We’ve been in Costa Rica for over a month now. The halfway mark has come and gone, and every day it seems like someone finds a way to remind me of how soon we’ll be leaving.
And as that time gets closer, I find that I’m looking for something – anything – to prove to myself that all this has been worthwhile. All the questions I’ve had to answer, all the explaining I’ve had to do, quitting my job, leaving my family… What during this experience has changed in me for the better?
Yesterday at the grocery store we debated. We held the familiar bottle of Bacardi Gold in one hand and the seemingly-exotic Cortez in the other and judged.
Do we go with what we know? Our good ol’ communist friend Bacardi? Or do we take a chance and opt for the not-too-expensive-but-not-the-bargain-but-practical-middle-of-the-road-local-flava?
Okay, so Cortez isn’t local. The bottle says, “Ron superior de Panama.” So it’s rum from Panama? My Spanish is already improving. Go me.
But the bottle is in Spanish, which makes it seem a bit more authentic, no? And while we can’t hide my pasty white thighs or Erin’s bright auburn hair in this town, we can certainly try to drink like the locals.
Or at least that was our reasoning at 7:07 last night.
But today?
Today I know I can most definitely not drink like the locals.
I think the Avett Brothers said it best:
When I drink… I spend the next morning in a haze… But we only get so many daaaays Now I have one less.
The state of Washington – at least the western side – is, in my humble opinion, one of the most beautiful states in the U.S. In Seattle you can immerse yourself in hues of green you thought existed only in paintings or heavily-photoshopped photographs. There’s a reason they call it the Emerald City.
Have I mentioned green is my favorite color?
But of course on the flipside, there’s the rain. It’s the blessing/curse that makes all the verdant beauty possible but, when preempted with continuous overcast, dull gray skies, can start to drag you down after awhile.
So far in this Costa Rica rainy season we’ve been very lucky. It rains almost every afternoon, but that follows at least 5 or 6 hours of heavenly sunshine. Except for the last 3 days. Three days of clouds. And it’s all thanks to Hurricane Matthew which, according to weatherstreet.com, is apparently heading toward Central America in a hurry.
In honor of our very own Hurricane Matthew, Jota (remember those guys?) put together a little something special.
At least the real hurricane is staying pretty far north of Costa Rica.
But anyway, the rain is fitting because someone left us this week – someone we will miss dearly. And even though she left us for a better place – an island off the coast of Florida, to be exact – I think the significance of the fact that we’re not going to see her again before we leave here is only just now starting to sink in.
Meet our “host mother,” Judy. We’re staying in Judy and her husband Gifford’s beautiful home while we’re here, and Judy has been one of the most gracious hostesses I’ve ever had the pleasure of mooching off of – err… staying with.
From her homemade hummus to her vastly better-than-mine beans ‘n rice, Judy has spoiled us rotten over the last 4 weeks sharing her delicious food, vast knowledge of holistic healing, exceedingly comfortable diggs, and, best of all, the pleasure of her company.
Erin and I imagined we’d one day have to share a tearful goodbye with someone on whom we’ve come to lean and ask for guidance, but we never, ever, ever imagined that she’d be the one to leave us! The news came as a bit of a surprise and, as with all great relationships that eventually come to an end due to insurmountable circumstances, it might take us a little while to get over this one.
But we do have plenty to keep us busy. With Hurricane Matthew spoiling our beach plans for the weekend, our friend Carla will be giving us some rainy-day cooking lessons.
We were too shortsighted to take advantage of that with Judy while she was here, and we don’t intend to make the same mistake with Carla. Her “Tico food” is out of this world delicious, so stay tuned for some peeks at how she intends to fatten us up this weekend.
A few nights ago, Erin and I were having a rare, quiet evening indoors. I had just cooked us a dinner of thick quesadillas with sautéed onions, mushrooms, and some type of orange cheese that melted into a beautiful, gooey, stringy mess. Chased with a couple of our favorite Nicaraguan beers, it was decidedly more successful than our attempt at rice ‘n beans.
It hadn’t even started to congeal in our arteries when we heard a knock at the door.
Who could that be? We thought.
We weren’t expecting any company, and the couple of miles on the dirt road that carries you from town to our place of residence may as well be a million to those of our (mostly car-less) friends who dare navigate the labyrinth of potholes in the pitch black of night.
Not to mention the fact that we didn’t hear anyone approach, and our windows were wide open. We’re in Costa Rica and we have no a/c. Our windows are always open.
Erin crept to the door and I followed close behind. You know, to watch her back. Then she opened the door to a most unexpected visitor, indeed.
Hey, I heard you girls are new in town. I thought maybe I could take you out, buy you a few flies, you know… rrrrrribbit…. see where things go.
Then maybe we could head back to my place and take a dip in the pond.
Two days ago the Central American country of Costa Rica celebrated 189 years of independence. It was kind of a big deal.
And while we didn’t see any fireworks here in the little town of Bagaces, the people here proved that they do, without a doubt, know how to celebrate.
People lined the streets to watch a parade put on by school students of all ages. Some were dressed in beautiful (I’m assuming traditional?) clothes.
