About Nadine Hays Pisani

Nadine is the author of the best-selling series, Happier Than A Billionaire. Join her as she navigates living as an expat in the sometimes confusing, always beautiful, country of Costa Rica.

CAN I IMPORT A VEHICLE INTO COSTA RICA TAX FREE?

By | 2022-12-12T08:59:00-05:00 December 12th, 2022|Categories: Uncategorized|Tags: , , , , |

Costa Rica import vehicle

Importing a car into Costa Rica is an expensive endeavor. Buying one is expensive as well. Either way, be prepared to pay a lot if you want a car. And trust me, there is no way around it. Many think they can drive their vehicle into the country and get around the tax issue. That’s impossible. In fact, if you don’t do your homework, you may purchase a car from someone who did just that and never paid the import tax. Now you’re stuck with an $8000 tax bill to make the car legal. I know someone this happened to.

Many are hearing about the new law (Costa Rica Law N. 9996) that was passed, giving expats the ability to import two cars and household items, tax-free. There is a lot of confusion about this, so allow me to clear some things up.

 

  1. This bill was only for people who are applying for residency. Residency can take upwards of a year. Perhaps longer. This is not an option for perpetual tourists or for people applying for the Digital Nomad Visa.
  2. No one is quite sure when, or if,  the government will enact this.

 

Things move slowly in Costa Rica. And often, a law is passed that is later rescinded. Here is my take on things.

When the pandemic hit, Costa Rica wanted to entice more expats. But the strangest thing happened: they didn’t have to. Thousands of people moved to Costa Rica, flooding the tourist towns and buying up real estate.

I think I can speak for many Ticos in that Costa Rica looked drastically different pre-pandemic. At least from the perspective of living in or near a tourist town. And with that, I’m not sure what will happen to this new law. If everyone is coming anyway, why offer this tax break when the country desperately could use these tax dollars?

This is what I would do. If your heart is set on moving to Costa Rica, just do it. I wouldn’t wait around to see when this law takes effect. The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023 is loaded with useful information, especially on how to get residency. And that is the first step if you want to qualify for this tax exemption.

Many times we wait to begin our adventures. And sometimes, we wait too long. So, if you want to live the pura vida lifestyle,  start today. Take a vacation and travel the country. Talk with expats and investigate if it’s right for you. Maybe the pull will sweep you off your feet like a riptide. “We’re definitely moving!” you say to your wife. Or perhaps the trip was just that, a delightful way to get away from it all. And getting away is often the best thing to do when we need to recharge our batteries. And there is no better place to do that than Costa Rica.

**Find out more about buying a car, paying import taxes, and applying for residency in The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023.

The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023

By | 2022-11-30T09:42:38-05:00 November 30th, 2022|Categories: Uncategorized|

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” ~C. S. Lewis

“I want to move to Costa Rica,” you said, confiding to your spouse, friends, and maybe even your boss while cleaning out your desk. Congratulations! Moving abroad is the adventure of a lifetime, and Costa Rica will guarantee you wonderful moments. Some dream-like. Many hilarious. A few frustrating.

Even if your friends think you’re nuts (they do). Even if your spouse is on the fence (they are). And even if you don’t speak Spanish (you probably don’t). The Costa Rica Escape Manual 2023 is the blueprint for making this move as seamless as possible.

I’m here as your trusted advisor making this move easier. I’ve done it all: obtained residency, laid sick in the hospital, bought and sold properties, ran a business, and paid Costa Rican taxes. I’ve seen and learned a lot, and I want to share my experiences with you.

Whether you’re planning an extended vacation or permanently relocating, this guide provides the tools necessary to make your Pura Vida dreams come true.

Inside, you’ll find trusted advice from experts in their field. Whether filing for residency, purchasing a home or searching for a rental, The Costa Rica Escape Manual delivers the nuts and bolts on where to begin.

The 2023 edition includes:

  • How to apply for the new Digital Nomad Visa
  • New residency rules and “what not to do” when applying
  • Quick and quirky tips when traveling throughout Costa Rica
  • Opening a bank account, Atms and discontinued currency
  • Honest advice on staying safe and new ways thieves are committing crime
  • How to get health, home, and auto insurance
  • Dental Tourism
  • New information from Barry the Shipper on how to get your stuff to Costa Rica
  • Renting a car or hiring a personal driver
  • Selecting a school and the different types of diplomas
  • Buying, renting, and even developing raw land from scratch
  • Three locations expats are calling home
  • Convenient checklists ensuring you meet all your goals
  • Popular road trips throughout the country

Read this book before booking those plane tickets, and you’ll be ready for that Pura Vida adventure.

