Three weeks home and I’m still living out of my suitcase. It’s unpacking itself, though, items gradually being removed as I need them. At this rate, I figure it’ll be about five months until I can finally put the suitcase away. I say that with confidence – I know exactly how long five months is. Five months is the time it takes to learn eenie-meenie-miny-moe in Spanish. It’s the time it takes to learn how to cross a Costa Rican city street without whimpering. It’s the time it takes to wonder if anyone else has ever felt so alone.
People ask me how it feels, being home after such a long time in a foreign country. In some ways, it feels like I never left, just small details reminding me it was anything more than a dream. The Costa Rican frog-magnet on the fridge, my hair still spiked in their style, the small scar on the side of my face from a pick-up basketball game. In some ways “dream” is the best way to put it – events that were so surreal they seem unconnected, with my curiosity usually winning out over my fear of the unknown. Looking around my kitchen now, the creased green mountains that had surrounded me in my Costa Rican home seem nothing more than the stuff of my imagination. Even the classic dream feeling of “Where am I?” underlines all my memories from the last five months, so much so that being home almost seems like it doesn’t quite fit right anymore. But there’s no question in my mind that I was awake -- no dream could change me like those five months did.
For starters, I’ve become almost too friendly. The open Costa Rican mentality has rubbed off on me, and I find myself jumping up to shake hands and hug, leaving people uncomfortable and wondering what type of favor I need from them. I have unexplained urges to offer food and drink to anyone who rings the doorbell, despite protests such as “I’m just the UPS guy.”
Though I didn’t notice until I got back to the States, Spanish has changed me as well. Friends ask me, “Why are you speaking English so slowly?” while I slip back into the rhythm of my native tongue. The switch feels like driving an automatic car after using a stick-shift for a while. I still panic a bit every time the phone rings, my subconscious believing I’m in Costa Rica as I prepare myself to explain where the rest of the family is and why I have such a ridiculous accent. Spanish spills out of me when I least expect it – just the other day I greeted the cashier at the gas station with a hearty “Hola!”, who much to my embarrassment happened to be Hispanic.
But the biggest change I’ve felt isn’t a Costa Rican one – it’s a sense of confidence. The fear of new things, failure, embarrassment, all seem to pale when I think back to my time abroad. I paused for a moment the other day, about to walk into a party of older kids I mostly didn’t know. Five months ago I might have turned around and gone home, scared of being the awkward young guy. Instead I smiled and stepped through the door, thinking how trivial this was compared to passing through the front gate on my first day of school – at least everyone at this party spoke my language. Even during the last couple of months in Costa Rica I felt a change in myself. A few days before I came home, I remember my mom asking me, “Will you be comfortable getting yourself to the airport?” Comfortable? At this point I’d try my hand at landing the plane.
But as much as I appreciate it now, that confidence didn’t come easy. If nothing else, it was the result of learning how to overcome the most unexpected pain I’d ever felt – homesickness. Homesick for my family, for English, for the beat-up Honda civic I bought last year. At first, I thought I just needed to get out more, live the Costa Rican lifestyle. I tried to fill my time with the most exotic experiences possible, and for the most part, I did. But that wasn’t the answer – I still had trouble living in the moment, the purpose of each day feeling like a contest to see how many new things I could do so I’d have something to write home about. Some nights I’d stare at the ceiling from my bed, thinking about how incredible my day had been. But the question always ringing in the back of my mind was the same: “What am I doing here?”
It took me until I got home to fully understand the answer. I didn’t go to Costa Rica for a vacation. I didn’t go to have fun, or to get a tan. (Despite the constant sun, I still blend in with our refrigerator door.) I went to grow up. To learn how to function without the safety net of my parents, to discover how to make new friends without help, to see farther into a culture that most people will never even know exists. My five months in Costa Rica were without question the hardest of my life – but also the most valuable.
I stood in front of the open fridge the other day, hungry for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The stacks of food we have still amaze me – so much selection. Unable to find anything I wanted, I moved over to the pantry, grabbing a cookie just because I could. Still not quite right. Suddenly, I stood up straight as I realized what I was craving. Rice and beans.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
Drinking and the Serenata - Article 12
A lot of people told me not to write this article. Too controversial, they said. Write about the volcanoes, the beaches, that time the police almost pulled you off the bus near the Nicaraguan border because you didn’t have a passport with you – anything but that. But it just didn’t feel right, skipping the most Costa Rican experience I’ve had and pretending it never happened. Because for a high-schooler in Costa Rica, this is the highlight of senior year, a tradition that runs further back through the country’s history than anyone can remember. It’s a mixture of Prom, partying, and breaking the law. It’s called the Serenata.
I first heard about the Serenata about four months ago. Frankly, I thought I was being messed with, like the time my Costa Rican friend’s mom told me that in order to be polite the guest had to eat the avocado pit. The description they gave of the Serenata was vague, with words like “overnight” and “salsa dancing” being thrown around. But one thing was made strikingly clear – there would be alcohol, and lots of it.
Let me back up – alcohol plays a different role for the teens in Costa Rica. The drinking age is 18, but it may as well be 12, considering the ease with which an adolescent can walk into a corner store and walk out with a six-pack. It’s not uncommon for a family to order their 10th grader a beer while out to dinner at a restaurant, or to see underage kids drinking as they walk down the street. Because one can’t drive until 18, society seems to downplay the whole issue. The police take no notice for the most part, mainly due to the fact that the law limits them to only confiscating alcohol from minors, and sending them on their way.
