I'm sitting here, reminding myself that I truly am a college student (rather than someone on long-term vacation in tropical paradise) by eating peanut butter with my finger, straight from the container. If it makes it any better, there were crackers too, earlier. Unfortunately, I may have to give in and find a knife, here soon. I'm not sure I can reach the bottom of the container.
What I find most shocking about this whole scene is how outrageously expensive peanut butter is. To begin with, in the super (a place, usually well-stocked with all things Tico and import) they only carry three brands. Two imports (Jiffy and Peter Pan) and one domestic (Nid). All of which are only sold in very small containers and at outrageously high prices. Now, I understand why American imports are expensive, and understandably, the Tico brand is cheaper. It does, however, still seem excessively priced. Jiffy and Peter Pan go for about six bucks a pop for your average small container (I have no idea how much is actually in them) while the Nid goes for (if I remember correctly) a little over half of that, for substantially less peanut butter.
But anyway, I've been craving the stuff lately and finally noticed that it did not exist in my house, so I went to buy some the other day. I just don't understand why it's so expensive. Peanuts are not. Are commercial peanut smashers in short supply? Or do Costa Ricans just not eat it?
In other news, we've been trying to make plans to get down to the Osa Peninsula for Semana Santa (Holy week, which is also my spring break). There are six of us trying to get there, but it's provng a logistical challenge. Most of the appeal of Osa is the fact that it is a barely populated remnant of Costa Rican rainforest covered in national park, ticks, fer-de-lance snakes, beautiful beaches, rain, taipirs and all sorts of other lovelies and, hopefully, largely devoid of tourists. Unfortunately, it is that very beauty which makes it a complicated, expensive trip which I've been tempted to wash my hands of several times. We're not sure how to get around, we're not sure if we can afford a place to stay, we're not sure, we're not sure, we're not sure... but if, if, it works... it should be an amazing experience. So, here's hoping things come together.
In other, other news, the weather has changed and gone from hot, humid but windy and generally nice to hotter and humidder. Yes, humid enough to justify that horrible affront to the English language (just wait til May when the rains come, then I'll truly begin to slaughter my native tongue). I've finally had to start turning my fan on at night. Too bad I didn't think of doing that earlier to ward off the mosquitoes. It works quite well for that purpose.
Outside of all that fun, there is a band paying tribute to the Buena Vista Social Club at a club in San Jose this weekend. If I can rustle up someone to share a cab fare with me, I think I'm going to try and make it. Live music is always a good choice.
Other than that, not much is going on... just another week in paradise :-)
Friday, March 27, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Walk this way...
Back in the day, I mentioned how noteworthy my daily trek to school is. I even hinted that maybe someday I would write about it in detail. I did this knowing full well that the probability of this happening was next to nil. Well, whaddyaknow? Someone's gotta win the lottery... (Not that your reading this will be nearly as cool, but, whatev.)
So. I make a 30 minute trek from the door of my house to (what, for me, amounts to) a central point on campus. There are two buses that I can take which get me closer, but by the time all is said done, I usually don't think it's worth it. I save neither time nor money and I get less exercise. So I trek it.
The trip begins as I step out of my family's carport, close and lock the small door behind me, and turn to face the morning before me. Almost invariably, it is at this moment that I contemplate digging out my sunglasses (usually it's between 8:45 and 9:00 in the morning) and ultimately decide it's not worth it. I'm not sure why I usually decide this, because I'm sure it actually is. As I squint into the morning sun and take off, up the slow incline of Avenida 2, I mentally take stock of all my possessions: Is my money in a safe place? Do I have my keys? Did I remember to bring a snack? On a scale of 1 to 10, how much of a gringa do I look like today? (I seem to have been doing well lately, on this particular note.)
About a block and a half to the east, I get to negotiate the teaming hordes of colegio students (US equivalent of 7th through 12th grades) that cluster, mil, gossip, trudge, meander and lounge around the Colegio Samuel Saenz at all hours of the day. Seriously. I have yet to notice a time of day between 7:00 am and 5:00 pm when the uniformed youth of Heredia are not out and about. Yes, they go home for lunch, but do they ever go to class? Maybe I'll never know.