Available on Amazon

 

 

Jimmy Hates Groundhogs

By | 2022-05-17T17:35:22-04:00 May 17th, 2022|Categories: North Carolina|Tags: , |

We wait to speak with Harry and Jimmy, two men who work at the local hardware store and are known for dishing out helpful advice. While in line, I glance over at a garbage can. A sign above reads, “No Spitting.”

“You know, people spat all over the place back in the tuberculosis days,” I tell Rob. “It was so bad they erected public spittoons. Can you imagine? Walking your Pomeranian, twirling your parasol, and BAM! Showered by spit from every direction.”

Rob shakes his head. By the looks of things, he is not enjoying my history lesson.

“It was like running through a garden sprinkler,” I continue. “People were dodging and weaving, and could you blame them? Seventy-five percent of tuberculosis patients in North Carolina dropped dead in five years.”

I cut my lesson short when the guy ahead of us got the guidance he needed—his septic tank problem will take all day to fix.  And nobody should use the toilet during the repair, an obvious piece of advice but worth emphasizing nonetheless. He walks past the garbage can but does not spit.

Rob approaches Harry and Jimmy and explains that we bought a fixer-upper in desperate need of repair.

“Describe the house,” Harry asks.

“Sure,” Rob says. “It sits on a steep grade—”

“It’s built on a horse face,” I interject. That’s what my neighbor, Rusty, calls a house precariously perched at a forty-five-degree angle.

Harry and Jimmy glance at each other and solemnly nod. It’s a tale as old as time.

“How’s the roof?” Harry asks.

“Luckily, that’s good,” Rob replies. “But I’m concerned about the rest of it. The rain swept away our garage.”

Harry folds his arms across his chest. “It happens,” he says.

Really, Harry? Do people typically christen garages with champagne before yelling, “Bon voyage?” We don’t have these problems in New Jersey. Although, you might hear, “Anyone see Ant’ny and Vinny? They never made it to the pipefitter’s union barbecue.”

I stand there like a dope, gawking at a shelf of galvanized screws while Harry goes into great detail about home repair. Jimmy—noticing my catatonic state—engages in conversation. “Are you planting anything?” he asks.

“Planting?” I repeat. “Hmm. Haven’t thought about it. My husband’s the gardener.”

He leans over and—with a do-or-die expression—asks a question that I fear will decide the future of our relationship. “Have you seen any groundhogs?”

Jimmy catches me off guard. I thought he might ask, “Hey weirdo, why were you staring at the garbage can?” I take a moment to think about my answer. I have a fifty-fifty chance of getting this right, so I go with telling the truth.

“I do remember seeing a family of them,” I answer. “Yes, I saw them eating dandelions in a field.”

Jimmy smacks his hand on the counter. “I knew it! Were they beady-eyed?”

In my city-slicker opinion, there is no right or wrong answer to the shape of a groundhog’s eyes. But Jimmy’s expression gives me reason to pause. It’s clear he has invested a lot into this subject matter, and since this is the only hardware store in town, and I’ll be returning with my own septic pipe catastrophe sooner than later, I need Jimmy more than he needs me.

I answer like a politician canvassing for votes. “I can’t confirm or deny the beadiness of their eyes.”

“Exactly,” Jimmy grunts. “You got a surprise in store for you. Oh, boy. It’s coming all right.”

“Should I really be worried?” I ask with the doltish innocence of someone who has never lived in the Appalachian Mountains.

“Well, I can tell you something. Those groundhogs are going to eat more than there dandelions. Dem critters are lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.”

Jimmy proceeds with a groundhog tirade no less impressive than storming the beaches at Normandy. As he shares his harrowing tale, I envision groundhogs sticking out of armored tanks, chin straps dangling from helmets, their beady eyes scanning the horizon; Jimmy crouched in a foxhole, praying a Hail Mary to survive.

It’s a riveting story; these sons-of-bitches were really out to get him. But Jimmy gets distracted by a little old lady looking for a hummingbird feeder and disappears down the feed aisle.

“We need to pull around to their warehouse,” Rob says while we walk to the front of the store.