Growing up in Hopkinton, the Costa Rican notion of “overlooking” underage drinking is completely foreign to me. The pressure on a Hopkinton high-schooler with respect to drinking is incredible, from police breaking up parties every other weekend to numberless middle school health classes, each hammering in the message that drinking is bad - the consequences inevitably resulting in vomit, brain damage, and immediate execution. I remember freshman year, watching life-long friendships get torn apart as it seemed everyone made it quite obvious what side of the drinking debate they were on.
With those thoughts playing through my head, I arrived the night of the Serenata to the nearby house of a friend, all of the guys in our grade gradually showing up. The Serenata is really a double event – one is organized by the boys and the other by the girls, each about a month apart. This night it was the girls’ turn, and I waited in confusion; my only clue to what was coming was that “Serenata” means “Serenade.” Suddenly, we heard singing outside the house, and opened the garage to the entire grade of girls, wearing tie-dyed homemade dresses and singing along in Spanish with a seven-part Mariachi band.
I lost myself for a moment trying to understand the old-fashioned lyrics, and then without warning found myself being pushed along the sidewalk. (Every time I forget that personal space doesn’t exist in Costa Rica, a public outing reminds me very quickly.) The rush of bodies swept me up with them onto a large bus that had been parked outside, the lack of empty seats leaving me and about twenty others standing in the aisle. The doors barely closed before the bus roared away, throwing me into the girl behind me. I apologized and backed away from her, trying in vain to brush off the beer she had just spilled on my shoulder.
Unexpected things don’t surprise me that much anymore, considering they happen to me so often in Costa Rica. But as I struggled to look around the bus, I must have had that “deer in the headlights” look on my face. It was as if my classmates were trying to set the world record for the most bus safety violations. (As of now such a competition doesn’t exist, but if it did, I’m sure it would be very popular in Costa Rica.) For starters, all the windows were open, and people hung half their bodies out, waving to the cars that honked at us as we went by. Camera flashes illuminated the enormous amount of people standing up, with anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting down getting crushed as kids crawled over the tops of seats. It was debatable if anyone was even driving.
But after twenty minutes of attempting to avoid open windows and flying beer cans, the bus suddenly rolled to a stop. We had arrived at some type of outdoor ranch, really more of a glorified deck with a balcony. A DJ was already set up, blasting a mixture of techno and salsa, a combination that while borderline ridiculous, actually works quite nicely, kind of like the popular Costa Rican dish of ketchup and salad.) Everyone ran for the dance floor, leaving the people towards the back (myself) to walk over the slip-and-slide that had just been created.
I’ll admit it – I don’t really know how to dance. The experience I have consists of watching MTV and being told by chaperones at school functions, “Don’t dance so close.” In the states I find I can blend in with the crowd by subtly wiggling, but here I don’t even bother to pretend I know what I’m doing - Costa Ricans can dance. Any time music plays here people seem to become possessed by Ricky Martin, and they begin to move in perfect time, with spins and twists that look choreographed with their partner beforehand. This dance was no different, leaving me baffled as I tried to find a balance between shuffling and knocking people over.
To some of my friends in the States, this party seems like a dream come true. Their eyes light up when they hear the details – overnight, no supervision, a professional DJ and attractive Costa Ricans. What could be better? The problem that brought the party crashing down, ironically, was alcohol. By midnight, anyone who had been heavily drinking (over half of the kids there) was either throwing up or passed out on the floor, leaving the rest of us wondering where everyone had gone. The DJ stopped playing salsa music and anyone still sober enough to dance had gone to help a friend stumbling around in the grass. I myself was at a loss for what to do, wondering if we’d make it through the night without needing an ambulance. But the sun finally came up, and with it, everyone from the night before, most hung-over and wanting nothing more than to go home.
It seems that in every town and country throughout the world, the customs are different than our own. However strange or wrong they may appear, I don’t think it’s our place to change them – it’s those same differences that make the world so beautiful. Some things will be adopted into our own culture; American life has been shaped by traditions of other nations since its beginning. The Serenata was a night I’ll never forget (unlike many of my Costa Rican friends, for whom it will be a night they’ll never remember). But I think I’ll leave it where I found it.
I first heard about the Serenata about four months ago. Frankly, I thought I was being messed with, like the time my Costa Rican friend’s mom told me that in order to be polite the guest had to eat the avocado pit. The description they gave of the Serenata was vague, with words like “overnight” and “salsa dancing” being thrown around. But one thing was made strikingly clear – there would be alcohol, and lots of it.
Let me back up – alcohol plays a different role for the teens in Costa Rica. The drinking age is 18, but it may as well be 12, considering the ease with which an adolescent can walk into a corner store and walk out with a six-pack. It’s not uncommon for a family to order their 10th grader a beer while out to dinner at a restaurant, or to see underage kids drinking as they walk down the street. Because one can’t drive until 18, society seems to downplay the whole issue. The police take no notice for the most part, mainly due to the fact that the law limits them to only confiscating alcohol from minors, and sending them on their way.