I pass the colegio, the bus stop, cross the street where my favorite internet cafe resides (frequented primarily by gamers between the ages of 8 and 17 but endowed with largely decent machines), past the taxistas waiting for their next fare and up two blocks where I get to pass first, a bakery filled with and emanating all sorts of delicious smells and then, a butcher which smells decidedly less delightful.
I proceed from there up, what I like to call, the Cubujuqui hill. It is the one noteworthy little mountain in my trip and it runs through the neighborhood of Cubujuqui...hence my ever-so-original name. This involves passing the three aging gentlemen who sit on the red, cement bench, under the gnarly tree, at the bus stop and argue loudly over what I like to think is something resembling politics and the audacity of young whippersnappers these days. I've never stopped to find out but I will one of these days. Then, dodge the buses and taxis to cross a very large intersection next to the futbol stadium and sports complex, only to avoid the much shorter, polo t-shirted munchkins who perambulate without direction, about the primary school that sits at the top of the hill.
It is then another hop, skip and a jump (ie, about six blocks, four taxi dodgings, two pauses to wait for a bus to pass, one moment spent drooling over the adorable puppies in the pet shop window and thirty seconds spent waiting to pass a v e r y slow elderly lady on the narrow sidewalk) before I arrive at the parque central of Heredia. Heredia's central park is precisely that. It is a park in the center of Heredia, bound by rows of shops on two sides, the post office on one and the cathedral on the last. It is always full of people, pigeons, pairs of people making out and on Sunday there's a live band and usually a clown or two. It's a great place to take an hour or two to be local and people-watch, just avoid sitting to the south of the fountain because the wind blows and you will be wet and cold. However, I don't have time for such things as I wend my way to class...
Rather, I cruise past the park pretty quickly, adeptly avoiding the blind man selling lottery tickets on the corner (he wasn't there one day last week, I was worried something had happened to him), past a couple of shops with awkwardly displayed mannequins, a bookstore, an ice cream shop (!), the court house, cross the street again and off I go. From there on in, it's coffee shops, cheap pizza places, internet cafes and all manner of things that appeal to the university crowd. Finally, one block west of the university, I change direction and head north to avoid one of the biggest intersections in Heredia; bordered by a bookstore, Burger King, Papa John's and a university building, it's huge, noisy, smelly and a pain to try and get across any time of the day. Instead, I go up, pass the smaller intersection where three of the city's clubs are recuperating from a hard night, cut to the right, cross the very busy street directly in front of the university campus (that's an experience the first couple times) and ta-daa!
I've arrived!
And that's the story of my trip to school. The end.
So. I make a 30 minute trek from the door of my house to (what, for me, amounts to) a central point on campus. There are two buses that I can take which get me closer, but by the time all is said done, I usually don't think it's worth it. I save neither time nor money and I get less exercise. So I trek it.
The trip begins as I step out of my family's carport, close and lock the small door behind me, and turn to face the morning before me. Almost invariably, it is at this moment that I contemplate digging out my sunglasses (usually it's between 8:45 and 9:00 in the morning) and ultimately decide it's not worth it. I'm not sure why I usually decide this, because I'm sure it actually is. As I squint into the morning sun and take off, up the slow incline of Avenida 2, I mentally take stock of all my possessions: Is my money in a safe place? Do I have my keys? Did I remember to bring a snack? On a scale of 1 to 10, how much of a gringa do I look like today? (I seem to have been doing well lately, on this particular note.)
About a block and a half to the east, I get to negotiate the teaming hordes of colegio students (US equivalent of 7th through 12th grades) that cluster, mil, gossip, trudge, meander and lounge around the Colegio Samuel Saenz at all hours of the day. Seriously. I have yet to notice a time of day between 7:00 am and 5:00 pm when the uniformed youth of Heredia are not out and about. Yes, they go home for lunch, but do they ever go to class? Maybe I'll never know.
I pass the colegio, the bus stop, cross the street where my favorite internet cafe resides (frequented primarily by gamers between the ages of 8 and 17 but endowed with largely decent machines), past the taxistas waiting for their next fare and up two blocks where I get to pass first, a bakery filled with and emanating all sorts of delicious smells and then, a butcher which smells decidedly less delightful.