Don’t let all the jeans fool you – it was HOT outside.
I think the entire town showed up – lining the streets and even climbing trees to watch the parade.
Our friend Karla’s son played the drum.
Oh, the drums.
This isn’t your typical American high school marching band. This was something else. Something spectacular. The rhythm was palpable. And the energy of the players – even through the heat – was incredible. They jumped in the air, throwing the barrels behind their backs like it was nothing. It wasn’t just music. It was a dance. It was intense.
What I learned that day about this town is that the people here are really no different from any small community in the U.S. They love gathering for celebrations, and all of the related accoutrements: eating great food, listening to fun music, and of course, showing off their babies.
By the way, I really think Erin and I are finally starting to blend in.
Pinto, a world-travelling intern from Spain who’s been working here for approximately the past 5 years, always brings strange and wonderful fruits to work and offers to let us try them.
Meet Pinto.
Pinto is a wandering engineer who doesn’t believe in marriage and somehow always manages to get his food before anyone else when we go to our most frequented restaurant here in Bagaces.
And, like I said, Pinto is generous with fruit – fruit he buys from the local street vendors – fruit I’m always eager to try.
But I’ll admit – when I saw this sitting on my desk, I was a little skeptical. I mean – it looks more like a toy I’d buy for my dogs than something edible.
I had to look inside.
Oooh! What’s that? Some type of gummy, gooey, gelatinous substance. Like something out of Alien…
Costa Ricans call this a mamón chino, otherwise known as a rambutan (according to Wikipedia). This is the edible “meat” inside. Should I eat it?
Hells yeah I should. It was good. Tangy, sweet, and a really cool texture. The only thing I did not enjoy was the woody seed I managed to splinter in my mouth with my teeth – the seed I’m just now reading on Wikipedia is “mildly poisonous” when eaten raw.
Oops.
My mistake. This time. But next time? Next time I’ll be ready.
I knew before we came to Costa Rica that the language situation would be a challenge. And when I say “language situation,” I mean the fact that I speak next to no Spanish. Nada. Remember?
I’m lucky so many people speak English here, but I still feel like a standoffish gringo bitch whenever one of the non-English-speaking employees tries to talk to me at work. I grasp at the air, desperately trying to pick up a few words I might recognize in the outpouring of one-sided conversation.
This “situation” has led to more than one embarrassing moment, not excluding the time last week when one of my co-workers came into the restroom a minute after me. She was chatting away, presumably asking questions, judging from the inflection in her voice. Hearing no one answer her, I assumed she was talking to someone on her cell phone. I couldn’t tell, since – you know – I was sitting in the stall, pants around my ankles, oblivious to even the most basic of human interactions in any country – women gabbing in a restroom – that she was talking to me. Duh.
I literally let her go on for 2 minutes while I sat there as she searched for some type of response – any type of response – to let her know that there was, in fact, another woman sitting in the stall next to her and not some psycho person creepin’ in the girls’ restroom. Finally she started calling out names… Vivian? Carla? Erin? (I love how they pronounce Erin’s name here – Aireeen? With a lovely roll of the “r”.) Then, finally – Katie?!
In retrospect that really should’ve been her first guess. I mean, everyone here knows that I’m the ignorant one. So really, the total confusion was her fault. Right?
Anyway. I am picking some stuff up. I’ve learned how to say bitch (puta), dickface (carapichá), and of course, una más cerveza, por favor. I think the most confusing issue for me (and everyone around me) is the fact that every time I try to speak, I’m mixing English, a wee bit of Spanish, and… wait for it… German.
Yes, I’m that girl.
I took German classes all throughout highschool and 3 years in college. So, when I try to speak a language other than my native tongue, I automatically deflect to German. It’s what I’ve always known.
Ein boot? Un barco? A boat.
But crappy Spangermlish aside, I hope my minuscule improvements – no matter how slight and wrought with errors – at least make it known that I am trying. I didn’t want to come down here and presume everyone would accommodate me by speaking in English. In fact, I originally assumed that I’d pretty much be a social outcast, lurking in corners with a drink in one hand, cigarette in the other (no mom, I did not pick up smoking – it ‘s for visual effect), mutely surveilling the Ticos and my American friends as they talk about me not behind my back but in front of my face because I’m just. that. dumb.
And I would have deserved that.
But it’s really not that way here. The patience of some of these people as I struggle through a simple sentence that comes out sounding like a 2-year-old crack-addicted schizophrenic with Tourette’s (Yo quiero un… shit! – como se dice “ride”? – ah, paseo… al la… al la… oh puta. Tienda?) is astounding. And sure – there’s probably the occasional – okay daily – chuckle at my expense, but that would be a human thing – not a Tico thing.
Even while completely surrounded by it, learning a new language is hard. At least for me. And I’ll tell you one thing – it’s far more difficult for the people living in Latin America to decipher my Spangermlish that it is for me to “push 1 for English” in the United States.
I hate feeling tired at all, but especially when the view outside your window is persistently telling me to feel awake, alive and happy.
