Home Lifestyle - Article seven

It would be a lie to say that I’ve gotten used to life in Costa Rica. Every time I think I’ve seen it all another novelty is thrown my way, always keeping me slightly off balance. Little things for the most part though, like a praying-mantis camouflaged as a leaf slowly swaying across the sidewalk, or the taxi I’m in popping into the air as the driver neglects to slow down for a speed bump. During the two-and-a-half months I’ve been here, though, there’s really only been three times when I’ve been left truly shocked, my eyes and mouth wide-open like a cartoon.
The first time was a late-night earthquake - it exploded through the house as I sat at the kitchen table, the only one awake while I video-chatted with my American friend, Kelly, on the family laptop. When people talk about earthquakes they always tell you how it feels, like a giant’s hand shaking your home. No one talks about the sound, though, a mixture of shaking chandeliers, car alarms, and barking dogs all accenting the deep rumble of the earth splitting. Difficult to say who was more scared – me, or Kelly watching all this happen through her computer screen.
The second was just an example of how little I know about the culture here. After finally getting a cell-phone that worked in Costa Rica, I excitedly entered my friends’ phone numbers and names (slowly, of course, numbers are hard enough in English.) As I typed in my amiga’s name, Sochi, I showed her the screen to confirm I had spelled everything right. She laughed and rearranged the letters to the correct spelling – “Xochilt”.
But I couldn’t just laugh off the third surprise, because it left my previous, ignorant views of Costa Rican culture bent at a 90-degree angle. The third surprise was last night’s dinner.
Both the kids were out, my brother at tennis practice and my sister still at the university, so I sat down to dinner with just the parents. Lidia, my mom here, dished up a mix of meat and cooked vegetables, all poured over the usual rice and beans. I’ve finally gotten over the American fear of mixing food on my plate – no longer does the world come to an end if my salad dressing touches the mashed potatoes. I’m still working on adopting the custom of putting ketchup on my rice though.
We chatted comfortably, (as comfortably as possible when you can’t eat and understand at the same time) and the conversation eventually came round to the fact that I’m going back to the states for a week-long visit in less than a month. I struggled to put my feelings into Spanish as I told them about the morning I had left – the customs line, struggling to carry my luggage by myself, my mother’s tears. “Ah,” Lidia said with a sympathetic smile, “How ugly!” Of course, in Spanish “ugly” has a much broader meaning. When translated, Lidia had really said “Poor thing!”, having had no intention of commenting of my mother’s appearance. (My mom actually looks quite nice when she cries, which is fortunate because it happens during almost every episode of Gilmore Girls.)
“Well,” I said laughingly, “At least she’s had a practice run for when I leave for good next year.” Both my parents stared at me in puzzlement, and I rechecked my Spanish to make sure I hadn’t uttered some vulgar expression. “You know,” I clarified, “College.” Lidia asked me what I meant – wouldn’t I be going back home? “Doubt it,” I muttered through a mouthful of rice. “Maybe for a sandwich or something. But what’s the big deal? Won’t Cati (the 21 year-old daughter) be moving out next year too?” I could tell something was causing a canyon of misunderstanding between us, but had no idea what. Alberto, my dad, slowly told me that he would never dream of such a thing – Cati won’t be moving out until she’s married.
Now it was my turn to be shocked – not moving out until she’s married? Lidia continued to explain that neither my brother, my sister, nor any Costa Ricans for that matter would move out until after their wedding. Suddenly everything made sense – why families seemed so close here, and why my friends’ older siblings always seemed to be around the house when I was there. Alberto noticed my lost expression and asked about the States – wasn’t it mostly the same? “Hell no,” I said. “I’ll be lucky to still have a room the day after I turn eighteen.” (To be honest, my sister back home has already turned my room into some type of art studio.)
Both my parents seemed content to be horrified with this American way of life, and not ask any more questions. But I needed to know more, and I pestered Lidia for answers while I helped her wash the dishes (I’ve yet to see a dishwasher here, and I really can’t say I think they’re necessary anymore.) She told me people live at home until marriage for a lot of reasons – help out around the home, keep close family bonds, but mostly because they don’t have enough money for an apartment. She explained something a little difficult for me to wrap my head around at first – in Costa Rica, it’s illegal to work until you’re 18. And even so, Lidia said that for someone who plans on going to college, it would be completely socially unacceptable to work at a job that didn’t require a degree, like a waitress or cashier. So obviously this leaves a lot of young people stuck at home after college, unable to afford another option. But it has bigger connotations, too. Kids (and young adults, for that matter), are totally dependent on parents for money, even through college. I guess this dependency is what keeps families so close here, and maybe why it seems people grow up slower. Growing up has been on my mind a lot lately, experiencing life on my own here. But I’ve been trying to follow some Costa Rican advice, too – don’t grow up too fast, because you can never go back.