I proceed from there up, what I like to call, the Cubujuqui hill. It is the one noteworthy little mountain in my trip and it runs through the neighborhood of Cubujuqui...hence my ever-so-original name. This involves passing the three aging gentlemen who sit on the red, cement bench, under the gnarly tree, at the bus stop and argue loudly over what I like to think is something resembling politics and the audacity of young whippersnappers these days. I've never stopped to find out but I will one of these days. Then, dodge the buses and taxis to cross a very large intersection next to the futbol stadium and sports complex, only to avoid the much shorter, polo t-shirted munchkins who perambulate without direction, about the primary school that sits at the top of the hill.
It is then another hop, skip and a jump (ie, about six blocks, four taxi dodgings, two pauses to wait for a bus to pass, one moment spent drooling over the adorable puppies in the pet shop window and thirty seconds spent waiting to pass a v e r y slow elderly lady on the narrow sidewalk) before I arrive at the parque central of Heredia. Heredia's central park is precisely that. It is a park in the center of Heredia, bound by rows of shops on two sides, the post office on one and the cathedral on the last. It is always full of people, pigeons, pairs of people making out and on Sunday there's a live band and usually a clown or two. It's a great place to take an hour or two to be local and people-watch, just avoid sitting to the south of the fountain because the wind blows and you will be wet and cold. However, I don't have time for such things as I wend my way to class...
Rather, I cruise past the park pretty quickly, adeptly avoiding the blind man selling lottery tickets on the corner (he wasn't there one day last week, I was worried something had happened to him), past a couple of shops with awkwardly displayed mannequins, a bookstore, an ice cream shop (!), the court house, cross the street again and off I go. From there on in, it's coffee shops, cheap pizza places, internet cafes and all manner of things that appeal to the university crowd. Finally, one block west of the university, I change direction and head north to avoid one of the biggest intersections in Heredia; bordered by a bookstore, Burger King, Papa John's and a university building, it's huge, noisy, smelly and a pain to try and get across any time of the day. Instead, I go up, pass the smaller intersection where three of the city's clubs are recuperating from a hard night, cut to the right, cross the very busy street directly in front of the university campus (that's an experience the first couple times) and ta-daa!
I've arrived!
And that's the story of my trip to school. The end.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Feelin' good...
Do you ever have those days where you wake up and everything just feels right? Yeah, I get those too. Today wasn't one of them, but I get them. Today was better than that, I think.
I didn't wake up with the feeling that everything had fallen into place and that the beautiful sunny weather outside would be a perfect metaphor for the impending twelve hours. Rather, I woke up and groggily caught sight of the beautiful blue sky and sunshine and suddenly felt massively disoriented. It's March, the weather is beautiful, I'm not in Spokane, I'm not in Battle Ground... What happened to the rain?
But like the pitiful Vancouver snow that used to periodically tantalize me when I was a child, it didn't stick. I beat around this morning, did some laundry, listened to some music, avoided homework and made plans to meet up with a friend and do some shopping. Had a successful afternoon wandering around Heredia, exploring shops and came home to a quiet house. I put my stuff up, grabbed a snack and then got sucked into the interweb for a while (I do try and limit myself, I am in Costa Rica after all...). Sometimes, the tubes suck out your soul but today it actually felt good. I stumbled upon some blogs written and frequented by and for educators. Teachers. Talking. About what they do. About what I want to do. While I sit here in Costa Rica, in the process of learning and experiencing so many things that I can't wait to share with my first class.
Not to blow things out of proportion or anything, but it was kind of inspiring. It got me excited about what I get to do and reminded me of more reasons why I'm in Costa Rica right now. Today, (and this is something I'm going to hold on to desperately because I know it will slip away all too soon) I'm excited to student-teach in a year, instead of just completely overwhelmed.
Right now... it feels like, just maybe, I'll be able to pull this whole gig together. Life, I mean.
That's an amazing feeling.
I didn't wake up with the feeling that everything had fallen into place and that the beautiful sunny weather outside would be a perfect metaphor for the impending twelve hours. Rather, I woke up and groggily caught sight of the beautiful blue sky and sunshine and suddenly felt massively disoriented. It's March, the weather is beautiful, I'm not in Spokane, I'm not in Battle Ground... What happened to the rain?