Growing up in Hopkinton, the Costa Rican notion of “overlooking” underage drinking is completely foreign to me. The pressure on a Hopkinton high-schooler with respect to drinking is incredible, from police breaking up parties every other weekend to numberless middle school health classes, each hammering in the message that drinking is bad - the consequences inevitably resulting in vomit, brain damage, and immediate execution. I remember freshman year, watching life-long friendships get torn apart as it seemed everyone made it quite obvious what side of the drinking debate they were on.
With those thoughts playing through my head, I arrived the night of the Serenata to the nearby house of a friend, all of the guys in our grade gradually showing up. The Serenata is really a double event – one is organized by the boys and the other by the girls, each about a month apart. This night it was the girls’ turn, and I waited in confusion; my only clue to what was coming was that “Serenata” means “Serenade.” Suddenly, we heard singing outside the house, and opened the garage to the entire grade of girls, wearing tie-dyed homemade dresses and singing along in Spanish with a seven-part Mariachi band.
I lost myself for a moment trying to understand the old-fashioned lyrics, and then without warning found myself being pushed along the sidewalk. (Every time I forget that personal space doesn’t exist in Costa Rica, a public outing reminds me very quickly.) The rush of bodies swept me up with them onto a large bus that had been parked outside, the lack of empty seats leaving me and about twenty others standing in the aisle. The doors barely closed before the bus roared away, throwing me into the girl behind me. I apologized and backed away from her, trying in vain to brush off the beer she had just spilled on my shoulder.
Unexpected things don’t surprise me that much anymore, considering they happen to me so often in Costa Rica. But as I struggled to look around the bus, I must have had that “deer in the headlights” look on my face. It was as if my classmates were trying to set the world record for the most bus safety violations. (As of now such a competition doesn’t exist, but if it did, I’m sure it would be very popular in Costa Rica.) For starters, all the windows were open, and people hung half their bodies out, waving to the cars that honked at us as we went by. Camera flashes illuminated the enormous amount of people standing up, with anyone unfortunate enough to be sitting down getting crushed as kids crawled over the tops of seats. It was debatable if anyone was even driving.
But after twenty minutes of attempting to avoid open windows and flying beer cans, the bus suddenly rolled to a stop. We had arrived at some type of outdoor ranch, really more of a glorified deck with a balcony. A DJ was already set up, blasting a mixture of techno and salsa, a combination that while borderline ridiculous, actually works quite nicely, kind of like the popular Costa Rican dish of ketchup and salad.) Everyone ran for the dance floor, leaving the people towards the back (myself) to walk over the slip-and-slide that had just been created.
I’ll admit it – I don’t really know how to dance. The experience I have consists of watching MTV and being told by chaperones at school functions, “Don’t dance so close.” In the states I find I can blend in with the crowd by subtly wiggling, but here I don’t even bother to pretend I know what I’m doing - Costa Ricans can dance. Any time music plays here people seem to become possessed by Ricky Martin, and they begin to move in perfect time, with spins and twists that look choreographed with their partner beforehand. This dance was no different, leaving me baffled as I tried to find a balance between shuffling and knocking people over.
To some of my friends in the States, this party seems like a dream come true. Their eyes light up when they hear the details – overnight, no supervision, a professional DJ and attractive Costa Ricans. What could be better? The problem that brought the party crashing down, ironically, was alcohol. By midnight, anyone who had been heavily drinking (over half of the kids there) was either throwing up or passed out on the floor, leaving the rest of us wondering where everyone had gone. The DJ stopped playing salsa music and anyone still sober enough to dance had gone to help a friend stumbling around in the grass. I myself was at a loss for what to do, wondering if we’d make it through the night without needing an ambulance. But the sun finally came up, and with it, everyone from the night before, most hung-over and wanting nothing more than to go home.
It seems that in every town and country throughout the world, the customs are different than our own. However strange or wrong they may appear, I don’t think it’s our place to change them – it’s those same differences that make the world so beautiful. Some things will be adopted into our own culture; American life has been shaped by traditions of other nations since its beginning. The Serenata was a night I’ll never forget (unlike many of my Costa Rican friends, for whom it will be a night they’ll never remember). But I think I’ll leave it where I found it.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Paintball - Article 11
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.
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.
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?”
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Basketball - Article 9
I came home from Costa Rica last week, just long enough to celebrate Mother’s Day, take the AP chemistry test, and of course go to the prom Friday night. The reverse culture shock I had expected was a let-down - more like a culture pinch. Friends were the same, my dog still rolled over for me to pet her, and everything in my room was exactly as I had left it. I spent the week in blind happiness, feeling like I could have just fallen asleep into my old life again, forgetting I had ever lived in Costa Rica. But a week later my eyes snapped open again as soon as I stepped off the plane in San Jose.
If there’s anything that had bothered me about my first three months here, it was the slow pace of life. About 30% of the plans I’d make would never happen, mostly due to people deciding they’d rather just relax at home. The week I got back, however, life began to get a lot more interesting.
The rainy season has started – every day at almost exactly 1:30, the skies turn from blue to dark grey, and rain pounds the tin roofs of the school so hard the teachers can’t be heard. People brace themselves against their desks, waiting for the cannon-fire of thunder. But since the weather is so predictable, the Costa Ricans merely work around it, the school year continuing in full swing.