“What did you buy?”

He grins with the confidence of a man who has no clue what’s he doing. “Only a few things to get started.” The smiling clerk stops what she’s doing and asks us our names.

“Rob and Nadine,” I answer. “You’ll be seeing a lot of us. Possibly too much.”

“I’m Julie, and I’ll be sure to remember you,” she says while ringing up the lady buying a hummingbird feeder.

We jump in the car and drive behind the store. We back into the warehouse and fill our truck with one million bags of ready-to-use concrete mix. Our truck sinks to a few inches from the ground, lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut.

Rob turns on the radio. A country song plays about a woman—wearing cowboy boots—kicking her cheating man to the curb. I applaud her choice of footwear.

I turn to my husband and ask a question I’ve asked many times in our marriage, one that I already know the answer to. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Rob rolls his window down and hangs his arm outside the truck. “I’m fixing this old house.”

“With ready-to-mix concrete? And advice from two guys from a hardware store? One of which who has a very peculiar relationship with the wildlife around here?”

“Sure. How bad can it be?”

Julie Andrews, Yoga Retreats, and Costa Rica Consulting

By | 2022-01-05T19:53:43-05:00 January 5th, 2022|Categories: Consulting, The Costa Rica Escape Manual|Tags: , , , |

Between fixing up our haunted house located in the woods of North Carolina and visiting its pristine waterfalls, we’ve been trying to get a legal water letter to our building pad in Costa Rica.  This piece of property is where we started our journey.  It’s not the location where we built The Happier House but ironically in a defunct development adjacent to it.  Take two steps to the left, and we would have had legal water.  It’s taking us over sixteen years to sort this out.  It may take another sixteen, but we are optimistic.

This is why I started my consulting business.  Because not everything is as it appears and results may vary when investing in Costa Rica.

I’ve provided consulting for all sorts of people—some long to retire in Costa Rica, while others are preparing to open a business.  And then I met people like me, who impulsively jumped aboard the magical carpet ride and hiked the Osa Peninsula, stood on top of volcanos, and wasted glorious afternoons watching sloths climb trees.  (Pack breakfast, lunch, and dinner for this event.)

 

But nobody is quite like my latest client, Bridget.  A New Yorker, shaman,  innkeeper, journalist, and a person who once had Stevie Wonder run his fingers across her face.

Her voice has that quick New York cadence that makes me sit at the edge of my chair.  She’s like watching a lit bottle rocket, unsure which direction it may blast off.

She recently graduated from the Jaguar Path School of Yoga and Shamanism and plans to offer retreats, energy clearing ceremonies, and private coaching/energy work.  Bridget enthusiastically peppers me with questions about the property she is purchasing.  She tosses a log on the fire while listening to me explain Costa Rica tax implications and the current COVID situation. She is determined to make this experience everything she dreams it can be.

Bridget has lived a thousand different lives in many different places.  Her father was the owner of The Russian Tea Room and Tavern on the Green.  The latter is where a teenaged Bridget introduced herself to Stevie Wonder.  She kneeled next to him while he gently ran his fingers across her nose and cheeks.  I swoon a bit just imaging that encounter.

Her stepfather is Tony Walton, the celebrated Broadway and film production designer, her mother a renowned children’s book author.  Bridget is a cultural zeitgeist, full of facts and anecdotes that would surprise even the most learned New Yorker.  I want to share a pastrami sandwich with her at the Carnegie Deli and amaze her with my story of asking tired commuters, “Where’s Penn Station?” while standing in front of Penn Station.  (I not only learned where to catch my train but thirty magnificent synonyms for moron.)

She co-founded The East Hampton Independent in 1993, where she interviewed Steven Spielberg, Martha Stewart, Julie Andrews, Linda Ronstadt, and Jane Fonda.  She currently co-hosts “Sundays on the East End” with Oscar-nominated screenwriter Alec Sokolow on 88.3 WLIW FM.

One day I hope she interviews me.  “I see that you started your first book with a fart joke.  Any second thoughts on that creative choice?” she’d ask.

“Well, Bridget,” I’ll return, “it needed to be addressed.” We’d then laugh together before I ask if Julie Andrews smells like sugar cookies.

 

I’m going to need a shaman to get this water letter.  I want the complete package, every ceremony designed to rid this property of bad energy and give hope to a project that fell flat many years ago.  I want to turn it around and feel like a bottle rocket again, unsure which direction to take off.

