeliner in the face of such oppressive humidity. At one point, my friends and I were running around town at 3AM and it was still 37 degrees celcius, stray baby hairs plastered to my forehead and a thin sheen of sweat making my face look like a disco ball. I got quite friendly with the disco ball syndrome during my time in Costa Rica.
There’s no better excuse to whole-heartedly embrace the phenomenon of not caring about makeup because it’s just physically impossible to have any on your face without looking like a crying clown. That, and minimal-effort dressing (including the only pair of sandals I brought that decided to break mid-way through the trip) makes the Costa Rican saying ‘Pura Vida’ ring so true. I think Pura Vida starts with a breakdown of ability to give a fuck at looking presentable, or at least that’s how it started for me. I just need to figure out how to get it to apply to the rest of my life now.