war zones

Maybe it was the fact that I woke up to “Tangled up in Blue” five times this morning. Yes, five, that is how many times I hit snooze on this rainy Costa Rican morning that involved me dragging myself out of bed to an internet cafe to type my paper on Tica customs in a short story.

Maybe it was the fact that I watched a pirated copy of Dear John with two friends this afternoon. Though the movie was drastically different than the book, there is nothing like a chick flick to bring back fond memories of the gringos that once dominated our conversations. Or maybe it was the memory that my mother once compared my final relationship before leaving for Costa Rica to be similar to that of a wartime romance: short, intense, but like I keep saying…always with an expiration date, a point of pending doom.

Maybe it was the excessive time me and my friends have spent simply bitching about Tico guys. In the words of a girl from surf camp: “what is up with you Tico guys?” Their gringa radar has failed to keep up with their ability to know what to do with us once they catch us. Many of us, Taylor being the exception, have stories of Ticos that make us want to bang our fists on the ground and scream “uncle,” finally realizing that those damn gringo boys we left in the States weren’t as bad as we whined about.

In any event, some combination of these events led me to put in one of my increasingly rare calls to the United States of America. As I picked up the phone at 9pm (11 US time) and began to dial the only number that I use frequently here that I don’t have memorized, I heard the all too familiar noise of gunshots.

Yes, nearly nightly I fall asleep to the Spanish Harlem lullaby of gunshots. An investigation conducted by my host family a few weeks back led to the result that the gunshots come from the property behind me. “Don’t worry katie,” they said, “the guards told us that they shoot the bullets at the ground.” Umm excuse me? Yes, I feel better now knowing that a stray bullet can be ticked off my list of nightly concerns.” But what,” I persisted, ” are they shooting at?” The answer came with a shrug of the shoulders: “intruders, trespassers, whoever comes on the property.” Ah good. Good.

Between the tremors, the volcanic eruptions, the gun shots, the giant spiders that are invading and the drama, I am starting to feel like my life in Costa Rica is a social war zone.

As the phone began to ring I heard a familiar voice yell out a hello, I cursed myself for calling. “Go, Go have fun with your friends,” I begged, hearing the clamor of the bar in the background- a noise I have become on close terms with. “No, no, no! I can talk for a little bit.” Ahh, that response always sets me at ease, especially given the gunshots that had just made me cringe once again. The bar noises faded and as the conversation began I found myself craving not only the company of the voice on the other end, but that the spot from which said company came, was a short drive away rather than a not-so-quick flight. I wistfully thought of small town…fine, small city…USA, and chuckled to myself that the bar in that small city was one I wouldn’t be able to enter for four months after I got home. I yearned for winter scenes in that same small city, dinners in sweatpants at fancy sushi restaurants, long talks on self-discovery over thai, and stops at local liquor stores to pick up local micro-brews to split after a drive up empty roads towards the bright lights of a nearly empty ski mountain. Though I’m wise enough to realize much of this, if not all of it, may not still be a part of my life upon my return, you can’t help but long for what you don’t have.

As I pined for Bob Dylan songs and that Northeast landscape, I thought about all that had been talked about today. I spend a lot of time rambling about how much harder my life is here, then so much more babbling about how much easier it is, and what I think I never contemplated is that maybe my life is exactly the same. Sure, my classes are easier, but I walk a mile in pouring rain to get to them. Sure I can have fun at the clubs, but I get creeped on all night. Sure I can travel every weekend, but I fall asleep to spiders and gunshots. Jack Johnson sings “beauty will follow wherever she goes.” Maybe the line needed to be “tropical storms will outbreak wherever she goes.”. I spent a lot of time thinking my life was less dramatic here: no sorority girls to spill beer on, no phone calls waking me up at 2am begging for a ride, no fratty bullshit to deal with, no apartment drama, no…well, no anything. Hah. I didn’t realize that being in your 20s meant these things were inherent parts of daily life. I thought about Elysia’s drama with her Tico friends, and my own as well. For the record, the condensed version goes as follows: I went of four great dates for the hell of it with a Tico. I knew it wouldn’t last and didn’t want it to for a variety of obvious reasons. However, I got dumped after 4 dates under the premise that he wasn’t over his last girlfriend. This was a true statement, and I shrugged it off and moved on. When he changed his mind a few days later, apologized and explained, I once again shrugged my shoulders and accepted three more dates. Though it always was casual, I enjoyed the company. Plus he was the brother of my closest Tico friend. Needless to say, when I was dumped a second time for the same reason, I was a little hurt. I enjoyed having a consistent dance partner! I got over it, since I never really cared to begin with. However, when it was reported to me that he had kissed one of my closest friends in the program, I raised my eyebrows and said “what is up with you Tico guys?!” I quickly realized two things: (1) I can’t stand
Tico boys and (2) I can’t stand girls. My program is 90 percent female. In other words, this country is my battleground. Let me out!!

Of course these thoughts all happened in a split second, and quickly I was kicking myself again for even caring. Everything that matters to me isn’t in the country. I mean sure, Latin America matters to me in regards to the direction I see my entire life heading, but the tangible and emotional…it isn’t here, and it never will be. Everything here was a means to kill time, fill voids, and momentarily forget what we were missing from home. As I heard the thunder begin to crack on the other end of the phone line, I realized that no matter where you are, our worlds are our own forms of war zones. We are always fighting between who we are and what we want to be, between our needs and our desires, between our reality and our dreams. Oh sure, some days are tranquil and calm, but others are days where we dodge showers of bullets. We earn Purple Hearts and medals of honor, and we keep pushing forward, not really knowing it it’s the civic duty, the innate responsibility, the desire for a challenge, or simply the inner masochist in us all. Or maybe, maybe it’s that we knowing we’re fighting for the greater reward, whatever that may be.

As the raging thunder boomed all the way from Massachusetts to Costa Rica, the distant voice on the other end of the line said with what sounded like a smile: “see what I put myself through to talk to you?” Over 3000 miles south, the rhetorical question was answered with a smile. Suddenly I knew exactly which war zone I belonged in…the one I’ve been fighting for all along.

That being said, it’s time for another weekend at the beach. Sun., surf, and sand seem like a great idea to me right now!

Infinite transience

This past weekend marked my sixth trip to Nicaragua. As of now, I have officially been to Nicaragua more times than I have been to Canada. There is something wrong with that statement. It also marks the fourth country I have surfed in. I find there to be something pretty sweet about that, given that surfing is a new hobby for me.

