Is this Luxury? My Misadventures at a Yoga Retreat in Costa Rica

You’d think a yoga retreat in Costa Rica would be all healing vibes, tropical breezes, and soul alignment. And to be fair—it was. But also… it was a comedy of errors that made me question the very definition of “luxury.”

Let’s start with the flight.

Greenway Costa Rica Airlines was incredible. Brand-new reclining seats, the kind you sink into like a Netflix dream, and a concierge named Adriane who handled everything with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. Even when my luggage tag tore in half, he didn’t flinch. “I’ve got it,” he said. I knew I’d have his WhatsApp before this trip was over. I was right.

After a blissful lounge experience and a one-minute boarding process (yes, really), I found myself on a tiny plane with only two other passengers. The clouds looked like pillows. I was the main character in some kind of spiritual travel documentary. Until we landed—on what looked like a forgotten airstrip in the middle of the jungle—and the vibe quickly shifted from Eat, Pray, Love to Blow.

Arrival at Bodhi Tree Yoga Resort

I messaged the resort that we’d arrived early (30 minutes early, which felt odd, but hey—Pura Vida). A shuttle came quickly, and off we went through winding roads, rustic towns, and vibrant jungle.

Then we pulled up to Bodhi Tree Yoga Resort.

A grand gate. Jungle-lined paths. Thatched roofs. Check-in smiles. “Yes,” I thought, “this is going to heal me.”

Until I saw the stairs.

Lots of them.

With a bag that, in retrospect, was more deadweight than weekender, I climbed up—then down again, then way off toward what felt like the opposite of the resort. Each step further from the pool, the yoga shala, and the restaurant. Every luxury sign pointed one way; I was being led the other.

By the time we reached my room, I was drenched in sweat. Like… kneecaps and earlobes sweating. My shirt had gone from white to oatmeal. And the room? Let’s just say the “private plunge pool” looked like it hadn’t been plunged in years.

It felt like a rustic AirBnB that hadn’t updated its listing photos. And the “luxury” room was a small box with a sliding glass door and no bathroom in sight. I didn’t even investigate. I just messaged the front desk:
“This isn’t going to work.”

Plot Twist: I Can Hear You

Back at reception, I tried to explain calmly. “Would you call that a luxury room?” I asked.

Silence.

Then, in Spanish, someone whispered, “Don’t worry, she doesn’t speak Spanish.”

Unfortunately for them, I do.

After a quick room tour of “better” options (and some very awkward energy), I settled on a room that actually felt like a retreat. Treehouse vibes. Screened porch. Outdoor shower. Jungle soundtrack.

But the drama wasn’t over.

They said I hadn’t paid.

Except—I had. My receipts said so. Their faces didn’t. And while I tried to stay calm and channel my yogi patience, the irony of being gaslit at a yoga retreat was not lost on me.

Where’s the Remote? And Other Mysteries

Eventually, they acknowledged my payment and even offered a golf cart to help retrieve my bags from the original sweat lodge room. Small wins.

But now, I couldn’t figure out the AC. Or the fan. I WhatsApped again.

“The remote is on the wall,” they said.

It was not.

An hour later, someone came to reveal a hidden remote, tucked behind a curtain like a prize in an escape room. Finally—air.

Just as I changed for dinner, the sky opened up in full Costa Rican fashion. Biblical rain. No umbrella. No coat. No retreat robe.

Still, I made it to the restaurant. Empty. One kind server. And a cup of hot water with a single dusty tea bag. When I asked for another, the confusion was palpable. Apparently, one tea bag was standard issue.

Dinner Was the Hero

Lemongrass coconut soup warmed my spirit. The seared tuna—sweet but fresh—tasted like someone somewhere still cared. I asked for a to-go container. I was that girl now. But hey, I was surviving.

And then… Kevin showed up.

Kevin, the man who doubted my payment. Slowly, dramatically, he placed three plastic tokens on my table.

Two orange. One yellow.

“These,” he said solemnly, “are for yoga classes. And this yellow one? A sound bath. Because… you did pay.”

Oh, did I?

Luxury Is a Funny Thing

I returned to my room—finally cool, finally dry—with one big thought:

Luxury isn’t just about the view, or the linens, or the lemongrass soup.

It’s about being cared for. Seen. Listened to.

And in that moment—despite the mishaps and sweat and mystery tea—I realized I’d found something else:

A story worth telling.
And maybe, eventually…
A sound bath worth attending.