But like the pitiful Vancouver snow that used to periodically tantalize me when I was a child, it didn't stick. I beat around this morning, did some laundry, listened to some music, avoided homework and made plans to meet up with a friend and do some shopping. Had a successful afternoon wandering around Heredia, exploring shops and came home to a quiet house. I put my stuff up, grabbed a snack and then got sucked into the interweb for a while (I do try and limit myself, I am in Costa Rica after all...). Sometimes, the tubes suck out your soul but today it actually felt good. I stumbled upon some blogs written and frequented by and for educators. Teachers. Talking. About what they do. About what I want to do. While I sit here in Costa Rica, in the process of learning and experiencing so many things that I can't wait to share with my first class.
Not to blow things out of proportion or anything, but it was kind of inspiring. It got me excited about what I get to do and reminded me of more reasons why I'm in Costa Rica right now. Today, (and this is something I'm going to hold on to desperately because I know it will slip away all too soon) I'm excited to student-teach in a year, instead of just completely overwhelmed.
Right now... it feels like, just maybe, I'll be able to pull this whole gig together. Life, I mean.
That's an amazing feeling.
Monday, March 16, 2009
"Welcome to the Caribbean, love..."
Last week was, in a word: long. I managed to get very little sleep throughout the week and by the time I staggered out of class Friday night at eight o'clock, I was drastically in need of an escape. From everything to anywhere. As my good fortune would have it, a few friends had made plans to go to Puerto Viejo and they invited me along. All told, there were four of us. Two left on Friday and the two of us with class on Friday, left at o'dark thirty Saturday morning. I dragged myself out of bed at a quarter to five, threw my stuff together, called a taxi and was off to pick up my friend Anne by 5:15 am. We caught a bus out of Heredia to San Jose where we caught the 6:00 to Puerto Viejo. The morning went off without a hitch.
First, a moment to revel in the glory that is the Tico bus. There is padding and upholstery on the seats. There are curtains on the windows. It is quiet (especially at six in the morning). They make bathroom/food stops. There are no chickens. There is no a/c, but I'm not about to complain about something so trivial as that... That, my friends, is luxury you cannot appreciate until you've ridden for six hours on a decrepit school bus, sitting in a broken seat, in the broiling heat with your only entertainment being the small chicken kept in a towel in the seat next to you and counting the places you can see light through the floor.
Anyway, we managed to miss our stop in Puerto Viejo through a series of unfortunate events (I don't believe I'm stepping on any copyrighted toes here...), finally got off the bus five kilometers out of town, grabbed a cab back in and we were good to go. We met up with our compatriots at the hostel of the weekend, Rocking J's. And yes, it did rock. Though, a good example of the flavor of the place: upon entering, I looked up to see a large, vividly painted and illustrated sign prohibiting the smoking of marijuana just as my nose informed me that, for the most part, it was just a pretty sign. This is also indicative of Puerto Viejo, in general. Anyway, we rented hammocks for the night ($4 a pop, I'm a fan...), stowed our gear in our lockers, got changed and hit the town to grab some food before heading for the beach.
Puerto Viejo is a small city, I would even dare to call it a town, on the southern Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. It owes what notoriety it has and the (almost) fully paved road to get there to the surfing scene which discovered that the coastline here has some of the best waves around. It is also, due to the presence of Costa Rica's only two reefs, home of some of the most brutal. Between the surfers and the relaxed, Caribbean, Rastafarian atmosphere, the whole place is just a lazy day on the beach. While it has a definite tourist vibe, many of them are people who come to further appreciate what's already there and, content with a hammock and a place to stow their board and watch the waves, rather than requiring an all-inclusive resort, it still retains its amazing laid-back feel.
I loved it. We got out, got some sun, got some waves, got some food, met some people... How do you go wrong? Oh, and I finally got back on a dance floor. After dinner Saturday night, we found a bar where a live band was playing all sorts of salsa, merengue, suin criollo and other good stuff. The whole place is full of great music after the sun goes down and I guess it's a good thing I'm not trying to study there because it just wouldn't happen. There's as much to do at night as there is during the day. After things calmed down at Bar Maritza, we headed over to Johnny's Place, the local discoteca, apparently considered the place to be. It was okay, but I'll take a live band over canned music almost any day, acoustics permitting.
I went home early, walking back to collapse in my hammock at about 12:30 (no, I wasn't alone; no, I wasn't being stupid) as I had gotten up before the sun (which is more impressive here, than it is up north, yet). The next day was just a lazy day at the beach before getting cleaned up and catching our bus back to San Jose at 4:00.