As per usual, I found myself legitimately considering how I could relocate my life to Nicaragua. I don’t find bartending in a beach town to seem very appealing, as incredibly drunk people drive me crazy and I watched the appallingly rude behavior of said drunk people at the local bars (note: you look like a moron when you slam on the bar and scream for the bartender, make me feel pathetic when I realize that you just ordered in English, and always cause others to shoot sympathetic glances at the bartender because of your toolish behavior). No, I am concerned I would “accidently” spill too many drinks. Furthermore, I seem to have an issue with infinite transience. If I were doing a bogus job, barely making ends meet, and simply doing it to fulfill my need for adventure and restlessness, I would be forever thinking of what my next step was. I have realized just how much I hate feeling like my life is on hold, just waiting to punch me in the face when I return to the real world. Still, I am bound and determined to move South one day, even if only for six months to a year.

This goal caused a Canadian to question me. On the long TicaBus ride back to Heredia, a 23 year old and very handsome Canadian asked me a question that I haven’t heard in a long time: “well, don’t you want to get married and have kids?” Actually, it sounded more like “weel, dontcha wanna get mahried and have keeds?” but that is besides the point. Also besides the point is that I spent the better half of the bus ride accusing him of liking Celine Dion. Both of us refused to take accountability for her, and he told me I was incredibly rude to assume all Canadians liked Celine Dion. I didn’t let up and am still convinced he was upset when the bus drive changed from the Air Supply/BeeGees/Celine Dion playlist to a violent action movie.

ANYWAY, I hadn’t really thought about the answer to that question in awhile. I mean yes, obviously, I do, but the life of a perma-traveler has been sucking me in. Every minute I spend in a hostel, I drool a little bit more at the backpackers that sit and tell their memories of Colombia and Peru, and point to maps of their upcoming routes through Guatemala and El Salvador. The infinite freedom they have is the thing I envy the most. Well, that and the complete lack of inhibitions, social barriers, and the excuse to constantly be just a little greasy and wear the same clothes every other day (which have morphed into something that looks like either a cat ate them, you’ve owned them for 30 years, or should be at the Woodstock museum). This is something I want in my life. I want to take a giant trip of Latin America, not stopping until I can literally say “I’ve seen everything.”

I have already sat down to draw up plans for my giant Chile-Argentina-Brazil adventure, but I am well aware that financial constraints are ever-present. Most backpackers I meet have either quit their jobs or are on unemployment. These are two things that go against my general code of conduct. So instead, I find other educational purposes to travel, creating the answer to the question of “where are you going next” to always be “Back to Costa Rica. I have school tomorrow. A test, actually.” Though some envy my return to 3 square meals, relatively clean living conditions, and a small sense of permanence, that envy is short-lived.

On the other hand however, this whole infinite transience things has its drawbacks. In one weekend alone, I made some excellent friends. Of course I can’t call them that because they have been a part of my life for a mere 5 days and probably will never return to it again. See the following case studies:

Friday was marked by a rough morning for two of my friends, some people just cannot handle their Flor de Caña or their Toña. Others of us were nearly raised on it at this point. The end of the night before had marked our separation. Their night continued where as mine ended in a short walk back to the hostel, made safe by four Israelis who had been teaching me Hebrew and had just finished their required time in the army. I mean seriously…when do you meet people that cool? I tucked myself into bed in our private room and had the best sleep of my life. The next morning my friends and I missed each other, and thus began our mismatched schedules. Essentially, I was roaming independent in San Juan del Sur, and anyone who knows me knows that’s the way I would want it to be.

I guided myself to my favorite beach in the entire world, Playa Maderas, and finally encountered my friends. Though we enjoyed some time together in the waves that were more powerful than I have felt ever in my life, they deemed themselves too tired and hungry to stay at the beach. It being only 2:00, I opted to stay. Another girl who had been surfing (attempting to surf that is, the waves were terrible), came to say hello. She was alone too, and we discovered that we were the same age, she was Canadian and went to McGill, and were both studying abroad. She had just finished up in Panama. We shared travel stories and thoughts, and talked for a solid three hours before returning back to the hostel we were both staying at. In any other context, we would have been considered fast friends. Instead, we were simply two girls, in the same situation, who would probably meet up to hang out later. We would friend each other on facebook, and most likely we will never speak more than 10 words again, despite the fact that we had similar interests, views, and plenty to talk about. It was all situational.

Needless to say, I ate dinner alone at my favorite Soda, the one Carmelo and I had frequented daily back during my 2007 trip to SJDS. Unlike the breakfast I had eaten alone their, this time a group of surfers from my hostel called me over after realizing that I had been out on the waves that day as well. We discussed all things interesting, shared travel stories, split Toñas, and teased each other for our nationalities (Canadian, Australian, Dutch, USA). I can’t tell you a single on of their names. Infinite transience.

As I was leaving the Soda I recognized another face from the hostel. He had been wearing a Mets shirt earlier, and felt it crucial to comment. We discussed the Mets and their uncanny ability to blow it. I found out he had just quit his job in Heredia. I remembered his name. Eric. We later found out that we both played college ultimate, knew of the same tournaments, and here is kicker, his girlfriend went to Roanoke College. He had partied with Roanoke’s finest, and had studied abroad with more of them. He was traveling with another guy, Justin, who also had spent awhile in Heredia. We had frequented the same bar, had mutual friends, and had been in Bocas del Toro at the same time. We had actually been in the same bar, on the same night, and when I asked if he remembered a girl wearing a sailor hat on 80s night, he said he did, and I informed him that had been me. I began to wonder how many times in my life had I passed this guy on the street, seen him at the bar, maybe even ridden on the same bus? The three of us wounded up spending the rest of my time there together, and Justin and I literally would stay up almost all night talking politics, travel stories, interests, world views, hashing out relationship problems, discussing our childhoods…everything and anything. Come 4AM on Saturday night, 6 hours before I had to leave, we were still talking. Around the time when we needed to go to our respective rooms and attempt to get a few hours of sleep before free pancakes and noise of hungover-stumbling began, he said something that sums up the existence and eternal battle of the traveler: “I never know what to do here. You meet someone while traveling, you have a great connection, but you realize you’ll most likely never see each other again.” We agreed on being Facebook friends, but the truth is that our friendship, excellent as it probably would be, inevitably would end when I walked out the door with my backpack and surfboard. Infinite transience.

So what does the traveler do? We’re stuck in a world of non-permanence. We want to see everything and do everything, and maybe knowing that everything will change quickly is what makes the traveling so rewarding, but we are stuck with our lives on hold until further notice. It’s in many ways the ultimate way to live, a reputation following you almost nowhere (though I did run into a girl I had hung out with in Panama over a month ago!), and the freedom to escape any situation or person at a moments notice. Yet we never settle, we meet people that could be the best friends we ever had, and we are stuck living a life that is literally surreal. The challenges are never the ones the real world poses. How long can we live this way? How long can we put are dreams on hold? What is the right time to “grow up” and accept that one day, these six month jaunts will only be a week long and to 3-star hotels that are appropriate for children? What happens when the day comes that beers on the roof, hours of surfing, friends for all parts of the globe, and a willingness to talk to anyone no longer exists?