I love what I do, helping people navigate the choppy waters of moving to a foreign country and building a different life from scratch.  I still think about that moment I almost backed out, wondering if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.  But I was brave and determined and jumped in feet first.  Qualities I didn’t know I possessed, but so happy they appeared.

When I submitted my first book to literary agents, one sharply replied that no one cares about a woman who moves to Costa Rica.  “Nobody will read it,” he stated in Arial font.  In type so small, I had to squint to read the rejection.

But people did read my book, from Australia to Saudi Arabia.  On islands off Portugal and in Ghana, Africa.  People full of energy and light and searching for something unexplainable.  People like myself who weren’t scared to jump in feet first.

Never underestimate your abilities and surround yourself with encouraging people.  And when given the opportunity, pause to watch a sloth climb a tree.  It’s not high octane excitement, but it taught me that time is fabulously subjective.

With purpose, we’ll get to where we’re going, one sleepy step at a time.

Follow Bridget’s journey at www.BridgetLeRoy.com

Read all about my adventures here.

Optimism, Murder & Haunted Houses

By | 2021-10-06T09:03:44-04:00 September 28th, 2021|Categories: North Carolina|Tags: , |

We continue driving and merge onto a dirt road. Alas, here we are again. I never had hardened opinions concerning dirt roads, but after living on them in Costa Rica, you learn they inevitably wash out. Then you’re the jerk on the other side trying to get to the store.

The road curves, and we drive past a propped open gate, revealing homes built into the mountainside. Some have large propane tanks out front, others with firewood. A few have green cabs on rails that resemble minecarts. Is there a quarry here?

Aside from the gun billboards along the highway, I saw others advertising fun days mining for jewels. “Smoky Mountain Gold and Gem Mine. The family will love it!” promised a cartooned prospector gripping a pickaxe.

I don’t know about you, but I’m signing up for this activity. If it involves not talking to anyone, then my father would join us as well. His goal in life is to be at least fifty yards from any breathing person, and if panning for sapphires keeps him out of the human race, he’d happily move his sifter box to the far edge of the flume. But if someone moseyed too close and asked a well-intentioned, “Find anything good?” my dad would hustle us back into our Chevy Impala, still grasping our bucket of dirt dreams.

My father is a platinum member of the Let’s Get the Hell Outta Here club. Some—meaning me— might say patience is not his virtue. He wielded this power if a son of a bitch cut us in line at Stuckey’s or when overpaying for a hot dog. My dad would have left Prince Harry’s wedding if approached by a valet. Getting the hell out of places was a hallmark of my childhood, leaving me to wonder how anyone ever got the hell into places.

I got excited about sticking my dad in the mud, so I looked up this operation on TripAdvisor, and boy was Jeffrey from Okahumpka, Florida, disappointed.

After hours of sifting, the owner confirmed that Jeffrey’s gem nuggets were nothing but worthless rocks, resulting in him abandoning his dreams of dumping Debra and getting a hair transplant. “The staff was rude and unhelpful,” he complained. “I paid fifty dollars, and my kids left crying. Parking was adequate, and the bathrooms were clean.”

We’ve all been there, Jeffrey. But look on the bright side. You parked your car and whizzed in splendor. It’s the journey, not the destination.

The dirt road narrows as we wind around a switchback. Two cars couldn’t pass each other without one careening down the side. This is exactly like Costa Rica. We approach a house with a “For Sale By Owner” sign nailed to the front. Rickety decking surrounds each creepy floor, and I notice random holes in the eaves like someone drilled into the wood with a two-inch bit. We exit the car and peek around the side.

Crunch, I hear.

A ten-foot snakeskin sticks to the sole of my sneaker. Why is this remarkable? Because I just came from the land of snakes, and I have never seen one this big. There is never just one snake. This guy has a family, and if he’s like my dad, he’s not thrilled that two dimwits showed up unannounced.

“A bit of a fixer-upper, right?” Rob says, but his gleeful expression fades when he sees the snakeskin. I know what he’s thinking. His billboard reads Optimist, Doughnut lover, Convincer. He’s got to sell this Hitchcock house to a buyer who wants no part of it. My interest deflates like a whoopie cushion, tooting the rest of my good mood into the Appalachian Mountains.

“Where’s the owner?” I ask.