There is, of course, always more to tell, but for now, I'll send this out into the void and save the rest for the brave few who skype and email me and perhaps come back to it here later. However, the trip ended up being just what the doctor ordered and will help to get me through a week that looks to be horribly homework laden. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to make it back to Puerto Viejo before my time here is up.
First, a moment to revel in the glory that is the Tico bus. There is padding and upholstery on the seats. There are curtains on the windows. It is quiet (especially at six in the morning). They make bathroom/food stops. There are no chickens. There is no a/c, but I'm not about to complain about something so trivial as that... That, my friends, is luxury you cannot appreciate until you've ridden for six hours on a decrepit school bus, sitting in a broken seat, in the broiling heat with your only entertainment being the small chicken kept in a towel in the seat next to you and counting the places you can see light through the floor.
Anyway, we managed to miss our stop in Puerto Viejo through a series of unfortunate events (I don't believe I'm stepping on any copyrighted toes here...), finally got off the bus five kilometers out of town, grabbed a cab back in and we were good to go. We met up with our compatriots at the hostel of the weekend, Rocking J's. And yes, it did rock. Though, a good example of the flavor of the place: upon entering, I looked up to see a large, vividly painted and illustrated sign prohibiting the smoking of marijuana just as my nose informed me that, for the most part, it was just a pretty sign. This is also indicative of Puerto Viejo, in general. Anyway, we rented hammocks for the night ($4 a pop, I'm a fan...), stowed our gear in our lockers, got changed and hit the town to grab some food before heading for the beach.
Puerto Viejo is a small city, I would even dare to call it a town, on the southern Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. It owes what notoriety it has and the (almost) fully paved road to get there to the surfing scene which discovered that the coastline here has some of the best waves around. It is also, due to the presence of Costa Rica's only two reefs, home of some of the most brutal. Between the surfers and the relaxed, Caribbean, Rastafarian atmosphere, the whole place is just a lazy day on the beach. While it has a definite tourist vibe, many of them are people who come to further appreciate what's already there and, content with a hammock and a place to stow their board and watch the waves, rather than requiring an all-inclusive resort, it still retains its amazing laid-back feel.
I loved it. We got out, got some sun, got some waves, got some food, met some people... How do you go wrong? Oh, and I finally got back on a dance floor. After dinner Saturday night, we found a bar where a live band was playing all sorts of salsa, merengue, suin criollo and other good stuff. The whole place is full of great music after the sun goes down and I guess it's a good thing I'm not trying to study there because it just wouldn't happen. There's as much to do at night as there is during the day. After things calmed down at Bar Maritza, we headed over to Johnny's Place, the local discoteca, apparently considered the place to be. It was okay, but I'll take a live band over canned music almost any day, acoustics permitting.
I went home early, walking back to collapse in my hammock at about 12:30 (no, I wasn't alone; no, I wasn't being stupid) as I had gotten up before the sun (which is more impressive here, than it is up north, yet). The next day was just a lazy day at the beach before getting cleaned up and catching our bus back to San Jose at 4:00.
There is, of course, always more to tell, but for now, I'll send this out into the void and save the rest for the brave few who skype and email me and perhaps come back to it here later. However, the trip ended up being just what the doctor ordered and will help to get me through a week that looks to be horribly homework laden. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to make it back to Puerto Viejo before my time here is up.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Okay, it's official... Today, I'm homesick
Today marks the end of my fifth week in Costa Rica and also, the end of the first quarter of my trip. I get to do what I've done (with a few variations) three more times and then it's "Hasta luego, Costa Rica!" Now, oddly enough, I don't think I had had a moment of true, well-that's-different-and-strange-and-makes-me-kind-of-resent-being-here culture shock until this morning during breakfast. As a result, today, I have to confess to some homesickness that is a little worse than normal. And over such a silly, little thing too...