We are better people when we travel. We are open, accepting, tease only lightly and in fun about cultural differences, learn new ways of talking or cooking or playing games, explore everything, quit for nothing, take care of ourselves, budget the best we can, and in many cases, work out a hell of a lot more.

My trip this weekend included something around 9 hours of surfing, meals that cost me a total of $12 (for 4 days), meeting people from Australia, Holland, Germany, Israel, Nicaragua, England, and who knows where else, and talking about things that actually mattered to me. I don’t know how much better my life could be. However, it all ended when I got in the taxi to my house.

In other news, there was a 6.1 tremor here that I missed, Arenal just erupted (no one was injured), I have secured a job for winter, but still not for summer, and the guy next to me seems to be having sexual relations via chat. Ew. I have 27 days left here with plans for a trip to Panama and a hike up the tallest mountain in Costa Rica (the second highest in Central America). In between the boatloads of tests and papers, I intend to live the next 27 days to the fullest, and embrace this transient stage of my life.

Top 10 Reasons Gringos Can’t Survive in Ticolandia

10). The horn honking. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it at all? Some of us value our eardrums.
9). Please, walk slower. I don’t have anywhere to be until the next ice age.
8). Shit just ain’t always Pura Vida, mae. And that’s okay.
7). I get it. You have no army. But you also have a police force large enough that it could fill Rhode Island.
6). Books are acceptable objects and it’s okay to sell them!! Photocopies of 300 page textbooks on the other hand…not so much.
5). The USA did not colonize you, nor are we singlehandedly responsible for the degradation of women as a result of our involvement in the Vietnam War. We’re sorry, we did a lot of crap…but those are not two of them.
4). You have three kinds of beer. Three. Stop trying to tell me that they are god’s gift to the alcohol industry.
3). So much trash on the ground that you could probably do a historical study on evolution of commerical production and social eating habits in the past two decades does NOT equal ecologically friendly.
2). 100 meters to the Southeast corner of the house that used to have an apple tree but now is a bar that burned down in the fire of 2003 but people still go there to drink, 300 meters to the Northwest church that is painted pink and purple and looks like a cake, and 200 meters east to the rustic house near the Rostipollos that once was robbed….is not an acceptable set of directions. (Please watch the Gringo Pinto video on YouTube for more information)
And, the number one reason gringos die in Ticolandia…
1). NO, I don’t want no scrub, scrub is a guy who can’t get no love from me, hanging out the passenger’s side of his best friends ride, trying to holla at me….so no, I don’t want your number, no I don’t wanna give you mine and no, I don’t wanna meet you nowhere, and no, I don’t want none of your time.
No one says it better than TLC. The honking, the asking us out, the staring until you crash your car, and the very close proximity of your face to mine is NOT going to make me like you anymore than I already do. I DON’T WANT NO SCRUB.

Love you Costa Rica…!

why Costa Rica hates Gringos

I have successfully found one more reason for Costa Rica to hate gringos. This one comes in the form of academics.

Yesterday, I had my proudest moment yet in Costa Rica. I walked into my Political Economy class yesterday like it was a death sentence. We were going to get our tests back. If you have read my previous entry, this was the test that made me want to pull out my hair and bang my head on the table, and I was confident I had failed it. When I turned in my test, I laughed as aI walked out.

As I walked to the execution site, aka Profe´s desk, something was wrong. He was smiling at me happily instead of sympathetically. As he rummaged for my test I heard him say “Kurtessis got the highest grade in the class.” My shock led me to respond to him in English, which I translated rapidly as “You´re lying. That´s not true.” When I heard the class start to exclaim things that I think were “good job” (but they could have been “What? The gringa?”) I picked up my test and saw that with the curve, I had busted out a 96. I can´t remember the last time I got a 96 on anything to be honest. Classes at Roanoke do NOT permit a 96. Ever. You can ask the New York Times (see: http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2010/04/18/education/edlife/20100418-Edlife-Data-gr.html?ref=edlife). I looked around at other people´s exams, which I have noticed to be a common Tico custom, and saw that all I was seeing around me were low to mid-80s. Damn straight. The ONLY non-native speak in the class got the highest test grade.

Needless to say I returned home and requested that Doña Zeidy hang my test on the fridge. She obliged happily, and I plan on leaving it there til this feeling of absolute elation wears off. The highest grade in the only class here that gives me a headache and challenges my every brain cell!!!!

Now for a legitimate reason and a complete change in tone.

For the first time in years, literally years, I have seen the sort of inhumanity that makes me want to vomit. I am not being dramatic or superfluous. When I see things that affect me, I physically gag and feel nauseous. Unfortunately, my formative high school years got much of this illness out of the way. As I have said before, I became so hardened to poverty that it no longer had the same effect on me. After visiting homes and communities in trash dumps, it is hard to see anything else that has the same emotional force.

Interestingly enough, poverty is the only thing that can truly warrant this reaction from me. Granted, poverty is an all-encompassing topic as many terrible human rights violations happen to impoverished people, but nevertheless, I have never physically reacted to things like war or oil spills. I don´t deny that they´re equally appalling, but for some reason, nothing angers me and makes me more ill than poverty does. The injustice of it is simply on another level in my mind.

Even more surprisingly to me, is that a movie was able to do this. Now I´m first going to state that the movie on ethical and educational premises was excellent. The casting of Jennifer Lopez and the slightly outrageous plot definitely distracted from the general purpose and message of the movie, but nonetheless, the point was made and it was made powerfully. The movie is called Bordertown.

The movie is about the maquiladoras in the border town of Juarez, Mexico and the strange disappearances of thousands of women in Juarez. Many turned up dead, but the police and government chose to mask the root of the problem, blaming forces other than the effects of globalization, foreign intervention and presence in Mexico, and of course the absolutely disgusting repercussions of NAFTA and CAFTA. There is suggestion that the police ARE the cause of the problem, other suggestions that it is the dueños of the maquiladoras, others that is bus drives, others that it is drug lords…but no one really knows. I suggest this article: http://www.rwor.org/a/v24/1161-1170/1166/juarez.htm

I don´t know how accurate is, but it is from a much more journalistic perspective than the material from Amnesty International. The trend of these murders are all the same: violent, involving sexual violation, and all to poor women who work in the maquiladoras.

This is their payment for trying to make a better life for themselves. Taxes require them to work in this factories, and now they´re forced to live in a terrible squalor AND in fear of death all the time.

My two points:
Corporate greed is a murderer. Our incessant need for more and cheaper has actually caused death.
and
Hello United States, can you stop bitching about illegal immigration? Don´t you realize that we’re at fault just as much as anyone else is? Look at what we give the people in Mexico, is anyone really surprised that they try to escape to find something better? Our greed, our selfishness, our behavior is killing them. And we blame them for trying to come here?

