Running in the City - Article five

In a lot of ways I feel like a toddler here. Obvious things -- not fully understanding the language, not knowing what I’m going to be fed, feeling lost in the Costa Rican culture. But under all that, it’s the lack of freedom that really makes me feel like a child – no longer can I just get in my car and drive away.

Last Saturday morning that trapped feeling really hit me as I stared out the open window. On an impulse I grabbed my shoes, yelled to my Costa Rican mom, “I’m going for a run – I’ll be back when I’m tired,” and walked out the front door with just my house keys and the equivalent of two dollars. I should explain myself -- I don’t run that much in the states. The way people just happily jog for hours has always baffled me – I get bored after about 20 minutes. But here… this wasn’t running. This was exploring.

Of course, I’d seen glimpses of the surrounding city before, flashing by as my mom drove me to school. But stepping outside, being suddenly immersed in it, alone, was almost more than I could handle. In the first block every possible smell washed over me - the stench of a trash-filled stream was swiftly replaced by the mouthwatering sweetness of a street bakery, only to fade as a truck burped exhaust into my face. Runners are ignored for the most part here, and no one seemed to notice as I looked, wide-eyed, into every home and shop, most no bigger than just a hole in the wall. Being that shops are so small, they’re normally extremely specific, with names like: “Manuel’s Fresh Chicken Thighs” or “Assorted Pictures of Jesus.”

Unfortunately, my “Alice in Wonderland” high ended as I came to my first obstacle – the main road. (Speaking of which, the new “Alice” movie is being advertised everywhere here, except that the way they’ve written the title translates to “Alicia in the Place of Marvelous Objects.”) I stared out at the street, unable to figure out what seemed so strange about it until I realized the drivers were treating this two-lane road as if there were three and a half, passing each other constantly. It was a bit unsettling, but after a childhood of playing “Frogger” I was confident I’d make it to the other side. Using a crosswalk wasn’t an option – I’ve been told they don’t exist in Costa Rica. Every time I’ve mentioned one I’ve been chuckled at and affectionately patted on the head as people tried to remember such an anomaly.

After about my eighth attempt at putting two feet in the road I decided to forgo all manliness and follow an elderly Costa Rican lady across. During a slight lull of cars on the near side, I nonchalantly darted across the first lane with her, unsure of how we were going to pass the wall of vehicles flying by on the other side. The gap behind us closed, and I realized in horror that we were trapped on the double yellow lines, with inches to spare on either side. Just as I began to blame this woman for my imminent death, she saw a miniscule opening in front of us, dragged me through, and then continued tottering down the sidewalk as she quickly crossed herself. (Since Costa Rica is almost totally Catholic, you see people crossing themselves all the time. I try to follow along with my class every morning, but as I’m Jewish, I usually end up just waving my hands around in a random fashion.)

Still shaking a bit, I ran on. The differences between here and our little Hopkinton streets were only too apparent. Divisions between “wealthy” and “poor” don’t seem to exist; gorgeous houses with wrap-around balconies look down on shacks of corrugated metal. Barbed wire unites all the residences though, covering the top of every wall. Random potholes and scraps of plastic are scattered throughout the streets, not to mention stray dogs everywhere (many of which I couldn’t help petting, despite all the warnings they give you in kindergarten). I picked streets at random, running down those that gave me the best cliff-top view over the coffee fields, or that inconspicuously led me away from those two shirtless guys staring me down as they leaned on their motorcycles. Normally, I would have worried about getting lost, but the unchanging mountains served as a constant compass as I tried to gradually bend my route into something that would circle back home.

About forty minutes into my run it occurred to me that sunscreen would have been a good idea while running at noon, as it was becoming more painful by the minute to wipe the sweat off my forehead. Looking behind me, the hill I had just ran down emphasized how unpleasant retracing my footsteps would be. And frankly, I wasn’t sure if I could remember the way home. I resolved to run to the next main road, trying to decide if I was more scared of getting hopelessly lost or having a face the color of ketchup for the next week. I stopped at the corner, helplessly turning around to stare in the direction I’d come. As I wiped sweat from my eyes, one building seemed to look strangely familiar – actually, all the buildings started to look familiar. Turns out I’d been running along my school bus route for about 10 minutes… in reverse. I wasn’t sure whether to smile or smack myself in the forehead (I actually did both, each one a painful experience with my new sunburn).

As I happily ran the quarter-mile back to my house, I decided to celebrate by spending the two coins I had brought. Walking into a small fruit shop, I asked how many bananas I could get for my $2 worth. The lady, puzzled for a moment, said, “About 45.” It’s a good thing I like bananas.