However, what’s really made life interesting is basketball. I’ve been on the basketball team for a while here, but up until this week we’d only had practices. Of all the things in Costa Rica that I feel hopelessly outmatched in (soccer, Spanish, consumption of rice and beans), basketball isn’t one of them. Don’t get me wrong – I’m by no means a fantastic basketball player. Throughout my childhood I’d always panicked when having the ball, never quite sure what to do with it. After an unsuccessful year of freshman basketball, I got cut from the JV team as a sophomore. But on the varsity basketball team here, I feel like Michael Jordan.
Used to the disciplined competiveness of basketball in the States, the dynamic of the team continues to surprise me. We barely have enough players to make up one team, so we draw players from all ages, some as young as 14. Our coach is an energetic, clean cut man, always rushing into practice late (he’s told us he works five jobs). But as lively as he is, his enthusiasm hasn’t rubbed off on the players. During our bi-weekly practices, kids wander in at all hours, lazily joining in on the drills, running off to the sidelines to check their phones for new text messages. One time Coach huddled us together, spittle and Spanish flying from his mouth as he yelled the importance of showing up to practice. Suddenly he singled out a player and asked “Why weren’t you at practice last week?” The boy shuffled his feet and said, “I don’t know… I was really hungry.”
The team itself is like a sequel to Bad News Bears. It’s not to say we don’t have athletes – it’s just that they’re soccer players. Basketball in Costa Rica probably ranks about as important as does, say, croquet, in the States. Kids wiggle down the court, trying to dribble the ball and stay upright at the same time. Any basket made farther out than a lay-up is cause for applause and backslapping. I once achieved a semi-godlike status after hitting two 3-point shots in a row.
We had our first game last Tuesday, versus a local private school. As I stepped into the circle to take the jump ball, I looked up at the tallest Costa Rican I´d ever seen. I somehow won the jump, but unfortunately that turned out to be the highpoint of the game. The other team, made up of all seniors, sailed over our young players, practically walking to the basket as our team tried to organize our defence. At one point someone angrily yelled from the sidelines, “Use your body!”, resulting in yet another foul as one of our more aggressive players flopped himself onto the other teams´ point guard. Our coach frantically stormed up and down the sideline, waving his arms and yelling Spanish profanities. In contrast, the other coach sat with his players, laughing and smiling. I half expected him to pour himself a margarita.
Finally the buzzer sounded; I was drenched in sweat and covered in bruises from trying to play defence against three of their players at once. The scoreboard read 19-50, our loss. (I found out later that the other team had actually scored 87, but the referees were embarrassed for us so they stopped adding more points on the board.) “Don’t worry about it,” coach told us. “You’ll have another chance in two days.”
Our next game began on Thursday, and I looked around in wonder as I ran down the court. Something had changed – our players we hitting lay-ups, passing well, even hitting the occasional outside shot. It showed on the scoreboard too – we were keeping ourselves in the game, even taking the lead at some points. The best part was, (from all viewpoints other than my own) it wasn’t because of me. Last game I had scored over half of our points – this game I could barely hold onto the ball, missing shot after shot, and getting called for fouls at every turn (It probably doesn’t help that the back of my uniform reads “GRINGO”.) But even with myself virtually out of the game, our team continued to battle on, the clock ticking down towards the end of the fourth quarter.
Suddenly the whistle blew for a time-out, 13 seconds still hanging on the clock – our possession. The coach drew out the play he wanted on his whiteboard; a simple screen-play in order to get us the lay-up we needed to make the score 43-43. He looked up at me and in broken English said, “Evan – you do this basket?” All my childhood memories of sitting on the bench came flooding back, listening to coaches picking “the good kid” to hit the game-winning shot, their gaze never even passing over me. The eyes of my teammates stared at me, hopeful. “Si,” I said, feeling strangely at peace. I stepped onto the court, and as the whistle blew, I slid around another player, my defender getting tangled in his arms. Suddenly I was alone on the court, screaming for the ball with outstretched hands as I sprinted towards the basket.
That pass never made it to me. Somewhere it was tipped, knocked away, ending clutched against the purple jersey of the other team until the buzzer sounded. My teammates sank to the ground, devastated, and slowly drifted off towards the locker room.
But I heard something after that game, just a sliver of conversation from the showers – never had the school team scored more than 26 points, much less come close to winning a game. We lost a chance at making school history that day, but I’m not worried – we’ve got another game next week.
If there’s anything that had bothered me about my first three months here, it was the slow pace of life. About 30% of the plans I’d make would never happen, mostly due to people deciding they’d rather just relax at home. The week I got back, however, life began to get a lot more interesting.
The rainy season has started – every day at almost exactly 1:30, the skies turn from blue to dark grey, and rain pounds the tin roofs of the school so hard the teachers can’t be heard. People brace themselves against their desks, waiting for the cannon-fire of thunder. But since the weather is so predictable, the Costa Ricans merely work around it, the school year continuing in full swing.
However, what’s really made life interesting is basketball. I’ve been on the basketball team for a while here, but up until this week we’d only had practices. Of all the things in Costa Rica that I feel hopelessly outmatched in (soccer, Spanish, consumption of rice and beans), basketball isn’t one of them. Don’t get me wrong – I’m by no means a fantastic basketball player. Throughout my childhood I’d always panicked when having the ball, never quite sure what to do with it. After an unsuccessful year of freshman basketball, I got cut from the JV team as a sophomore. But on the varsity basketball team here, I feel like Michael Jordan.