Now I know not everyone will agree with those statements, and I know there is no easy solution to these problems. We can´t simply close up the maquiladoras because, we all know well, every story has two sides. The argument that the maquiladoras stimulate the economy is not a simple one, but some would support that side. I also know that we all contribute to these problems, and so it´s hard to legitimately critique them when my money surely has gone to this fund.

So what do we do? I don´t know. I realized this morning, while watching this movie, that this is what had changed in me. The anger I have for the world somehow faded. It´s worthless to go through life always being angry, and I have over the years come to the very bitter realization that in the end, there is little I can do, but I have missed this fire I had for so many years. I think I hit a point where it all seemed overwhelming. I realized that me going into politics probably won´t help a thing, and though my little contributions here and there are better than nothing, this system of inequality will always exist.

However, watching this movie I remembered some memories that had faded. Seeing Nicaragua´s absolutely abject poverty made my visions of Mexico fade. Today I remembered being that girl in 8th grade, who had crossed the border into Mexico with my Mom, who was completely overstimulated by the Spanish, the bright colors, the vibrant movement of the people, and then…the shacks on the hills. Today I remembered being the 9th grader who had the opportunity to go into a home in Mexico, separate from my teenage friends, and see how people really lived, to speak Spanish with them. I remembered that I sat on the bus, quiet, crying as I thought about how unfair it was that this was a vacation for me and I would go home to my comforts. I felt so guilty. Nicaragua´s poverty was so much more striking, that I had forgotten about these moments that made me who I am. These moments that made me go to Nicaragua. These moments that are at the very core of who I am today and why I do what I do. Hell, if not for these moments, I wouldn´t even be in Costa Rica right now. Somehow, I had let this slip away from me.

I guess when you analyze the problem, when you research it and study it and beat the thing into the ground, it becomes and scholarly subject for you rather than a social issue. When you spend your days reading about dictators and crooks, it suddenly becomes a topic in school rather than something that gets you fired up and driven to do something.

Costa Rica certainly hasn´t done that. Their poverty is hidden from the tourists instead of in your face. I am sure this is a reason for their success. On the surface, there is no fear or guilt or uncomfortable feelings like the ones that are ultimately inevitable in Nicaragua. In Nicaragua and Panama (unless you fly direct to Bocas), you cannot help but see the real truth of the matter. People who think Costa looks poor are fooling themselves. Here, I find myself looking under rocks and behind bushes to find out where they´re hiding it. As my friend Renee has put it, the whole Pura Vida thing seems to be one big scam. As we discussed on the bus, you could wake up one morning having lost your truck, your dog, and your wife and if someone asked you “¿Como estas?” you would still say “Pura Vida.”

So honestly, I don´t know what we do. I don´t know what I do. All I know is that, as I have always believed, sitting at home won´t do a thing. As long as you´re out there seeing it, experiencing it, believing it, I think it is a step in the right direction. As long as we stop turning a blind eye, I think it is better than nothing. This world will never be perfect, but a sense of understanding for it might guide us in a more humane direction.

I end on an excerpt of an Oscar Romero quote that I recommend looking up, and if you don´t know who Romero is, I recommend checking out the film Romero

We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way…We may never see the end results, but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker…”
-Oscar Romero, “We Plant Seeds.”

Heredian nights

My right arm is sore from fist pumping too much. This is a legitimate statement. I have spent the last few days this week fist pumping to techno music, soccer cheers, and a personal Jersey Shore party that my bicep aches and my deltoid is a tight. I´m suddenly not surprised guidos are so jacked.

This weekend (keep in mind weekend for me means Wednesday through Sunday) has been one of those weekends where I simply relished in the fact that in my world, I am young and invincible. I can fall asleep as the sunrises and be up in time for lunch and simply smile at the fact that I am too damn young to care. Some people would deem this immature and if I had any trace of responsibility here, other than my own personal safety, I might agree. But honestly, there is nothing stopping me from living the dream. Someday I won´t be able to live my life like this so I might as well enjoy it now and fist pump away.

Putting my weekend down in a solid statement makes the whole thing relatively unfathomable, unless of course you know me and are aware that this sort of thing is far from abnormal for me.

This weekend I: woke up at 4AM to bus up to La Fortuna where I hiked up the dormant volcano Cerro Chato, 3800 feet over the course of 1.5 miles all through primary rainforest, made it back to Heredia and stayed out until 4AM at the casino (thus making me awake for 24 hours straight) with Taylor and Gerald, spent the next day at the championship soccer game of Sapirssa vs. San Carlos where I screamed my lungs out cheering in Spanish, fist pumped excessively, jumped around and did the wave, made it onto tv somewhere as I ran through the streets of Tibas yelling “viva Costa Rica,” ate a healthy dinner at Burger King with friends before a jaunt in the central park after we ran through Heredia waving our Saprissa jerseys, and then going to the bar, where Taylor, Renee and I proceeded to make friends with EVERYONE who was wearing a Saprissa jersey. Taylor and I fought over who was really dating the bouncer, Amber, and repeatedly got our new friends into trouble for blowing the noisemakers we´d brought from the game. After the bar shutdown, we ran through Heredia chanting Saprissa cheers, and returned, once again, to the casino. The blinking lights were no longer fascinating and so Renee and I, along with the student body President of UNA went to Miraflores for some good ol´ Latin dancing. Renee and I stayed out dancing til 5AM, and as I went to bed the sun was coming up over the mountains.

If that isn´t the quintessential summary of what it means to be young, I don´t know what is. I guess maybe if you add in that we never pay for anything anymore, that could be a good part of the definition as well. Maybe too that I sit here now doing my homework on a Sunday, we have a pretty good definition. My legs are tired from dancing and hiking, my arm from fist pumping, and my voice from yelling, but I feel very much alive and well.

For those of you who would like some details on my glorious weekend, I am happy to share them here in terms that are a bit more descriptive.

Thursday meant a trip to San Jose to pick up bus tickets. Beth, Alex, and I are all venturing to Nicaragua this Thursday. It´s a visa run for Beth and a surf trip for me. This upcoming trip will give me the chance to say I have surfed in four countries, and have been to Nicaragua six times. All in all, an impressive feat. As usual, roaming through San Jose was a mix of exhilirating and depressing. The city speaks for itself as street vendors try to sell you pineapple, avocados, and pirated movies, and defines itself as Alex, Beth, and I witnessed a man literally taking a dump in the street. There is nothing golden about the grit and grime of San Jose, and its failure to be any sort of remarkable capital city is apalling, everytime.

