Waking with the Mist: The Stillness Before the Brew
High in the emerald hills of Costa Rica, where clouds linger like whispers over the treetops, the day begins not with an alarm clock, but with the gentle chatter of birds and the soft clinking of enamel mugs. The sun hesitates just long enough behind the peaks for the dew to soak the soft earth, and in that hushed glow, Alejandro rises.
Alejandro is a third-generation coffee farmer in the region of Naranjo, nestled in the Valle Central. His finca spreads across a gentle slope, where rows upon rows of coffee shrubs stretch like disciplined dancers in a quiet rehearsal. I met him on a morning still damp with dreams, his smile as warm as the café chorreado waiting on a wood-fire stove.
There is something sacred about this hour in the campo. Before the first bean is touched, there’s a ritual: stepping onto the earth, breathing deep the sweet-sour tang of fermentation, soil, and woodsmoke, and offering a quiet nod to the volcanoes standing sentinel in the distance. “Coffee is not just our sustenance—it is our story,” Alejandro tells me, adjusting his straw hat with hands worn soft by time.
Harvesting Under the Sun: The Pulse of the Plantations
Most visitors see coffee as a morning necessity. But here, in these sun-drenched corridors between the mountains, it is labor, laughter, and lineage. The harvest season—la cosecha—arrives like clockwork each year between November and March, painting the fields in hues of deep crimson and glossy green.
By 7:00 a.m., Alejandro and his crew are already deep in the plantations, baskets slung over their shoulders, fingers dancing through branches in search of only the ripest berries. Precision matters. Only the cherries that have reached their full sweetness are plucked—an artistry that demands patience and intuition. “You learn to feel the weight,” he says, placing two berries in my palm. “One whispers ripeness; the other still dreams.”
It’s meditative, almost—this rhythm of picking, moving, picking again. Among the rows, stories are shared softly in Spanish, children’s names and village legends brushing the air. A visiting sloth, dangling lazily from a nearby Cecropia, earns a quiet chuckle. Even the wildlife seems to respect the serenity of coffee work.
From Cherry to Bean: The Dance of Transformation
Once the baskets brim with ruby-toned fruit, it’s time for transformation. The journey from cherry to bean begins with pulping. Alejandro leads me to the wet mill—a modest concrete structure humming with activity. Here, the fruit’s outer skin is gently removed, revealing a pair of pale seeds still cloaked in sweet mucilage.
It’s sticky work. The air is thick with fermenting sugars and the sound of gurgling water. Alejandro explains that the fermentation process, usually lasting 12 to 24 hours, is critical. “It’s like aging cheese or fermenting wine—the flavor of the bean depends on this very moment.”
After this, the beans are thoroughly washed and laid out on large wooden patios or elevated beds to dry under the sun. Each day, they must be turned by hand to ensure even drying—a process as tactile as it is observational. “Look at them,” Alejandro says, his eyes scanning the slate-colored sea of parchment-covered beans. “They’re almost ready to sleep.”
A Lunch Rooted in Family and Earth
No day on the finca unfolds without shared meals. Lunch is a reinvigorating pause, taken in the shade of a mango tree or under a clay-tiled roof where the aroma of gallo pinto—Costa Rica’s national dish of rice and beans—mingles with sizzling tortillas and café recién hecho.
Alejandro’s wife, Marta, prepares a generous spread using ingredients from their own garden. There’s fresh avocado sprinkled with lime, plátanos fritos, and warm tamales wrapped in banana leaves. We eat with our fingers, talk with our eyes, and listen with silence.
I ask Marta what coffee means to their family. She wipes her hands on her apron and simply says, “It means tomorrow. It always has.”
Sustainability in Each Sip
The finca is more than productive—it’s regenerative. Alejandro proudly walks me through the composting bins, shaded drying beds, and patches of native trees replanted to protect the water table. “If you take care of the land, it takes care of your children,” he says, with the stoic conviction of someone who’s seen droughts and floods alike.
On his land:
This is not a luxury—it is tradition. Long before « organic » became a marketing buzzword, Costa Rican farmers practiced what the land gently taught them: harmony yields the best harvest.
The Evening Roast and Familiar Aromas
As shadows stretch long and golden, and smoke curls up from the small roaster near the kitchen, Alejandro’s day crescendos. Roasting happens in batches, and with nothing more than a small metal drum, a hand crank, and a practiced nose, he turns pale beans into shimmering shades of cedar and sable brown.
Each roast tells a tale—light roasts that sing with citrus and jasmine, medium ones brimming with cocoa and almond, and the dark profiles, earthy, robust, whispering secrets of volcanic soil. I watch the beans dance to the tune of heat, charmed into readiness. Alejandro grinds a handful, just enough for two cups, and the grinder’s burrs sing softly in the twilight.
The first sip is unlike any coffee I’ve had. Not potent or showy, but delicate—like morning dew on orchids or rain soaking into ash. Alejandro does not ask for feedback. He doesn’t need to. He watches my eyes close, just for a second, and he smiles. The story is in the taste.
More Than a Cup: Connection over Convenience
Too often, we seek convenience in our morning rituals—pods, machines, a rush for caffeine that leaves behind the very hands that planted the seeds of our comfort. Spending a day with Alejandro is an invitation to slow down and remember. To honor the human faces behind our habits.
So the next time your fingers curl around a warm cup of coffee, ask yourself: where was this bean kissed by sun? Who rose before the birds to bring it to life? Perhaps it came from a humble finca in Costa Rica, where time hushes and every drop is a chapter in a family’s unfolding story.
Because in the hills nearby, as the stars bloom one by one over the cordillera, a farmer leans back in his hammock, a steaming mug in hand, and sips the day he just lived.