Used to the disciplined competiveness of basketball in the States, the dynamic of the team continues to surprise me. We barely have enough players to make up one team, so we draw players from all ages, some as young as 14. Our coach is an energetic, clean cut man, always rushing into practice late (he’s told us he works five jobs). But as lively as he is, his enthusiasm hasn’t rubbed off on the players. During our bi-weekly practices, kids wander in at all hours, lazily joining in on the drills, running off to the sidelines to check their phones for new text messages. One time Coach huddled us together, spittle and Spanish flying from his mouth as he yelled the importance of showing up to practice. Suddenly he singled out a player and asked “Why weren’t you at practice last week?” The boy shuffled his feet and said, “I don’t know… I was really hungry.”
The team itself is like a sequel to Bad News Bears. It’s not to say we don’t have athletes – it’s just that they’re soccer players. Basketball in Costa Rica probably ranks about as important as does, say, croquet, in the States. Kids wiggle down the court, trying to dribble the ball and stay upright at the same time. Any basket made farther out than a lay-up is cause for applause and backslapping. I once achieved a semi-godlike status after hitting two 3-point shots in a row.
We had our first game last Tuesday, versus a local private school. As I stepped into the circle to take the jump ball, I looked up at the tallest Costa Rican I´d ever seen. I somehow won the jump, but unfortunately that turned out to be the highpoint of the game. The other team, made up of all seniors, sailed over our young players, practically walking to the basket as our team tried to organize our defence. At one point someone angrily yelled from the sidelines, “Use your body!”, resulting in yet another foul as one of our more aggressive players flopped himself onto the other teams´ point guard. Our coach frantically stormed up and down the sideline, waving his arms and yelling Spanish profanities. In contrast, the other coach sat with his players, laughing and smiling. I half expected him to pour himself a margarita.
Finally the buzzer sounded; I was drenched in sweat and covered in bruises from trying to play defence against three of their players at once. The scoreboard read 19-50, our loss. (I found out later that the other team had actually scored 87, but the referees were embarrassed for us so they stopped adding more points on the board.) “Don’t worry about it,” coach told us. “You’ll have another chance in two days.”
Our next game began on Thursday, and I looked around in wonder as I ran down the court. Something had changed – our players we hitting lay-ups, passing well, even hitting the occasional outside shot. It showed on the scoreboard too – we were keeping ourselves in the game, even taking the lead at some points. The best part was, (from all viewpoints other than my own) it wasn’t because of me. Last game I had scored over half of our points – this game I could barely hold onto the ball, missing shot after shot, and getting called for fouls at every turn (It probably doesn’t help that the back of my uniform reads “GRINGO”.) But even with myself virtually out of the game, our team continued to battle on, the clock ticking down towards the end of the fourth quarter.
Suddenly the whistle blew for a time-out, 13 seconds still hanging on the clock – our possession. The coach drew out the play he wanted on his whiteboard; a simple screen-play in order to get us the lay-up we needed to make the score 43-43. He looked up at me and in broken English said, “Evan – you do this basket?” All my childhood memories of sitting on the bench came flooding back, listening to coaches picking “the good kid” to hit the game-winning shot, their gaze never even passing over me. The eyes of my teammates stared at me, hopeful. “Si,” I said, feeling strangely at peace. I stepped onto the court, and as the whistle blew, I slid around another player, my defender getting tangled in his arms. Suddenly I was alone on the court, screaming for the ball with outstretched hands as I sprinted towards the basket.
That pass never made it to me. Somewhere it was tipped, knocked away, ending clutched against the purple jersey of the other team until the buzzer sounded. My teammates sank to the ground, devastated, and slowly drifted off towards the locker room.
But I heard something after that game, just a sliver of conversation from the showers – never had the school team scored more than 26 points, much less come close to winning a game. We lost a chance at making school history that day, but I’m not worried – we’ve got another game next week.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Beach Race - Article Eight
If you’ve read my previous articles, you might notice that this is the second one I’ve written about the experiences I’ve had while running here in Costa Rica. Yet chances are you probably haven’t, so this one should sound fresh. (Don’t feel bad – I have doubts my mom consistently reads my column.) Plus, this is Hopkinton – hard to find a place that likes running more than we do. And in light of the bright white start-line in front of the town common that makes our town more than just a dot on a map, it only seems fair that I write about how I was lucky to have the experience of a lifetime, running the “Boston Marathon” of Costa Rica.
Being a foreigner, people like to invite me places, without regard to how well they know me. Friends, parents of friends, even my school-bus driver. There seems to be no, “Do I know this person well enough to be with them all day?” rule that prevails in the States. So following that pattern, as I struggled to keep my eyes open during a civics class on Costa Rican government, the girl in front of me, Kari, turned around and whispered in Spanish, “Can you run?”
I was a bit baffled, and tried to use my limited knowledge of street-Spanish to decide if this was some type of innuendo. Luckily she continued, telling me that if I thought I could do it, her family was running the “Sol y Arena (Sun and Sand)” beach race, and she wanted me to come along. I’d seen posters for this race, plastered on the wall at the local gym – 10km, the entire course along the edge of the ocean. But 10km (that’s about 6.5 miles) I’d never run that far in my life. Doing some quick math in the margin of my civics book, I figured I could run it in about an hour. What the hell, I thought, if I can make it through this civics class a race that long should be a piece of cake.