Rob walks to a side door and reaches up, sliding a finger over the molding until he finds a key. “He said to let ourselves in.”

Ladies, none of us would walk into this house. We’ve all watched Jason from Friday the 13th chase hapless campers into subbasements. “Don’t worry, I brought bear mace,” Rob whispers, showing me a can the size of a AA battery. Excellent choice. Watching him pepper spray a seven-foot guy sporting a hockey mask is at the top of my wish list. Where’s pantsuit Annie Oakley when you need her?

The door creaks open, and the smell of suspense slaps us in the face. I’ve owned rental properties, so I can identify almost anything: cat urine, old baby diapers, or crack cocaine (burned rubber). I’ve got a nose for it. What I don’t have is a nose for murder.

I once purchased a bargain rental property in an unsavory neighborhood. “When are you replacing the floor?” the tenant asked before lifting a throw rug, exposing a dried, blood-soaked patch underneath. It’s then I learned that the previous tenant got her head bashed in by a baseball bat. And every month, the murdered woman’s sister came to the house in the middle of the night, banged on the front door, and screamed, “You’ll be slaughtered by dawn!”

When the current tenant left for reasons I couldn’t possibly imagine, I scheduled a showing for ten qualified applicants. I let myself in the back and sat in the kitchen, but no one showed up for their appointment. I didn’t know that the town crier scribbled one of her masterpieces and taped it to the front door. “You and your family will die here!” it stated in red ink. I eventually rented it to college kids who seemed less bothered by the murderous vibe and more interested in punching two hundred holes in the walls. I sold the property soon afterward.

We walk into the kitchen, where Rob continues his Good-News Realtor Tour. “Look at these vintage appliances! How cool,” he says while opening a Brady Bunch refrigerator. It makes a clicking sound like a playing card stuck in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. “And a matching stove! I’ll turn on the oven and see if it heats.”

I wouldn’t classify these appliances as vintage. A 1946 Westinghouse refrigerator is vintage. My grandmother had one in her basement. It was as thick as a nuclear reactor and took all your strength to open it. The freezer had aluminum ice cube trays with a lever that, when lifted, promised to separate the cubes but instead launched them like bottle rockets.

“This place is great. We should check out downstairs,” he says. “Can you believe there are two more floors below this one?” I can’t believe any of this, Rob, but let’s continue.

We weave through multiple rooms, making me wonder if this was once a boarding house. But in the mountains? I imagine a bunch of bearded hillbillies, cooking squirrels, and quarreling about Vern.

“He never gathers firewood, but dang sure partakes in the heat, grinning like a groundhog shitting on a maple leaf.”

We walk down another flight of stairs to the basement and find the hot water heater, a discovery that prompts a stoic Rob to deliver his “Never Give In” speech.

“With all the challenges we are facing and the uncertainties of the world, it’s comforting to know we’ll have a hot shower at the end of a winter’s day.” My husband would make a great timeshare salesman, but the company wouldn’t appoint him beautiful properties in the Bahamas or Hawaii. He’d get the grittier assignments like the Atlantic City gig, enticing you into a windowless van before expounding the virtues of a point system more complicated than organic chemistry.

I ignore his grandstanding and scan the room. Multiple doors lead to the outside. “This house is creepy. Listen when I walk.” I stomp my feet on the basement floor. “It sounds hollow.”

Lake NantahalaWe open one of the many doors and step onto more decking. This house has expansive lake and mountain views from all three stories. I hear a motor in the distance and watch a boat pull someone holding onto a tube like a chariot racer.

Weeee, she screams as the waves bounce her into the air. You can’t help but smile when you hear a weeee. Weees are from the heart. They’re better than woo-hoos. Those you hear at bars when friends urge you to drink a Flaming Sambuca. Weeeeing is finding convenient parking and clean bathrooms. It’s the simplest expression of happiness.

“This is the right house. I’m sure of it,” Rob pleads.

“Do we really want a fixer-upper?”

“We don’t have to do everything right away. We’ll take our time.”

“It’s too remote,” I reply. “There isn’t a store for miles.”

“What do we always say? The best adventures are down a dirt road.”

“It’s infested with snakes. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

A car pulls up, and a door slams. The owner has arrived.

 

(Follow us and our Haunted House in The Great Smoky Mountains on our Facebook Page: Adventures of Happier Than A Billionaire

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