Friday my alarm woke me up at 4:45. I through on hiking clothes that I literally had not worn since my employment at Fowler, shoveled down some gallo pinto as power food, and set out through the quiet streets of Heredia. Walking in the silence, hiking boots in hand, I felt so incredibly content. Renee and I boarded a bus to San Jose then dashed to our 6:15 bus to La Fortuna. The four hour ride was long and overcrowded, and we arrived to an incredibly cloudly La Fortuna. It was literally impossible to see the volcano. Given the size of Arenal, this is shocking. We hop in a taxi to the trailhead and pay a useless $10 to get in. Renee and I quickly learn that they weren´t kidding when they said it was a steep and difficult hike. Both of us find ourselves panting and the mixture of alititude and the fact that we were essentianly on a Stairmaster at level 9 for four hours straight. The grassy path turned to roots and rocks as we entered into primary rainforest. It was beautiful and silent. I have never seen anything greener and more lush in my entire life. Unfortunately, the term rainforest came well into play as a torrential downpour started, thus making the already muddy path nearly impossible to conquer. We we finally made it to the summit we were greeted by a view of…absoutely nothing. Arenal was SOMEWHERE in front of us, but we couldn´t see a damn thing. We were still proud of ourselves, and dined lavishly on cliff bars and fruit punch. We waited patientally, hoping the clouds would clear, and when we realized it was hopeless we began the descent. If the way up was a stairmaster, this was like bouldering in a sea of mud. Renee faceplanted, I wiped out four times in rainforest mud, but we had the chance to see a giant family of armadillos on our way down. When we finally made it down, we were proud of ourselves and called our cab driver who took us to a river to wash up. We swam quickly before getting back in the cab to make it to our 4:00 bus.

The bus ride was a hair-raising experience as the thing wound through curvy mountain roads and dueled with tractor trailers for control. Luckily Renee and I were too busy giggling at the man behind us who was playing My Heart Will Go On and the Rolling Stones on his cell phone, and the farm boy in front of us who was quiet good looking. We weren´t timid about it. If they can stare at us, damn well we can stare at them. We made it home by 8:30 and Taylor and Gerald persuaded me to meet them out at Bule. It´s hard to say no to the San Carlos group, and the cold, hard truth that in 35 days they will basically cease to exist in my life makes saying no even more difficult. Though mi payaso was there and making the night incredibly frustrating, Tay, Gerald, and I salvaged it with a late night run to the casino. The casino turns into a sort of club come night time, and we danced amongst the flashing lights of slot machines to techno music. Fiesta

I grabbed some sleep before leaving at 2PM the next day for the Saprissa vs. San Carlos championship game. We made it there by 3 and got in the line to wait for the gates to open at 5PM. We got great seats and joined in on the wave, screamed Saprissa cheers and obscenities about a game that means nothing to us in the end, and fist pumped all day. It was an amazing game, Saprissa won 3-0 and as the game ended fireworks exploded directly over our heads. We ran out into the streets and jumped around screaming Saprissa and highfiving everyone with a jersey on. There is television footage somewhere of us, it will be my life goal to find it.

We made our way home where dinner was an unhealthy, but delicious, trip to burger king, followed with Imperial in the park with some ISEP girls, and a trip by Taylor, Renee, and myself to Bule. We didn´t stop the party and waved our jerseys in the air, and made friends with everyone wearing purple. We followed this up with a trip to the casino, followed by Miraflores where we danced until the sun came up.

I can´t complain. It´s nights like these that force me to question my desire to leave Heredia. We were running this town last night, in our world at least, and the comfort of it was undeniable. The quick trips to the volcanos is something I could never take for granted.

Fist pump.

Creepin.

I gotta say one thing:
I AM SO DAMN TIRED OF ALL THE GUYS CREEPIN HERE. They´re not even DANGEROUS, they all try to be so nice, but at the end of the day it´s exhausting. It´s walking down the street and they want to talk to you, it´s finding you on Facebook through a mutual friend, it´s sitting at a table and them somehow deciding you´re the greatest girl ever for them.

I don´t WANT to go on dates here, so stop asking. I gotta get back to the States where I couldn´t get a date if I tried.

On that note, I have to share a funny story. Last night, my cab pulled up to the rotunda. I got in and the cab driver was one of the friendlier ones. He wasn´t creepy either. They either don´t speak to you or they ramble on about how you´re so beautiful and why don´t you have a Tico boyfriend. Blechhh. This one was the rare middle ground, where they make idle small talk, but express interest in your presence in their car.

Cab driver asks me where I´m from, and I say the US. The following conversation ensues:
“Really? You don´t look Gringa.”
I nearly choked.
“I don´t? What do I look like then??”
“I don´t know, not gringa. All gringas are tall, skinny, and ugly.”
I was nearly rolling on the floor laughing at this point.
“Really?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “it´s not that you´re fat, you´re not fat. There is a difference, but you have a body. I hate those really skinny girls. You´re athletic looking.”
“Well, the guys in the States love the skinny girls.”
“Gross!”
“Maybe I should move here then.”
“Yep, I think you should.”
“What do I look like then?”
“Australian. Definetly.”

So apaprently I look Australian. Later that night everyone stared at me and agreed. I´m not getting it, but I am amused.

the expiration date of milk versus processed food.

Some of my greatest realizations have come to me while sitting at Bulevar over an Imperial.

Last night I was enjoying the Tuesday night re-instated tradition of burr (beer) post-mind numbing-literature class. Ironically, we grab beers in order to give us a fighting chance at regaining control of brain function. Yes, the class IS that bad. It doesn´t help that we can barey understand the books given to us and rely of communcation our thoughts through completely bullshit analyses of text that we don´t understand, and some version of Spanish Spark Notes. My comment on the forest representing the juxtaposition between freedom and slavery? Yeah. Had NO idea what I was talking about. I just knew the book was something about roaming the jungles of South America, so i figured the comment would be appropriate. It was. I made the whiteboard for the first time! Gringo power!

Anyway, sitting in Bule, I looked around. It was Gringolandia, and I was not liking it. Alexis and I noticed a huge group of gringos and spent a good 20 minutes analyzing if they had just arrived or if they were leaving. NO ONE goes out to the bar in groups of 20. The round of tequila shots provided a some confusion. Were they celebrating the beginning or the end? The camera…trying to capture last minute pictures? Or naive enough to bring a camera out to Bule? Finally Alexis and I noticed some certain factors: they were all nicely dressed (Alexis and I had on a sweatshirt and a too big Bocas Local Locura shirt on, respectively), they were pasty, they LOOKED young, and they all looked like they were trying a little too hard.