Kari and her mom picked me up early the next morning, driving a small bus. My questions about the vehicle choice were quickly answered as we made stop after stop, picking up what seemed to be every relative that Kari has. It was like we were creating a Costa Rican “clown-car.” I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the Spanish and laughter flying by my head, until someone handed me a hotdog with ketchup – just what I needed to feel at home. I talked with Kari as I watched the green mountains in the distance, feeling the air get more humid with every mile that brought us closer to the coast.
When we finally arrived, we walked along the beach and dipped our feet in the warm ocean for a while. Kari and her family wandered over to the starting line, blending in among the throng of racers stretching, talking and checking their watches. Kari’s uncle bought a bag of strange-looking fruit from a passing street vendor and handed one to me as he told what they were called. It was an indecipherable combination of vowels that I now assume translate to “vacuum fruit of death” -- just one bite sucked all of the liquid out of my mouth, leaving me gasping for water. Needless to say I didn’t end up finishing that one.
As it drew closer to the 4 p.m. start time, the still-growing crowd of what seemed like thousands pushed towards the start, trapping me among them. Everyone around me was drenched in sweat from the humidity and close-quarters, cheering and waving as camera-helicopters flew over us, broadcasting the race. I waited for a gunshot or some type of loud start signal. It never came. Suddenly it just felt like someone stepped on the gas, and I was carried along with the crowd pouring out onto the beach, only keeping my balance by pressing my hands against the runner in front of me, wondering what death by trampling would feel like.
Yet as I hit the beach, I could suddenly breathe again. Runners of all shapes and sizes drifted by me, footsteps muffled by sand being the only sound. The backs of everyone’s legs quickly became covered with the spray of wet sand, turning their bright white running shoes to grey. As I ran along I started to notice things in the sand which on closer inspection turned out to be beached sea creatures. I stepped over deflated pufferfish, small eels, and even the occasional jellyfish, like little pink blobs of jello dotting the beach.
Every two kilometers, a rest station would appear with volunteers frantically handing out water and the occasional Gatorade. The water came in small tube-shaped plastic bags, letting you bite off a corner and suck the liquid out as you ran. Once they finished, the runners just dropped their deflated water bags along the way, leaving the beach looking like the scene of a massive impromtu college sleepover.
As I got further into the race, I noticed the crowd that had cheered on the runners at the start had long since dwindled, leaving just small huddles of families, waiting on the dunes, hoping to catch a glimpse of their loved ones. On the beach side, small children lay in the surf, watching the never-ending stream of people flow by. I glimpsed a strange looking child lying in the surf in the distance, either with some type of deformation of just morbidly obese. As I ran closer I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was a huge beached sea turtle, waves slowly lapping over its shell. If it wasn’t obvious already, I certainly proved myself an American then, stopping and staring in wonder at this majestic-looking creature, slowly beginning to run again as it became apparent it was dead.
Living in a running-fanatic town like Hopkinton, I’ve heard people talk about “runner’s high,” the feeling like you could run forever. I never quite knew what they meant, but I think I felt it for just a moment during that race, palm trees to my right, endless ocean to my left. I suddenly realized there was only one thing missing. I bent down, took off my running shoes, and ran barefoot in the surf towards the setting sun.
Being a foreigner, people like to invite me places, without regard to how well they know me. Friends, parents of friends, even my school-bus driver. There seems to be no, “Do I know this person well enough to be with them all day?” rule that prevails in the States. So following that pattern, as I struggled to keep my eyes open during a civics class on Costa Rican government, the girl in front of me, Kari, turned around and whispered in Spanish, “Can you run?”
I was a bit baffled, and tried to use my limited knowledge of street-Spanish to decide if this was some type of innuendo. Luckily she continued, telling me that if I thought I could do it, her family was running the “Sol y Arena (Sun and Sand)” beach race, and she wanted me to come along. I’d seen posters for this race, plastered on the wall at the local gym – 10km, the entire course along the edge of the ocean. But 10km (that’s about 6.5 miles) I’d never run that far in my life. Doing some quick math in the margin of my civics book, I figured I could run it in about an hour. What the hell, I thought, if I can make it through this civics class a race that long should be a piece of cake.
Kari and her mom picked me up early the next morning, driving a small bus. My questions about the vehicle choice were quickly answered as we made stop after stop, picking up what seemed to be every relative that Kari has. It was like we were creating a Costa Rican “clown-car.” I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the Spanish and laughter flying by my head, until someone handed me a hotdog with ketchup – just what I needed to feel at home. I talked with Kari as I watched the green mountains in the distance, feeling the air get more humid with every mile that brought us closer to the coast.
When we finally arrived, we walked along the beach and dipped our feet in the warm ocean for a while. Kari and her family wandered over to the starting line, blending in among the throng of racers stretching, talking and checking their watches. Kari’s uncle bought a bag of strange-looking fruit from a passing street vendor and handed one to me as he told what they were called. It was an indecipherable combination of vowels that I now assume translate to “vacuum fruit of death” -- just one bite sucked all of the liquid out of my mouth, leaving me gasping for water. Needless to say I didn’t end up finishing that one.
