Is Costa Rica expensive to live in?

Costa Rica isn’t the cheapest country in Central America, but it’s not outrageous either. Daily life costs less than in most major U.S. cities — especially if you adapt to local food and lifestyle. Where it gets pricey is rent in beach towns, imported goods, and electricity if you blast the A/C all day.

What is the average rent in Costa Rica?

Rent depends on location. In San José, a two-bedroom apartment runs $600–$1,200/month. In popular beach towns or suburbs, expect $800–$1,800/month. Rural areas can be as low as $400/month — but you’ll trade off some conveniences.

How much money do I need to live comfortably in Costa Rica?

A single person can live modestly on $1,200–$1,500/month. For more comfort (A/C, private healthcare, imported snacks), budget $2,000–$3,000/month. Couples usually spend $1,500–$2,500+ depending on lifestyle and location.

What’s the cost of food in Costa Rica?

Local produce, coffee, and seafood are affordable (think avocados for $0.50, pineapples for $1, fresh fish at local markets). Imported items, though, are expensive — a jar of peanut butter can be $8 and wine can sting your wallet. Sticking to the local diet saves money and makes you healthier.

A Queer Love Letter to Drag, Broadway, and Big Feelings

Waymon Hudson
Jul 10
3 min read

Classic illuminated Broadway marquee sign glowing at night in New York City’s theater district.

Before I knew I was gay, I knew I loved Broadway.

Before I had language for my queerness, I had drag queens, musical numbers, and big feelings in key change form.

And somewhere between Oklahoma’s burly shirtless men and Rent’s genderqueer street prophets, I figured out that maybe — just maybe — I wasn’t alone. Maybe there was a place for people like me: loud, sissy, emotional, fabulous.

So this is my love letter. To the queer theater kids. To the musicals that broke me open. To the queens who showed me power. To the big Broadway emotions that carried me before I could carry myself.

This is for the drag. For the drama. For the kids in the back row clutching their Playbills like sacred texts.

This is for me.

Act I: Phantom, Shirtless Dancers, and Rent on Repeat

Angel from Rent’s original Broadway cast mid-jump in Santa drag, a joyful and defiant queer musical moment.

I grew up in the South, where queer wasn’t something you were — it was something whispered about, shamed, erased.

But musical theater cracked the silence.

I fell in love with Phantom of the Opera first — the voice, the drama, the cape work. Then Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (read: hot shirtless choreography and accidental queer awakening). Oklahoma. Guys and Dolls. I was obsessed.

And then came Rent — queer, raw, unapologetic. It was the first time I saw a gay man in eyeliner on stage who wasn’t the butt of the joke. The first time I saw queer people sing their joy, their grief, their power.

It changed everything.

As I wrote in my memoir Notes From a Sissy:

“Suddenly, everything made sense. My love of big emotions. Of songs that cracked your chest open. Of tragic drag queens and found family. I didn’t just love musicals — I spoke their language.”

Act II: Drag Queens, Victor/Victoria, and Big Feelings in the Balcony

I saw Victor/Victoria on Broadway as a teenager and nearly levitated. Julie Andrews in a tuxedo. Gender-bending. Glamour. Defiance. A drag queen on stage with plot relevance? Hello?

Heather Headley performing the title role in Broadway’s Aida, surrounded by dancers with arms raised in a powerful stage moment.

Later, I saw Sunset Boulevard on a school trip, and I swear the set changes alone were enough to make me gay.

At NYU, I lottery-won my way into seeing Side Show (iconic), Aida with Heather Headley (transcendent), and Beauty and the Beast starring Debbie Gibson (don’t @ me — it was perfection).

What I learned in all those velvet seats wasn’t just plot and song structure.

I learned that musical theater gave me access to feelings I wasn’t allowed to have. As a boy, I wasn’t supposed to cry, belt, ache, or feel. But Broadway cracked me open.

It gave me a language for grief. For euphoria. For rage. For love.

Act III: Drag Is Political. Broadway Is Protest.

Let’s be clear: drag isn’t just makeup and sparkle. It’s resistance. It’s survival. It’s satire, gender play, celebration, and fuck-you in lipstick.

And musical theater? Same.

You think it’s coincidence that queer people have always found refuge in Broadway houses and drag shows? No. It’s survival instinct. It’s legacy.

From Stonewall to Pulse to the trans drag queens reading to children while protestors scream outside — joy is political. Fabulousness is defiance. Expression is resistance.

That’s why I created Speakeasy — my original Broadway musical that centers queer love, found family, and joy in a dangerous world. It’s set in a 1920s speakeasy where drag, jazz, and queerness bloom in the shadows. It’s glitter and resistance and musical heartbreak.

It’s everything drag and Broadway taught me — poured back into the world.

Curtain Call: For the Kids in the Back Row

Black-and-white portrait of a queer writer and musical creator Waymon Hudson in a spotlight, evoking Broadway stage drama.

If you’re that kid who felt too much and didn’t know where to put it — this queer love letter to drag and Broadway is for you.

If you’re the closeted teen who found yourself in a show tune.

If you’ve ever seen a drag queen lip sync a Sondheim ballad and suddenly understood your entire life…

You’re not alone.

You’re part of a legacy. A lineage. A cast of glorious misfits who use spectacle to speak truth.

And if you’re wondering whether art still matters, whether queer stories still matter — just know this:

A musical saved my life. Drag taught me pride. Big feelings gave me power.

And now I write for the next generation.

💬 Want to see the show?

A Queer Love Letter to Drag, Broadway, and Big Feelings

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