As we stared at them as much as Ticos stare at Gringos, we came to the realization that we didn´t miss those days at all. The days of bewilderment, confusion, excessive excitement, ignorant bliss, and the days when the bar was like “totes cooler than ANY frat party” instead of simply a place to meet, talk, and decompress about the following subjects: class, Ticos (specifically TicOs, not TicAs), homesickness, torrential rains, and soccer. The bar for us has become either the place where we socialize because there is nothing else to do, or bow down to the Gods of Guaro, knowing our problems here are usually irreperable by anything but. The bar is no longer used as a means to go out and drink for the fun of it, is no longer a substitute to the lost weekends of college life, and none of us feel any cooler before/after/during a night at the bar. In fact, we usually feel worse about ourselves knowing full well that the accesibility of the social scene of the bar has become too much of a habit. None of us can fund any sort of legitimate drinking habit/problem, but we whine about the fact tat there is (a) literally NOTHING else to do, it´s not like we can go watch a movie at someone´s house and (b) and this social element is giving us a beer belly. Gross. We all imagine it, the reunions with friends where, much like the one in Sex in the City goes: “AHHH HOW WAS COSTA RIC….Ahhh…yeahhh” as they see the bar belly, as Marie Claire so politely put it.

Anyway, despite this bitterness, this social trend is undeniably Tico. Bars are not reserved for Friday, Saturday, and the occasional Thirsty Thursday, but rather if I want to see my Tico friends, I know all I need to do is stroll by Bule or FoFo. Cultural relations and understanding? Check. So as we partake in this Tico habit, I sat on my stool and realized the godforsaken and somewhat shocking truth: I am comfortable here. I will miss Bule when I leave. I will miss walkimg these Heredia streets, as the weaving path through garbage and dog mierda has really improved my balance and coordination. Heredia has become as familiar to me as the streets of the Sunny (Salem), and habits are something you inevitably miss. Don´t get me wrong I am looking forward to a return to my Gringo life, where I come home to roommates or family, and don´t have to strain my neck looking left-right-left-right-left-right every second as I walk down the street, expecting to get robbed any second, but I can´t fight it. Heredia is leaving a mark.

When I begin to think about leaving as something that is sooner, rather than later, I feel like the sky is falling down and the ground is moving up. I feel trapped. My heart pounds, my chest feels tight, I feel stranded. I don´t want to go down into the earth nor do I want to go up into the sky. I want to have both, just like I always did. 39 days is not a long time. 39 days and this hybrid of years of anticipation, followed by harsh and cruel let down, followed by pure desire to go home, and now all of sudden the feeling of something slipping away from me, will all be over. I no long know what I feel. I physically crave the United States. Sometimes I feel like I´m reaching out, trying to pull it towards me, and can´t reach far enough. Yet somewhere inside me, the realization that once again, another aspect of my life has an expiration date, is painful.

I´m so damn tired of living my like like it´s a carton of milk. Trying to ration and savor every bit, but knowing full well that one of these days the expiration date will come, and it will go to the trash. I´ll buy a new carton, but it will be the same old thing.

True, I dread the day I get a real job and the thought of resigning myself to a house in the suburb and taking a vacation once a year to some foreign land nearly induces panic attack and feeling of suffication, so I am grateful for what I have now, but as we all know, you don´t know what you´ve got til it´s gone.

I sat in Spanish class this morning on the bittersweet blend that this realization has invoked. I thouht about everything I still want to do: Nicaragua, Bocas del Toro, Tortuguero, Corcovado, climb Cerro Chato, Puerto Viejo…and nearly stopped breathing when I realized the simple fact: I am out of time. All of these things? NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I pulled out my agenda, and wrote in Nicaragua for next weekend. I wrote in Bocas for the second weekend in June. I looked at what was left. 3 weekends. Including this one. I mentally prioritized and penciled in Corcovado for the last weekend of May, and Puerto Viejo for the first weekend of June despite the fact that I have to be back on Saturday for a lame-o ISEP trip. That left this weekend and my plans for Lena´s birthday party on Thursday and possession of the rare commodity of Saprissa vs. San Carlos Championship Soccer Game tickets blocked out Saturday. I would have to say no to Tortuguero and Cerro Chato. How could I say no to Cerro Chato?? Come to Costa and never hike a mountain?? After I´d wanted to hike Cerro Chato for months? No. Not happening. I was unwilling to give up Bocas and Corcovado, so I´ve pencilled Cerro Chato in for an exhausting day trip on Friday. No one is stopping me from hiking the closest thing to Arenal and the ending it in a waterfall bath.

Well then what about my friends? I´m just going to bail on my Tico friends? Miss out on house parties with Geme and the San Carlos boys? Give them a quick kiss on the cheek goodbye come June 18th and leave them just like that? How will any of us do that? Nearly all of us have friends here, and despite our constant bitching about those “DAMN TICO BOYS” almost all of of us have either had a boyfriend or gone on dates. Talk about the ultimate closure. My seven date run with the boy I refer to as mi payaso may have ended lamely, but what, I literally never see the kid again? Weird. What about Renee and her ex? Or Lena and her boyfriend? Thoughts like this were odd when we first got here, but let´s be honest: we were here for 6 months. You make friends. You go on dates. You make a life for yourself. Then what…you leave a life behind? How strange.

As much as I am ready to go home here, I like who I am here. Low-stress, responsibility free, lusting after perfect beach breaks and longboard skateboards. My phone calls to the US, to places of potential employment, and met on the other end my gruff, disgruntled, Type-A sounding receptionists and employees that make me wonder if New York is going to be a pessimistic weight on a carefee lifestyle when I return? Here, inhibitions are limited.

Let´s talk about the plans I just made. It´s a Wednesday and it is already my weekend. Renee and Alex suggested a movie, my hyperactivity made that sound insufficent. Instead, we decide we want to obtain clothes worth of Jersey Shore stars and sit somewhere and do homework. That sounds like a great idea. But first we´ll meet at Burger King.

My biggest worries come from missing club team tryouts, stress of mail reaching me in Costa, and pretty much anything that relates itself to the USA. What´s up with that? Maybe it´s because that is where my real world is. This is just some fake bubble that a huge part of me wants to pop, but realizing the lack of responsibility and inhibitons make it something I should savor and float with, rather than look at with bitterness.

I mean I have literally run out of thoughts here. I have begun walking to school with my IPod, as bad as an idea as this will probably be, because I have nothing left to think about. If I want to zone out, I have the purposefully THINK about what I want to think about. Nothing comes naturally. I have already lusted over my June 20th Phish tickets and craved the lake and the streets of Delmar so much, that there is not a situation I cannot envision and tell you about in excessive technicolor detail. I am out of thoughts.

I know it´s time to make my exit, because no one should ever become a professional at weaving through trash and blocking out pick-up lines, and the sheet with my address and phone number in Heredia has become so tissue thin, that it is ripping in my hands and warning me that one day, it´s going to crumble and I´m no longer going to have an address or a destination.

One day, I´ll come back to Central America, and be unable to say “I am currently living in Costa Rica.” One day, I´ll be a tourist again.

Oh to be a box of overly synthetic food and never have an expiration date.

games with spiders.

Playing peek-a-boo with giant spiders translates to approximately 30 minutes of sleep.

