Nekajui, a Ritz-Carlton Reserve

Among the strongest rooms in Central America. The entry-level Ocean Vista categories are generously sized; the Ocean Reserve and Panorama suites with private plunge pools and outdoor showers are genuinely spectacular. Materials are thoughtful — local hardwoods, stone, minimal plastic, hand-crafted detailing — and technology is abundant (automatic blackout shades, multiple lighting scenes, Dyson hair dryers, Japanese toilets, USB-C everywhere). Bathrooms with tubs looking out to ocean views and flow-through outdoor showers are a signature. Two minor notes: privacy screens between some balconies are imperfect, and building placement varies significantly — Buildings 1 and 5 enjoy the superior outlooks, while Building 3 sits tucked back with partially obstructed views. Ask deliberately.

Arguably the most compelling design statement in the Ritz-Carlton Reserve portfolio. The architecture doesn't just "respect the landscape" — it operates within it, embedded into the hillside, with public spaces like the Ambar treetop bar, Cooper's speakeasy (hidden behind a panel inside Puna), and the spa's hydrotherapy pool delivering what can only be described as cinematic moments. The suspension bridge and funicular are genuinely novel; the grotto pool, tucked away for guests who find it, is a small triumph. The atmosphere manages to be low-key and quietly theatrical simultaneously.

This is where Nekajui most decisively distinguishes itself. The Manzu system isn't a rebranded butler program; it's the operational heart of the stay. The best of them — names like Wilson, Samuel, Johan, Pablo, Alonso, Dayshan — operate with a blend of warmth, discretion, and genuine resourcefulness that is rare even at this price point. They anticipate rather than react: framed photographs appear as surprise anniversary gifts, forgotten passports are hand-delivered to onward destinations, cinnamon buns arrive from off-property bakeries because you mentioned them in passing. The broader staff — pool attendants, drivers, restaurant servers, baristas — share this cultural DNA, and the "Pura Vida" affect feels authentically Costa Rican rather than corporate-scripted. That said, consistency remains the property's one genuine service vulnerability. In quieter periods the team can feel slightly stretched at the margins; housekeeping occasionally misses cues; pool setup sometimes lags. The ceiling is extraordinary; the floor is merely very good.

Rates here start high and climb quickly — nightly rates of $2,500–$3,500 are common, with a daily resort fee that has been known to run as high as $245. For what it delivers at peak — the rooms, the service, the setting, the immersive complimentary activities (nature walks, ceviche classes, sommelier tastings, coffee workshops, kayaking, paddleboarding) — the value proposition is defensible and in some ways generous; the resort fee actually buys meaningful programming rather than towel access. Where the math gets harder is during the inevitable service stumbles, or when food inconsistencies strike at these prices. This is a property where everything needs to fire to feel worth the number, and it mostly does — but not always.

The dining program is ambitious and, at its best, exceptional. Puna, the modern Peruvian restaurant, is the headliner — the mixed seafood ceviche, the corn risotto, the Wagyu sirloin, and an inventive cocktail program anchor a genuinely destination-worthy meal. Niri, serving Iberian-inflected cuisine near the beach, is arguably the more consistent kitchen; the yellowtail tiradito and grilled whole fish are memorable. Brisa handles poolside with considerable polish, and Café Rincón — the coffee and pastry bar — has developed a cult following among returning guests, driven by a serious coffee program including tastings and single-origin pours. The weaknesses are twofold: the overall variety is limited for stays longer than three or four nights (a persistent refrain — more Mediterranean, more everyday options would help), and service at Puna in particular has had notable misfires, with at least one meal going genuinely off the rails in ways inexcusable at these prices. The complimentary transport to neighboring Four Seasons and Andaz restaurants is a smart concession to this limitation.

Forty-five minutes from Liberia (LIR), which is a dramatically easier arrival than the five-hour drag to the Osa Peninsula or Nicoya beach resorts further south. The property occupies a particularly dramatic stretch of the Papagayo headland, with genuine wildlife presence — howler and capuchin monkeys, coatis, parrots, the occasional deer — rather than the manicured emptiness of some peninsula resorts. The beach itself is small, cove-like, and volcanic-black rather than powder-white; it is not, and should not be marketed as, a classic beach-resort beach. The peninsula's road network permits walking or free shuttles to Andaz and Four Seasons.