Actual drops of sweat are springing up on my forehead, and it’s only 6 a.m. I am making the two-mile hike to the bus stop in coastal Quepos. On-board, the bus will take me up the winding two-lane highway up the hill to the tourist community of beachy Manuel Antonio.

It’s my first day in Quepos—located on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. My first time walking to the bus stop, and I am alone.

When I signed up for this trip I accidentally chose to go alone. I guess I didn’t understand the instructions correctly. It’s been OK, though. I’ve learned so much more about myself; I’m learning to like who I am when I am alone.

I spent two weeks in the middle metropolitan region of the country—nearer to the mountains, nearer to the fresh, cool air. Now, as I walk alone, the thick, muggy heat feels like a shock to my system. Quepos is a sea town, smells like fish all the time, smells worse than the city. I can feel the sweat running down my back underneath my denim romper that I am wearing over my bathing suit.

As I pass a local car-wash, three young men stop to stare as I rush past. I check the time, careful not to pull my iPhone all the way out of my bag. I need to hurry if I am going to catch the bus. I don’t want to take a taxi and pay 2,000 mil colones more than necessary. One of the boys—younger than my brother, younger than 18—calls after me.

Heeeeeyyyyy baby, I love you.

I keep walking.

I don’t look back.

I’ve learned to put one sandy, sandal-clad foot in front of the other—left, right, left—and keep walking.