Dominican Republic

"Vestida de Novia" - A Wedding Trip to Remember

During the years one of my best friends was living in the Dominican Republic, I kept promising I would visit him. Time slipped by, and before I knew it, he was about to return to Costa Rica. Just two weeks before his departure, he invited me to his wedding. That was finally the push I needed to book a flight and set foot on this strange but wonderful island. The moment I arrived, he greeted me with the coldest beer I had ever held—“vestida de novia,” a white frosty bottle, which, as I quickly learned, was the only proper way to drink beer there. After a couple of those, we picked up his fiancée and headed to a birthday party where I met a warm, welcoming Dominican family. We ended the night in a rock bar dedicated to honoring the folk legend Luis “El Terror” Díaz.

The next day, I left the Hostel to explore around, I had a list of different dishes I wanted to try, as I had previously read, Dominicana had an excellent local cuisine. 'Chivo Picante“ (Spicy Goat Meat Stew) was my first local dish. I tried an old restaurant, where an older man (picture above) dressed head to toe in white, gold sun glasses, cane and massive gold wrist watch was sitting outside having a beer- I joined him - I liked his style. Welcoming, friendly guy, though I started to realize he was trying to sell me a tour. I bought him a beer and ask where the bus to "3 Oios National Park' was.

The “bus” I took turned out to be little more than a seat on wheels, loud and shaky, with no doors, but it got me there for less than a dollar.

This place was almost as if you entered the first circle of hell! I walked a few steps down (covered in sweat) and saw a massive cavern which is located almost under the city, pretty crazy! As you go deeper you are pulled by a small "rope boat' into this wonderful green "crater/cavern" where I took this picture.

Later, that same day, I tried to make my way to a bowl of sancocho, a rich local soup, walking along the Malecón. Rain kept breaking up my journey, forcing me into bars for shelter every twenty minutes. Somewhere along the way, I met a man who insisted on taking me to taste the best mamajuana—a potent mixture of rum, wine, honey, herbs, and tree bark. I let him show me around the old city, and in the process, I actually learned some Dominican history. Still, at that point, I began to suspect the whole island might just be one big tourist trap.

That impression shifted when I heard about Boca Chica, a place renowned for its fried fish. I hopped a ride with Galvin, a cheerful Dominican who insisted on stopping for road beers. As we drove, he blasted loud Dominican hip-hop and explained the rhythms of daily life on the island.

“We Dominicans are simple people, "'echaos ‘pa'tras" (laid back) but when we dance, we give everything to create happiness. We like our beers cold and our women hot. And we celebrate every day—We celebrate hoping that Monday is over, on Tuesdays because Monday’s over, Wednesday because we’re halfway there, Thursday because it’s almost Friday, and the rest needs no explanation.”

His words made sense as I began to grasp the resilience and joy that music and dancing brought to people living in sometimes difficult circumstances.

We enjoyed delicious fried fish together, then Galvin left me to explore the town on my own. I found a German bar by the beach, had a couple more beers, and eventually rushed back to the city—I had a wedding to attend!

Later, Galvin returned, again with beers in hand, and on the way, we picked up “one of his girlfriends” before he dropped me off to change into my penguin-suit.

That night was all about the celebration.

Before flying back to Costa Rica, I squeezed in some last-minute bar hopping in the old town. Rain forced me into a colmado (Picture Below), where I met another striking figure: an older gentleman in white attire, complete with magenta tie, hat, and cane. He told me he was a doctor who had studied in Spain, and over beers, we spoke about politics, history, and democracy.

He explained that democracy hadn’t been given enough time to grow before being imposed across many nations. Then he recounted how the island was originally ravaged by Spanish pirates—men who weren’t noble explorers but rather thieves, rapists, and criminals sent out in Spain’s desperate search for new trade routes. It was a heavy but fascinating conversation.

From there, I drifted into more bars, meeting a friendly Dominican couple and a group of Germans who tried, unsuccessfully, to get the bartender to play Rammstein instead of local folk music.

Later that night, at a metal bar, I struck up a conversation with a filmmaker who worked there. It was almost 2 a.m. when I realized my plane was leaving soon. I raced back to my hostel, grabbed my things, and caught an Uber to the airport—but not without one last detour. I begged the driver to stop for some “puerco en puya,” sold on the street. We pulled over at a small, makeshift food stand where locals were gathered.​

I barely made my flight, but it was the best 'pulled pork sandwich" I've ever had! .

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