Last weekend here in Costa Rica, I went to a sleepover at a guy’s house from school, not really knowing what to expect. I showed up fifteen minutes late, knowing that it’s never cool to be the first one there.
I’ve since learned, however, that the Costa Rican version of “fashionably late” means about two hours, not fifteen minutes. It was alright though – I got the full “first time over at the house” routine, which consists of introducing you to every member of the family, showing you every room of the house (along with explaining the purpose of each), and forcing you to eat at least three items from the fridge. Drinks are optional.
But soon enough, the other boys from school arrived, and we sat down to eat dinner. With respect to eating, things are much more organized here. Everyone makes sure the coke is shared evenly, and nobody begins their meal until appropriate silverware is handed out. Eating pizza is like the NBA draft – the box is solemnly passed around in a circle, everyone struggling to pick the best piece. Taking seconds is strictly forbidden until everyone’s had firsts – or so I assume, judging from the looks I got when I tried to grab two of the best slices in the first round. Even the after-meal clean-up is orderly, with any leftovers being put in the fridge and the table scrubbed until it shines. Needless to say I was a bit shocked, because my usual version of “clean” just implies that most of the food is still on the table.
We spent the rest of the night watching comedy movies; literally, the entire night. Watching movies in a group is always difficult for me here, because people like to watch with English audio, and just read the Spanish subtitles, giving them the freedom to talk and laugh hysterically while I struggle to hear. I’ve actually gotten to like subtitles though, finding them somewhat helpful, despite the lack of emotion they contain by translating every bad word to the equivalent of “blast!”
But by about 4:30 in the morning, I could barely keep my eyes open. I kept slapping myself awake as I remembered the advice I had gotten in the evening, “Don’t be the first to fall asleep.” Twenty minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief as a boy across the room was discovered snoring in his chair, and was promptly given a mayonnaise moustache. (He was a heavy sleeper.) I must have dozed off after that, because suddenly I was shaken awake by people climbing over me to get their helping of breakfast rice-and-beans.
Still bleary eyed, I was told to put on some clothes I could get messy, because we were all going to go meet some friends and play pinball. I stared at them in confusion, unable to imagine any version of pinball hardcore enough to require a change of clothes. However, after running “pinball” through my Costa Rican accent filter a couple of times, I realized they had actually been saying paintball. Suddenly things made much more sense.
I’d never played paintball before, as it was always frowned upon during my childhood, along with Lucky Charms and MTV. I was excited but a bit nervous as we all stuffed ourselves in a car, and drove through the pouring rain towards the arena. Regular traffic here, as bad as it is, is nothing compared to the rainy season – cars slow to a crawl as they struggle through eight-inch deep rivers that span the roads, sometimes having to stop altogether. It’s not uncommon to see small houses on the side of the road halfway submerged in water, the family’s clothes drying on the roof. Luckily for us our car made good use of its low gears, and we arrived only a few minutes later than we had expected.
After being handed a heavy metal gun and given instructions (“Just don’t get hit, kid, and you’ll be fine”) we entered the arena. Barriers made of old wooden slats covered the field, looking old enough to be leftover from the Costa Rican revolutionary war. (Speaking of which, during my first week of school we had a school assembly to celebrate Costa Rican independence. I asked the guy next to me what the occasion was, and he excitedly told me, “Today we celebrate the killing of some jerk from the U.S. who tried to colonize us!” Obviously, I felt a bit uncomfortable during the rest of the event.)
Before I could even get my bearings, a whistle blew, and suddenly paintballs were flying past my face as I dove to the ground. I managed to crawl over behind a stack of old tires, the whole world a blur of rain, paint and yelling. After about ten seconds of hyperventilating I poked my gun over ledge, and fired at the first movement I saw, getting rewarded with an explosion of yellow paint and swearing.
After that, things sped up. Lying in the mud, trying to wipe the rain from my goggles with any piece of clothing that wasn’t soaked (which very quickly became just my boxers), I realized that playing paintball might be the most fun I’ve ever had. We played round after round, each one more intense than the last.
Looking back on the day, I now notice a slight problem that seems to be happening to me more and more lately – I tend to forget the phrase “It’s just a game”. Twenty minutes into playing, I’d entirely lost the notion that we were only shooting paint. I jumped over barriers as if my very life were at stake, screaming, “Cover me!”, and firing at anything that resembled the other team. (At least I screamed what I thought was “cover me;” thinking about it later it seems I may have been yelling “Wrap me in a blanket!”)