As it drew closer to the 4 p.m. start time, the still-growing crowd of what seemed like thousands pushed towards the start, trapping me among them. Everyone around me was drenched in sweat from the humidity and close-quarters, cheering and waving as camera-helicopters flew over us, broadcasting the race. I waited for a gunshot or some type of loud start signal. It never came. Suddenly it just felt like someone stepped on the gas, and I was carried along with the crowd pouring out onto the beach, only keeping my balance by pressing my hands against the runner in front of me, wondering what death by trampling would feel like.
Yet as I hit the beach, I could suddenly breathe again. Runners of all shapes and sizes drifted by me, footsteps muffled by sand being the only sound. The backs of everyone’s legs quickly became covered with the spray of wet sand, turning their bright white running shoes to grey. As I ran along I started to notice things in the sand which on closer inspection turned out to be beached sea creatures. I stepped over deflated pufferfish, small eels, and even the occasional jellyfish, like little pink blobs of jello dotting the beach.
Every two kilometers, a rest station would appear with volunteers frantically handing out water and the occasional Gatorade. The water came in small tube-shaped plastic bags, letting you bite off a corner and suck the liquid out as you ran. Once they finished, the runners just dropped their deflated water bags along the way, leaving the beach looking like the scene of a massive impromtu college sleepover.
As I got further into the race, I noticed the crowd that had cheered on the runners at the start had long since dwindled, leaving just small huddles of families, waiting on the dunes, hoping to catch a glimpse of their loved ones. On the beach side, small children lay in the surf, watching the never-ending stream of people flow by. I glimpsed a strange looking child lying in the surf in the distance, either with some type of deformation of just morbidly obese. As I ran closer I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was a huge beached sea turtle, waves slowly lapping over its shell. If it wasn’t obvious already, I certainly proved myself an American then, stopping and staring in wonder at this majestic-looking creature, slowly beginning to run again as it became apparent it was dead.
Living in a running-fanatic town like Hopkinton, I’ve heard people talk about “runner’s high,” the feeling like you could run forever. I never quite knew what they meant, but I think I felt it for just a moment during that race, palm trees to my right, endless ocean to my left. I suddenly realized there was only one thing missing. I bent down, took off my running shoes, and ran barefoot in the surf towards the setting sun.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
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.
Careers - Article six
The rhythm of life tends to be slower here in Costa Rica, at least to me. Going out to lunch will take the whole afternoon, and I can spend an entire Saturday morning lazily playing my borrowed guitar as I wonder how to spend the rest of my day. But I forget sometimes, as I’m floating through this little pocket of air in my life, that time is speeding by for all my classmates as they prepare to make the biggest decision of their lives. I’m in 11th grade here, just like back home. But that also means I’m a senior – the Costa Rican school system only has 11 grades. Suddenly things seem a lot more serious as the deadline draws closer for them to answer the question, “What will my career be?”
In general, people tend to know what they want here. Everyone always seems content with what they have and they make decisions quickly and happily. (Well, except for the other foreign exchange student at my school, a nice girl from Switzerland - she tends to be neutral about everything.) However, these past few weeks I’ve encountered an exception to that. I find people staring off into space, deep in thought, then turning to a friend and whispering, “What are you picking for a career?” as if they were confirming their answer on a math quiz. I joined the class in taking the classic “job-placement” test, which asked me seemingly meaningless questions in Spanish such as, “Would you rather: a) “Organize files in an office” or b) “Pick up stones from city streets” (at first the choice seemed far too obvious, being that I mistook the the Spanish word for “stones” for the very similar word for “babes”.) The scary thing is most people have already made their decision. They tell me they’re going into fields like “Public Communications,” “Chemical Engineering” and “Aviation.” At least that’s what they aiming for – not everyone gets to go where they want.
The college major system is a bit different in Costa Rica. Everyone here takes a test much like the SAT, called the Bachillerato, towards the end of their senior year in high school. All the possible careers are listed on a big chart, with a numerical value next to them – the score you need on the Bachillerato to enter that field. If you don’t do well enough on the test, generally you’re out of luck, and it’s time to pick a back-up college major. I find this really hard to wrap my head around – not being able to follow your dream career because you didn’t score high enough on a single test? It’s not as if Costa Ricans can look for another college that sees things differently either – there are only three public universities in Costa Rica, and the view by many is that if you’re not attending one of those three you might as well not go to college at all.
I guess the college system is just another thing here that’s hard for me to get used to, like having nothing to eat in the fridge that won’t splatter when dropped, or not being able to leave my room past 10:30 p.m. without setting off a house alarm that sounds like an air raid siren. I asked my host brother here, Gabriel, how often people end up doing what they studied in college. He looked as if my question didn’t make sense, then said, “In Costa Rica, everyone works in the field they studied in the university. Once one graduates, that’s where they work for the rest of their life.”
Frankly, I don’t know how anyone can make that decision at 18 ( sometimes even 17). I can barely decide what to have for lunch. Watching all my friends here make these life-alternating decisions really makes you think about your future – I’ll be struggling with the same indecision just months from now, during my senior year in the states. College majors in the U.S. certainly aren’t as constraining as they are in Costa Rica, but you wouldn’t want to just roll the wheel of fortune with your choice. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing just that though, changing my mind daily, wondering which path the arrow will land on when it’s time for me to make a choice. I’m hoping I’ll find something down here, in Costa Rica, that will give me a little bit of direction, maybe a different point of view. Who knows – maybe I’ll be a writer.