Morning routines are funny things. Not only to they vary across cultures, they vary within cultures too. What my family does on a lazy Saturday morning is, most likely, not what your family does on a lazy Saturday morning. For one thing, I'm pretty sure I didn't know what a lazy Saturday morning was until college (but I digress...). Knowing this, my first morning here (a Sunday), I found out what time breakfast was and made sure I had enough time to shower, get dressed and see what the usual weekend breakfast dresscode was before I tried stumbling out to the dining room in pjs with the impressions of my pillow still on my face. For all I knew, every Sunday morning there was a massive family get together with the better part of the numerous relations you liked and even more of those you barely spoke to, dressed in their Sunday best and getting ready to look sharp at 11:00 mass. It always pays to be aware you might have to be introduced to someone the minute you walk out of your room... Anyway, it turned out that everyone was dressed but it was a pretty casual affair. I stuck this in my mental file cabinet.
During the week, I always get up and get showered and dressed before I do anything else. At home, in Costa Rica, on the moon, it's just usually how I do things (yes, Dad, vacations are a whole different story...), so no worries there. The first few weekends I was here, my parents were out of town so I was alone for breakfast (don't worry, I was still well taken care of) and so it's not been until recently that I've been able to pick up the weekend routine. Last weekend, my mom came and knocked on my door and woke me up telling me breakfast was ready. Rather than offend someone by not showing up and because I had noticed that it was a pretty casual affair (I would have guessed my madre was wearing something akin to pjs, most days) I opted for crawling out of bed, taming my hair slightly, slipping on some flipflops (barefoot is kind of taboo) and going out to breakfast. In my pjs. I mentioned to my mother that I had just woken up, she expressed her concern, said she hadn't known and if I wanted to sleep through breakfast in the future, that was fine. Ate food. Chitchatted. Moved on with our respective days.
And then, there was this morning. I showed up to breakfast in pjs again. It's not really something I'm comfortable with doing here, but it is one way that I can slowly begin to feel like I'm more at home instead of staying in a nice B&B. Even while at home, I don't usually like to bum around as my scuzzy, unkempt, alter-ego, "Sarah the lazy college student," but every now and then, it's nice not to feel pressured to get going with your day. And one way that I know I'm at home, is that I can do that. Well, today, I found out that pajamas at the breakfast table are frowned upon, even on Saturdays. It was by no means a hard lesson. My mother simply mentioned it and as my pajammed-self sat there and sheepishly apologized she told me not to worry about it because they had never said anything to me. Pura vida. I guess she didn't mention it to me the week before because she attributed it to me feeling like I needed to get up quickly.
The thing is, while I'm sure my family is not going to hold a grudge (as long as I leave the pajamas in the bedroom where they belong, in the future), I now have to acclimatize to this new attitude. For me, with family and at home has always been a place where you could be you. Clean, scuzzy, sad, happy, exhausted, frustrated, spontaneous, dressed-up, dressed-down, anxious, emotional, whathaveyou. There were, and are, standards, of course. But, of all the places in the world, at home was where you could show the truest you. That goes for my family at home, in BG and for my "family" of friends that I've acquired throughout the years.
The funny thing is, I know that this...formality, if you will, is just that. Even though it feels like a big value difference, it's just that things are expressed differently and cultures develop in different directions (sidenote: it's amazing how much climate and environment affect lifestyle in ways you never think of). In spite of that, for some strange reason, it's a little hard not to feel suddenly in a much stranger place than I did twenty-four hours ago and it will take some time to start feeling "at home" again.
Morning routines are funny things. Not only to they vary across cultures, they vary within cultures too. What my family does on a lazy Saturday morning is, most likely, not what your family does on a lazy Saturday morning. For one thing, I'm pretty sure I didn't know what a lazy Saturday morning was until college (but I digress...). Knowing this, my first morning here (a Sunday), I found out what time breakfast was and made sure I had enough time to shower, get dressed and see what the usual weekend breakfast dresscode was before I tried stumbling out to the dining room in pjs with the impressions of my pillow still on my face. For all I knew, every Sunday morning there was a massive family get together with the better part of the numerous relations you liked and even more of those you barely spoke to, dressed in their Sunday best and getting ready to look sharp at 11:00 mass. It always pays to be aware you might have to be introduced to someone the minute you walk out of your room... Anyway, it turned out that everyone was dressed but it was a pretty casual affair. I stuck this in my mental file cabinet.