At the peak of getting carried away, two players remained on the other team. One peeked his head out and I shot him in the facemask, hitting him again when he didn’t call himself out fast enough. I dove around a wooden fence and rolled towards the enemy base, the remaining player a young, timid girl who hadn’t come out all game. I stuck my gun through the window, gleefully prepared to say the “Surrender!” necessary to win. I opened my mouth and then awkwardly mumbled something incomprehensible, as I realized I had no idea how to say “surrender” in Spanish. I stood there in embarrassment, everyone slowly starting to laugh as they realized my predicament, even the girl standing up and giggling, knowing I couldn’t shoot her from that range, but technically couldn’t call her out either. “Humbled” would be an understatement for how I felt.
One good thing -- I’ve learned to keep myself in check for the next time I play. And, of course, I’ll never again forget how to make someone surrender in Spanish.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Spanish and Alaska - Article 10
After four months in Costa Rica, I’ve got to give myself credit – my Spanish has gotten pretty good. Sure, there’s still a huge chunk of the language I don’t know, but people no longer speak to me in the tone you use to order movie tickets over the phone. Now when I say, “What?” (in Spanish of course), it’s because I misheard someone, instead of a just a way to stall for time as I get out my pocket translator. It’s hard to notice improvement though, with everyone around me laughing at jokes that I don’t understand until five minutes later, after I’ve run them through my head a few times.
The past two weeks, however, have been different. Suddenly my Spanish feels vastly improved, as if it blossomed overnight. Why? Now I have something to compare it to – ten foreign exchange students from Alaska.
The Alaskans arrived a couple of weeks ago, staying here for about a month to see some Costa Rican culture. For me, the entire dynamic of school has changed, and not just because they walk around in street clothes while the rest of us remain in our purple and grey uniforms.
First of all, compared to the Alaskans, I’m the darkest white guy around. I’ve found this phenomenon to be the healthiest tanning strategy to date – just surround yourself with people paler than you. Of course, their presence has made some things more difficult. Now when someone calls, “Gringo!” five heads turn, not just mine. No longer am I the best basketball player, or the tallest kid at the lunch table. My claim-to-fame of knowing the secret peanut-butter and jelly sandwich recipe (literally, I have yet to see a single Costa Rican eating one) is gone. But when it comes to languages, I’m unique.
The first day of school with the Alaskans began awkwardly, them huddling in a corner while the Costa Ricans nonchalantly tried to look them over, making the whole scene feel very similar to my first middle school dance. As the groups slowly began to mingle, however, a strange thing happened. The Alaskans have about the same knowledge of Spanish as I had when I arrived in February (basically consisting of the colors, the months and, “Can you repeat that?”). On the flip side, the Costa Ricans, despite knowing the lyrics to every Lady Gaga song, aren’t much better at English. Upon discovering this, everyone slowly looked at me, waiting for me to translate. And suddenly, I realized I could. I spent the rest of the day translating jokes and stories, feeling like some type of all-knowing magical creature. A unicorn, if you will. Conversations that do get by without the need for translation are always interesting though. As we stood under the school balcony and watched the torrential rain, one Alaskan pulled at his collar, muttering, “I’m hot.” A Costa Rican guy looked at him in confusion, saying “I’m cold.” They both looked at me as I started laughing, because I had just been thinking how nice the temperature was.
Of course, after a few days of restaurants and tourist shops, the foreign exchange students figured out how to cheat – almost everyone in Costa Rica speaks a minimal amount of working English. Now, instead of struggling through their food orders in Spanish, they tend to just stare intently at the cashier and use bad English (“I…has…milkshake!”).
As for me, my mind is still soaked in Spanish. I took the SAT Spanish subject test the other day, just so I could have something to send to colleges beyond a binder full of these articles. It felt like a scene from the movie “Slumdog Millionaire,” where the kid knows all the answers to the game show questions because of his life experiences. The word for “credit card,” for example, which I never would have known otherwise, was easy to recall, remembering the time that I helped two guys from Mississippi pay for their ice cream. Cantante (singer), from when I accidentally signed up for Karaoke night, and ended up singing an Enrique Iglesias song to a bar full of drunk Costa Ricans. Easiest of all to recognize was the verb colgar (to tie up), forever lodged in my mind after realizing that the common toothpaste brand here, Colgate, translates to “Go hang yourself.”