I have never been a big fan of spiders, my entire family can vouch for this, but my ability to co-exist peacefully with them has drastically improved in the past 7 years. Maybe it was the brown recluse my first year on outcamp, the black widow 2 summers ago behind the lean-to as I was grabbing leaves to wash dishes, the 4×4 sized giant in the latrina in Campos Azules, or the dangerously hairy creature in my hotel room in San Juan del Sur. Who knows. Either way, I have managed to make peace with my phobia. For example, there has always been a giant spider on the ceiling in my stairwell, but for FOUR MONTHS he left me alone. So I left him alone.

UNTIL LAST NIGHT. We were living together peacefully. I stayed away from his skylight, he stayed out of my bedroom. I acknowledged his presence every night, and I´m sure he acknowledged mine. I won´t say we were friends, but we certainly were acquaintances. Needless to say, when I walked into my room last night and switched on my light to find Mr. Giant Spider a mere 2 inches above my hand, I froze. It was like a bloody car crash, where all I could do was stare. No, it was worse than that, because at least in an emergency I am capable of lending a helping hand. All I could do was stare, and walk slowly to get my hiking boot, AKA my go-to bug killer when not using out-of-date fashion magazines.

However, with weapon in hand, I still could do nothing but stare. It was a damn big spider. It was going to make a mess on the wall. I began wondering if the mess would be black? Brown? Red? I was frozen on the spot. I couldn´t do it. Memories of jumping spiders came back to me, and I suddenly had an image of my last moments before death-by-toxin being me, holding my feminist literature, copy of La Voragine, and a hiking boot. It seemed like such a terrible way to go. Plus, it was halfway behind a small photo frame.

As I began to build up confidence, I banged to wall to get it to move away from the frame so I´d have a clear shot. What happened? DAMN THING RAN BEHIND MY BUILT IN SHELVES.

Thus began our game of peak-a-boo. I studied for 2 hours, much longer than necessary, and at midnight finally decided to turn in, since my exam was at 7AM the following day, plus I still have an essay to write. I compromised with myself and the green-community and left the light on, knowing that the spider would run free if the light was off. I kept one eye on the shelves, and sure enough, it´s 2 inch long legs started to peek out slowly from the shelves. First 3 legs, then 4, then the whole thing appeared! I sprung up, gasping, ready to slam it into the wall, and it ran behind the shelves again.

This happened at 12:30, 1:00, 1:55, 2, 2:30, 2:55, 3, 3:35, 4, 4:33, and finally at 5AM I decided I needed it was too light outside for the thing to bite me. Yes. I stayed up all night in fear of a stupid spider.

Sometimes I wonder how I was ever a wilderness guide. I guess it´s because when I´m on the spider´s turf, it´s cool, I get it. Spider, you´re on MY turf this time and I ain´t having it. Plus, in the ADKs, curling up inside a sleeping bag does not immediately translate to the equivalent of sleeping in a sauna. Well…at least I realized all the toxins in my body. GROSS.

Memories flowed back of Nicaragua this morning when I explained the situation, and my entire family laughed at me. Can´t say I´d blame them, I´d laugh at me too. Doña Zeidy was understanding though, and fumigated my room and promised me a dead spider when I return…though she was laughing the whole time.

She was laughing even more than when I called her hearing cat-like, than when I told the chiquitos that all I ever hear them say is “mae” (sort of like the Costa Rican “dude”), and when I taught her the word gold-digger, explaining that the current President was probably a gold-digger since she married a guy that was older than her parents. She´s going to put me on the new tv show “Gringos Say the Darndest Things” if I´m not careful. That show doesn´t actually exist. But I might invent it. COPYRIGHT. RIGHT NOW.

On another topic, I have currently entered my version of Lent. I think it may be sacrilegious the way I modify religious topics to meet my life situations. On the other hand, it proves that my 18 years of Sunday school and Disciple classes paid off.

I´m sure you´re confused. I say Lent because I have exactly 40 days and 40 nights left in Costa Rica. Okay, so it´s not the same, but if you think about it enough, it totally is. 40 Days of wandering. 40 days of giving up…negative thoughts about Costa. I have FORTY DAYS. It seems like a lot, but I know full well that it is anything but.

What do I want to do before I leave? SURF! Climb Cerro Chato! Go to Tortuguero, Corcovado, Puerto Viejo, and make one last trip to Bocas del Toro. This is not physically possible, but oh well. What do I want to bring back? Comales! Tang! Dunkaroos! Guaro! My sanity! A good tan! No cockroaches! DUNKAROOS! This is an important one…the dunkaroos that is.

So I´m off to swim my regular mile, even on 30 minutes of sleep. Gotta to get the arms prepped, I am hoping to go to Domincal to surf for a couple days, and then make it back to check out the Saprissa-San Carlos Championship game. San Carlos is my team, but unfortunately they just lost, so it´s pretty hopeless. I also don´t dare wear a San Carlos jersey to the Saprissa stadium given where our seats will be. Oh well, I´ll just have to rock a jersey that says BIMBO across the front. Yes Mom, I will bring you one home to wear for jersey day at school.

Love from the land of the spiders, bogus group tests, and lifeguard tans.

A shout-out

I would just like to take a moment to wish everyone reading a Happy Mother’s Day! It may not be Mother’s Day in Costa Rica, but all of us gringos are lovingly calling our Mothers to offer a long-distance, not quite the same, apology for having brought such challenging children in the world.

I bet my Mom never thought on that first Mother’s Day in 1990 that one day she would be stuck with nothing but a phone call because her daughter was off galavanting in Costa Rica.

On behalf of my program, I offer an apology to all the Mom’s we have left behind, knowing full well that they spend everyday worrying about us and taking care of us the best they can from abroad.

I wouldn’t be in Costa Rica if it weren’t for my Mom. She has made my time here exponentially easier, and I may just have flown home in March if it weren’t for her constant ability to listen to me vent, while I’m sure her days at work were a lot crummier than my days in the sun in Costa Rica. When I need something, she is there, when I am upset about something, she is there. This blog wou’ldn’t exist without her, I’d be running wild in Sunny Salem.

So thanks mom, I miss you, and love you very much. I can’t wait to have a great summer with you in New York.

Spending days with Princes and Presidents

I spent my day today in a park with 13 of my nearest and dearest friends. 11 Presidents and two Princes…oh, and one Noble Peace Prize winner. This would come across as surprising to most other people, but I´ve started to learn that occurences like this are simply part of my daily life in Costa Rica.

Costa Rica was sleepy when I left the house this morning, which is a feat within itself for 7:15 in the morning. I walked down the quiet street and the wind lifted my skirt up reminding me, for the thousandth time that flowy skirts plus Costa Rica equals comfortable fashion for me, peep show for everyone else. I knew it would be a long day of me holding my skirt down. I passed by a Dad walking with his son. The Dad was balancing on the rails of the train tracks while the son giggles at his father. Too bad it wasn´t a mother and son…I could have made a fortune off a last-minute greeting card submission. The main road through Heredia is quiet too, and I realize it´s mostly for the inauguration. No, it doesn´t mean all of Costa Rica is there, it simply means that a lot of Costa Rica was given the day off. At least in the public sector. Many businesses closed at noon yesterday to honor the occasion. I think it´s great that Costa does that. Everyone should celebrate a change in power. I mean hello…democracy at its finest?