During the week, I always get up and get showered and dressed before I do anything else. At home, in Costa Rica, on the moon, it's just usually how I do things (yes, Dad, vacations are a whole different story...), so no worries there. The first few weekends I was here, my parents were out of town so I was alone for breakfast (don't worry, I was still well taken care of) and so it's not been until recently that I've been able to pick up the weekend routine. Last weekend, my mom came and knocked on my door and woke me up telling me breakfast was ready. Rather than offend someone by not showing up and because I had noticed that it was a pretty casual affair (I would have guessed my madre was wearing something akin to pjs, most days) I opted for crawling out of bed, taming my hair slightly, slipping on some flipflops (barefoot is kind of taboo) and going out to breakfast. In my pjs. I mentioned to my mother that I had just woken up, she expressed her concern, said she hadn't known and if I wanted to sleep through breakfast in the future, that was fine. Ate food. Chitchatted. Moved on with our respective days.
And then, there was this morning. I showed up to breakfast in pjs again. It's not really something I'm comfortable with doing here, but it is one way that I can slowly begin to feel like I'm more at home instead of staying in a nice B&B. Even while at home, I don't usually like to bum around as my scuzzy, unkempt, alter-ego, "Sarah the lazy college student," but every now and then, it's nice not to feel pressured to get going with your day. And one way that I know I'm at home, is that I can do that. Well, today, I found out that pajamas at the breakfast table are frowned upon, even on Saturdays. It was by no means a hard lesson. My mother simply mentioned it and as my pajammed-self sat there and sheepishly apologized she told me not to worry about it because they had never said anything to me. Pura vida. I guess she didn't mention it to me the week before because she attributed it to me feeling like I needed to get up quickly.
The thing is, while I'm sure my family is not going to hold a grudge (as long as I leave the pajamas in the bedroom where they belong, in the future), I now have to acclimatize to this new attitude. For me, with family and at home has always been a place where you could be you. Clean, scuzzy, sad, happy, exhausted, frustrated, spontaneous, dressed-up, dressed-down, anxious, emotional, whathaveyou. There were, and are, standards, of course. But, of all the places in the world, at home was where you could show the truest you. That goes for my family at home, in BG and for my "family" of friends that I've acquired throughout the years.
The funny thing is, I know that this...formality, if you will, is just that. Even though it feels like a big value difference, it's just that things are expressed differently and cultures develop in different directions (sidenote: it's amazing how much climate and environment affect lifestyle in ways you never think of). In spite of that, for some strange reason, it's a little hard not to feel suddenly in a much stranger place than I did twenty-four hours ago and it will take some time to start feeling "at home" again.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A Day in the Life
So, here in this blog, I've written a memorial, described the book aquiring process, written some pros and cons about the country and made a (less-than) dramatic confession about my chosen vocation, among some other things. What I seem to have failed to do is describe my life, as I know it, in the here and now of Costa Rica. Entonces, for those into the nitty gritty details, here follows an example of a tipical week day in Heredia:
Six o'clock rolls around, sun up and beginning to shine on the upper half of my curtained window, and I blearily awake to the sounds of my host family's 7 month old granddaughter, Daniella, being dropped off, and invariably beginning to cry. I take a glance at the clock, roll over and proceed to make a desperate attempt at sleep (usually in increments of ten minutes, just a weird thing I do) until between 6:30 and 8:00, depending on the day and just how out of sorts Daniella is. I then get up, make my bed, shower and get dressed and then go out to grab the breakfast of fruit + miscellaneous main dish (pancakes, cheese and bread, french toast, etc) that is waiting for me in the kitchen. By this time the rest of the house is going about their independent business, my padre at work, my madre taking care of Daniella, and I periodically have a few words with whoever crosses my path.
After that, I get everything ready to go, make my farewells and head off to la UNA. It's a half hour walk from my door to the central part of the campus. I was going to describe the trip, but decided it was better to just give it it's own entry later. Whether that actually happens, however, is anyone's guess.
Anyway, after the blog-worthy trek, depending on the day of the week, I go to my class in the central campus or catch the university bus up to el CIDE (another section of campus which is most inconveniently up a large hill and currently cannot be reached without going the long way around. You see, there is this river and unfortunately there was this bridge... The past tense being key.). Classes range from an hour and a half to three hours long and none of them meet more than twice a week. I'm taking a Spanish language and Costa Rican culture class along with a colonial Hispanoamerican lit course, a contemporary Spanish lit course and a course which, when translated, is called "Life, Death, Pain and Mourning." It's sort of a psych/sociology hodgepodge of disaster. I'd forgotten how much I hate freshman courses. All the others are pretty cool. I also opted for the (optional for adv. lang. students) three hours of private tutoring a week and I'm loving it and learning a ton at the same time.