You know, they say you’re fluent in a language once you have a dream in it. I had that dream the other night – all I remember is standing in line, and guy behind me saying in Spanish, “C’mon people, let’s move it!” I wouldn’t say I’m fluent yet, though. The girls in my class still make fun of my accent, and I still occasionally get out of breath as I try to say particularly complicated sentences, especially if that sentence is something along the lines of “Stop making fun of my accent!” But, you know, for right now I’m okay with only being semi-fluent. Because really all you need to get by is the knowledge to ask what’s for dinner, what time it is, and where you are. And of course my personal favorite: “Are we there yet?”
The past two weeks, however, have been different. Suddenly my Spanish feels vastly improved, as if it blossomed overnight. Why? Now I have something to compare it to – ten foreign exchange students from Alaska.
The Alaskans arrived a couple of weeks ago, staying here for about a month to see some Costa Rican culture. For me, the entire dynamic of school has changed, and not just because they walk around in street clothes while the rest of us remain in our purple and grey uniforms.
First of all, compared to the Alaskans, I’m the darkest white guy around. I’ve found this phenomenon to be the healthiest tanning strategy to date – just surround yourself with people paler than you. Of course, their presence has made some things more difficult. Now when someone calls, “Gringo!” five heads turn, not just mine. No longer am I the best basketball player, or the tallest kid at the lunch table. My claim-to-fame of knowing the secret peanut-butter and jelly sandwich recipe (literally, I have yet to see a single Costa Rican eating one) is gone. But when it comes to languages, I’m unique.
The first day of school with the Alaskans began awkwardly, them huddling in a corner while the Costa Ricans nonchalantly tried to look them over, making the whole scene feel very similar to my first middle school dance. As the groups slowly began to mingle, however, a strange thing happened. The Alaskans have about the same knowledge of Spanish as I had when I arrived in February (basically consisting of the colors, the months and, “Can you repeat that?”). On the flip side, the Costa Ricans, despite knowing the lyrics to every Lady Gaga song, aren’t much better at English. Upon discovering this, everyone slowly looked at me, waiting for me to translate. And suddenly, I realized I could. I spent the rest of the day translating jokes and stories, feeling like some type of all-knowing magical creature. A unicorn, if you will. Conversations that do get by without the need for translation are always interesting though. As we stood under the school balcony and watched the torrential rain, one Alaskan pulled at his collar, muttering, “I’m hot.” A Costa Rican guy looked at him in confusion, saying “I’m cold.” They both looked at me as I started laughing, because I had just been thinking how nice the temperature was.
Of course, after a few days of restaurants and tourist shops, the foreign exchange students figured out how to cheat – almost everyone in Costa Rica speaks a minimal amount of working English. Now, instead of struggling through their food orders in Spanish, they tend to just stare intently at the cashier and use bad English (“I…has…milkshake!”).
As for me, my mind is still soaked in Spanish. I took the SAT Spanish subject test the other day, just so I could have something to send to colleges beyond a binder full of these articles. It felt like a scene from the movie “Slumdog Millionaire,” where the kid knows all the answers to the game show questions because of his life experiences. The word for “credit card,” for example, which I never would have known otherwise, was easy to recall, remembering the time that I helped two guys from Mississippi pay for their ice cream. Cantante (singer), from when I accidentally signed up for Karaoke night, and ended up singing an Enrique Iglesias song to a bar full of drunk Costa Ricans. Easiest of all to recognize was the verb colgar (to tie up), forever lodged in my mind after realizing that the common toothpaste brand here, Colgate, translates to “Go hang yourself.”
You know, they say you’re fluent in a language once you have a dream in it. I had that dream the other night – all I remember is standing in line, and guy behind me saying in Spanish, “C’mon people, let’s move it!” I wouldn’t say I’m fluent yet, though. The girls in my class still make fun of my accent, and I still occasionally get out of breath as I try to say particularly complicated sentences, especially if that sentence is something along the lines of “Stop making fun of my accent!” But, you know, for right now I’m okay with only being semi-fluent. Because really all you need to get by is the knowledge to ask what’s for dinner, what time it is, and where you are. And of course my personal favorite: “Are we there yet?”
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