As I think that I hear three police sirens blaring, and my first thought is : great, someone already tried to bomb something. For the first time in my life, my United States hypersensitivity is kicking in. After being raised watching the Secret Service create a human shield, helicopters guarding the air around the President, and inaugurations that are harder to get into than a Yankees/Red Sox game where they reincarnated Babe Ruth and Elvis was singing the 7th Inning Stretch, I have come to assume that all political figures are moving targets 24/7. Needless to say, I was wary of an inauguration that was being held in a public park. How well can you secure a park? Especially given you don´t even have an army (yes Costa, we know, since 1949, and it is wonderful). Nevertheless, I figured getting blown up would be worth going to at least on Presidential inauguration in my life.

Instead what I see is three motorcycles stopping on the empty street in front of me. As they stop I see two SUVs with Costa Rican flags come speeding around the corner. SWEET! It´s a motorcade! Okay, it was a small one…but still. A motorcade!!!! As if I wasn´t already excited to go to the inauguration, I am now!

I met Katie and Beth at the explanada of the U, and we make like Arias after his term is over to the train station. Haha, I made a Costa Rican political joke. Yeah…it probably wasn´t that funny. Anyway, the train was free into San Jose today at 8AM, as so we took advantage of that $1 savings as we boarded first class.

After an exceedingly long train ride (no one understands why it takes so long to get to San Jose when it is literally 10K away), we deboarded…disembarked…I don´t know the word, off into San Jose. This was not before a careful warning from a train worker (in English mind you):

Be careful. This place is very dangerous.

Um. Thank you sir? You should have heard the tone. It sounded like Batman, or Superman, or Rhett to Scarlett. We´re constantly frustrated by the amount of English spoken to us, and the assumption that we have no idea what we´re doing, but the nice man was just trying to be dramatically helpful. It´s hard to hate on that.

We make the hike to La Sabana, a walk that took approximately 45 minutes but only ONE time of asking for directions! We ogled at the things you could buy on the street: sunglasses, pirated DVDs, laundry hampers, trial-sized deoderants…you know, the usual.

When we arrive to La Sabana I think we are all thankful to see much of the park is roped off and guarded by police…yep, the same police that are staring at us and checking us out…and you have to pass through a metal detector wand to get in. It´s not quite Secret Service standard, but it´s enough to put us at ease. We enter at the perfect time to hear the long list of people we are standing within 150 meters of. Of course there is the long list of somewhat important people, but the list of REALLY, FREAKING AMAZINGLY IMPORTANT people is enough to make us Latin American politic nerds nearly keel over. Ready?

The Presidents of: El Salvador, Ecuador, Guatemala, Honduras, Panama, Mexico, Georgia, Lichtenstein, and, get this…NICARAGUA!!! I WAS STANDING LIKE 150 METERS FROM DANIEL ORTEGA.

The Princes of: Holland, Georgia

and of course, the changing Presidents of Costa Rica, Oscar Arias and Laura Chinchilla. Laura, if you don´t all know, is the first female President of Costa Rica, and I believe the 4th or 5th in Latin America.

Now if standing 150 meters from Daniel Ortega wasn´t enough to bring me to my knees, I nearly passed out when I got within five feet of Oscar Arias, now-former President of Costa Rica and Noble Peace Prize winner, and Laura Chinchilla, now President. Photo evidence is necessary, I´m sure:

New President of Costa Rica

AHHHH!

Amongst all this excitement, there was a break where Beth, Katy and I took a walk. On our stroll we met the drivers from many an embassy, and some lovely police officers. Pictures are available on facebook. They gave us water bottles, food, and their phone numbers. Oh Ticos.

Coming down from the excitement of a day like that is nearly impossible. Thankfully a long walk (we couldn´t find the bus stop) and a solid sunburn help. I can´t believe I had such a great experience.

I would love to stop there, but I can´t neglect the rest of my week and a few thoughts I´ve been having….

First thought: I wonder if I will know my own name when I go home? After months of being called baby, macha (blonde girl), KAH-TEE (my host family literally hangs up on anyone who says my name Kay-Tee), reina, mi amor, and whatever other terms have been thrown at me, I respond to almost everything BUT my name. It´s kind of like when Ticos speak to me in English…I hear something familiar, but I don´t understand what they´re saying. I´ve become so accustomed of expecting one thing, that when I hear another, I´m baffled.

Second thought: I finally understand the strange body-types I see in most of the world. The tinyyyyy lower half, and the larger upper half? Yeah, that´s because everywhere else in the world you walk: A LOT. I´ve started to realize that all my rice and beans has lovingly gone to my stomach, and my muscle has all picked up and re-located to my legs. Thanks Costa Rica.

Third thought: MY BODY BENDS LIKE THAT??? On Thursday I had great luck. I was the only one who showed up to my yoga class. I had a private lesson, something that would normally cost around 40 to 50 dollars an hour!!! I paid the price in muscle pain. That woman moved my body in ways I didn´t know it moved. I never felt so strong and so weak all at once. She had me supporting my whole body on just my abs, on just my hands, on one leg…lord only knows. I felt great after though, of course, and I have to say…I might mock all this good energy/bad energy sort of thing, but I love doing it. I love the physical act of “releasing” energy from your body.

Fourth thought: Swimming is crucial. After another mile swim on Friday, I once again felt invincible. One mile in the water means little pain and a plenty of time to think in silence…except, that is, when I pop by head up and hearing the stereo blaring the classic songs from the US of the 1950s-the 1990s. I will never tell you I dislike it. Ever. I love it. I need to swim more. Even with the rapid resurgence of a lifeguard tan, it´s worth it.

Fifth thought: Whoever hated on frats, never met the one I hang out with. My package came this week from the lovely Nick DeSanctis, and was filled with a PiKap t-shirt and cup, 3 DVDs, a coloring book that I have certainly put to use, and 3 letters that were the most perfect things I have ever read. They´re good guys. For this, I repped their cup at the inauguration today. I poured my bagged water into it. Yes, I said bagged water.

Sixth thought: A great phone conversation with Evan, the discovery of a music festival run by Wilco, and the purchase of my Phish tickets for basically the DAY I come home makes me SO excited. I fall asleep dreaming of Phish.

Seventh thought: Happy Mother´s Day to all of you Moms out there. You put up with a lot…especially mine. I hope you all take the day off! I miss you Mom!

Oh and Mom? Ortega sends his love. He thought our Contra Bar picture was a riot.