I usually come home for lunch; typical fare being some sort of vegetable and meat with a side of, you guessed it, rice and beans, and if I'm lucky, a platano for dessert. After that it's time to study, either at home or wherever else I can carve out a niche for my gringa self (though leaving home to study gets problematic, I find myself people watching instead and getting nothing done).
Dinner is between six and seven, I often eat with just my madre as my padre doesn't get home from work until late, typically. We eat and chat about whatever comes up, topics as varied as common recipes in our respective countries to (one of my personal favorites) how to get a man to do whatever you want (needless to say, I was primarily listening on that one). After dinner I help clean up and do the dishes and then usually retire to my room where I read, do homework, and periodically revel in my native tongue with some tv shows in English. A travesty, I know, but every now and then you've gotta do it. And then between nine and midnight, I go to bed and it starts all over again.
Anyway, it's not the hammock-lounging-beach-gazing-surfer-ogling-tropical-paradise lifestyle that some would have it to be, but I'm okay with it. The little adventures keep things interesting. And hopefully, this weekend, I'm off to Volcan Barva...to finally get out of Heredia again :-)
Six o'clock rolls around, sun up and beginning to shine on the upper half of my curtained window, and I blearily awake to the sounds of my host family's 7 month old granddaughter, Daniella, being dropped off, and invariably beginning to cry. I take a glance at the clock, roll over and proceed to make a desperate attempt at sleep (usually in increments of ten minutes, just a weird thing I do) until between 6:30 and 8:00, depending on the day and just how out of sorts Daniella is. I then get up, make my bed, shower and get dressed and then go out to grab the breakfast of fruit + miscellaneous main dish (pancakes, cheese and bread, french toast, etc) that is waiting for me in the kitchen. By this time the rest of the house is going about their independent business, my padre at work, my madre taking care of Daniella, and I periodically have a few words with whoever crosses my path.
After that, I get everything ready to go, make my farewells and head off to la UNA. It's a half hour walk from my door to the central part of the campus. I was going to describe the trip, but decided it was better to just give it it's own entry later. Whether that actually happens, however, is anyone's guess.
Anyway, after the blog-worthy trek, depending on the day of the week, I go to my class in the central campus or catch the university bus up to el CIDE (another section of campus which is most inconveniently up a large hill and currently cannot be reached without going the long way around. You see, there is this river and unfortunately there was this bridge... The past tense being key.). Classes range from an hour and a half to three hours long and none of them meet more than twice a week. I'm taking a Spanish language and Costa Rican culture class along with a colonial Hispanoamerican lit course, a contemporary Spanish lit course and a course which, when translated, is called "Life, Death, Pain and Mourning." It's sort of a psych/sociology hodgepodge of disaster. I'd forgotten how much I hate freshman courses. All the others are pretty cool. I also opted for the (optional for adv. lang. students) three hours of private tutoring a week and I'm loving it and learning a ton at the same time.
I usually come home for lunch; typical fare being some sort of vegetable and meat with a side of, you guessed it, rice and beans, and if I'm lucky, a platano for dessert. After that it's time to study, either at home or wherever else I can carve out a niche for my gringa self (though leaving home to study gets problematic, I find myself people watching instead and getting nothing done).
Dinner is between six and seven, I often eat with just my madre as my padre doesn't get home from work until late, typically. We eat and chat about whatever comes up, topics as varied as common recipes in our respective countries to (one of my personal favorites) how to get a man to do whatever you want (needless to say, I was primarily listening on that one). After dinner I help clean up and do the dishes and then usually retire to my room where I read, do homework, and periodically revel in my native tongue with some tv shows in English. A travesty, I know, but every now and then you've gotta do it. And then between nine and midnight, I go to bed and it starts all over again.
Anyway, it's not the hammock-lounging-beach-gazing-surfer-ogling-tropical-paradise lifestyle that some would have it to be, but I'm okay with it. The little adventures keep things interesting. And hopefully, this weekend, I'm off to Volcan Barva...to finally get out of Heredia again :-)
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