I hate that the first three sentences of this post start with the words, “I hate.”
Maybe it’s my newly-rejuvenated coffee dependency and the fact that I’ve only had one cup so far this morning.
Maybe it’s the fruity rum drinks, wine and cerveza from ladies’ night on the town.
Maybe it’s the 5 hours of sleep and the slap in the face when I looked in the mirror this morning and realized why – in fact – they call it beauty sleep, and why – in fact – this applies to me now that I’m 27.
Shit.
So what do I love this morning?
Strange, but I love that it was hard to breathe on our walk to work. Whether it’s from the large amounts of chile pepper fumes I inhaled while making hot sauce yesterday or never-dulling beauty of the view along the way, I don’t really care. I love it. I love it near tears.
I love how happy most of the people here are most of the time – even if we’re usually covered in mud, sweat, mosquito bites or any combination of the 3, it’s really difficult to be unhappy here.
I love that I made one of my favorite hot sauces yesterday with my own bare – actually gloved – hands. And am making another favorite today – one so garlicky that its aroma, one of my favorites in the world, just might cover up the musty smell from my clothes that never quite finished drying after the last wash.
No, I don’t have a photo of my clothes.
But I do have photos of the hot-sauce making process. Unfortunately, they’re on my camera. My camera is at Bec’s place.
I hate that I’m so forgetful.
Shit.
Apparently it’s going to be one of those days. Maybe I should just go get another damn cup of coffee.
We jammed a lot into one little weekend. And we’ll tell you about it forthwith. (Can I say “forthwith,” or is that so last century?)
But first, it only makes sense to introduce our motley crew of fellow travelers.
This is Rebecca. I call her Becs.
Becs is quickly becoming one of my favorite people in the world. And not only because she bought us cookies and knows how to pick the bugs out of pasta. She is the extremely patient mother of two beautiful little boys, is as easy-going as John Mayor after he’s had a couple of blunts, and she had the cajones to pack up her world and move to another country – in a town withouta Starbucks. But the best thing about Becs is that she’s always game for a laugh. You cannot not laugh when you’re around her. And laughing is good for the soul. So by my reasoning, so must be Becs.
As far as I can tell, her only questionable quality is the fact that she married this guy.
This is Aaron. Okay, so maybe he’s all right – even though he tried to lock me into an ATM booth in San Juan del Sur.
*Fingers have been blurred to protect the innocent.
Maybe he’s all right because he’s been giving us a place to live and money for food and might – occasionally – read this blog.
But in all honesty, he’s an extremely creative goofball and we love working for him. He makes a mean torti burguesa (we’ll cover that eventually), has a wicked sense of humor, and – though he’ll hate me for saying it – is incredibly generous. He wants everyone around him to have a good time, and that they do. Oh, and suppose I have to give him credit for being the mastermind behind what Erin and I believe to be a soon-to-be HUGE hot sauce hit. He’s the Mayor of Chile Town, and so far all the citizens seem pretty damn happy.
And I have to admit – he and Becs make a pretty fantastic couple.
Then there’s this guy. Donovan. Donovan started working here a few days before Erin and I arrived, but he’s been to Costa Rica a multitude of times. Donovan thinks he IS Costa Rican. (And judging by the way he already knows everyone in Bagaces, I wouldn’t be surprised.) Donovan does not like to be called Donny. And even though he looks like a hardass, we can always count on Donny – err, Donovan, to make sure we make it home okay. He wants to do good things for the people of this country, and I do believe he will.
Matt (aka. “Matteo”) is another one of the interns working in our office. A gifted guitar player and singer, Matteo makes you want to sit around a campfire cooking s’mores and singing songs. Matteo speaks his own language – a combination fraternity boy/California surfer dude mixed with intellectual college grad/insightful world traveler. One who got arrested for stealing manhole covers in Italy. He looks like a thin Jack Black. No, the guy from Into the Wild. No, Syndrome from The Incredibles. Whatever. Matteo’s a trip – the kind who will make you laugh when you think about something he said days after he said it. And that’s a pretty good way to be.
And finally, our group of 7 wouldn’t have been complete without JJ – or Jota, as everyone here calls him. An extremely talented artist, Jota designed all of the luchadores found on the Chile Town hot sauce bottles as well as the town map. When Jota plays the guitar, he inspires. The music flows, eyes close, and you always have to smile. He’s better than he’ll admit. I already know my memories of his music will be my soundtrack to Costa Rica. He’s lived here for a few years – is half-Guatemalan, in fact – and has big dreams of a beautiful future in Central America. I don’t doubt he’ll make it happen.
So that’s our crazy group of wild gringos. I have tons more to share (and so does Erin), but the obscene amount of photos is going to force us to break this down in parts.
But let me give you the quick Nicaragua weekend summary:
We ate fantastic food.
We drank fantastic drinks.
We met some fantastic people.
And we sampled plenty of fantastic hot sauce.
This weekend we traveled to Nicaragua and came out a little smarter, a little muddier, and a lot more appreciative of coming home to a place where we could throw our toilet paper in the toilet – not the trash.