In general, people tend to know what they want here. Everyone always seems content with what they have and they make decisions quickly and happily. (Well, except for the other foreign exchange student at my school, a nice girl from Switzerland - she tends to be neutral about everything.) However, these past few weeks I’ve encountered an exception to that. I find people staring off into space, deep in thought, then turning to a friend and whispering, “What are you picking for a career?” as if they were confirming their answer on a math quiz. I joined the class in taking the classic “job-placement” test, which asked me seemingly meaningless questions in Spanish such as, “Would you rather: a) “Organize files in an office” or b) “Pick up stones from city streets” (at first the choice seemed far too obvious, being that I mistook the the Spanish word for “stones” for the very similar word for “babes”.) The scary thing is most people have already made their decision. They tell me they’re going into fields like “Public Communications,” “Chemical Engineering” and “Aviation.” At least that’s what they aiming for – not everyone gets to go where they want.
The college major system is a bit different in Costa Rica. Everyone here takes a test much like the SAT, called the Bachillerato, towards the end of their senior year in high school. All the possible careers are listed on a big chart, with a numerical value next to them – the score you need on the Bachillerato to enter that field. If you don’t do well enough on the test, generally you’re out of luck, and it’s time to pick a back-up college major. I find this really hard to wrap my head around – not being able to follow your dream career because you didn’t score high enough on a single test? It’s not as if Costa Ricans can look for another college that sees things differently either – there are only three public universities in Costa Rica, and the view by many is that if you’re not attending one of those three you might as well not go to college at all.
I guess the college system is just another thing here that’s hard for me to get used to, like having nothing to eat in the fridge that won’t splatter when dropped, or not being able to leave my room past 10:30 p.m. without setting off a house alarm that sounds like an air raid siren. I asked my host brother here, Gabriel, how often people end up doing what they studied in college. He looked as if my question didn’t make sense, then said, “In Costa Rica, everyone works in the field they studied in the university. Once one graduates, that’s where they work for the rest of their life.”
Frankly, I don’t know how anyone can make that decision at 18 ( sometimes even 17). I can barely decide what to have for lunch. Watching all my friends here make these life-alternating decisions really makes you think about your future – I’ll be struggling with the same indecision just months from now, during my senior year in the states. College majors in the U.S. certainly aren’t as constraining as they are in Costa Rica, but you wouldn’t want to just roll the wheel of fortune with your choice. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing just that though, changing my mind daily, wondering which path the arrow will land on when it’s time for me to make a choice. I’m hoping I’ll find something down here, in Costa Rica, that will give me a little bit of direction, maybe a different point of view. Who knows – maybe I’ll be a writer.
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.
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.
Soccer - Article four
I made myself a promise on the plane to Costa Rica – I was going to do whatever it took to experience as much as possible here. For the most part, it’s been an easy promise to keep. I jump at the opportunity to go to social events with friends, play music with guys at school, and let parents give me a tour of their houses, which seems to be the custom here. Of course, sometimes the decision isn’t as obvious. People ask me things like, “Wanna try some of this pickled chicken and local beer?” or “Can you play some impromptu guitar in front of the whole class?” I stuck to my promise though, and each time took a deep breath and said “Si.”
But when sign-ups for the school soccer team were tossed onto my desk, I hesitated. Before I left, people had smothered me with cautionary advice: “Make sure you make copies of your passport,” “Don’t buy fruit from street vendors,” “Always put the toilet seat down” (thanks mom). But one warning kept popping up again and again: “Whatever you do, don’t play soccer.” It did make sense – the last time I’d played soccer was in second grade, spending most of the time retying my shoelaces. Not to mention the fact that Latin America is home to the best soccer players in the world. But despite my inhibitions, the next day my name was printed on the roster, its eight letters looking pathetically inadequate amongst the flowing, hyphenated, double last names that surrounded it.
The first day of practice came quickly, and I felt more nervous than on my first day of school here. As I put on my running shoes, I watched the bright-neon cleats of the others do things that seemed physically impossible with a soccer ball. But just as I was about to rank the intelligence of joining the soccer team up there with bull-fighting, I was yet again saved by Costa Rican friendliness. A skinny kid kicked a soccer ball in my direction, just as the young coach shook my hand and practically hugged me as I explained I was a foreign exchange student with no soccer skills whatsoever.
I’m still trying to decide who’s friendlier here – kids or adults. Of course, the friendliness can get a little overwhelming at times, especially since personal space is a much different concept here. As the soccer team sat on the bench waiting for practice to begin, the guy sitting next to me turned and said in Spanish, “Hey man, how big is your foot?” (I actually thought he asked me something else at first, considering the word for foot is pronounced “pee-ay”). Before I could reply he yanked off my shoe, checked the tag, and proceeded to try my shoe on. Suddenly the rest of the bench was curious to see if they, too, would fit into the strange American footwear. Needless to say I spent an uncomfortable, shoeless five minutes, hoping I’d have something other than socks to play in.
Practice started and instead of running drills as I had expected, the coach just pushed us onto the field, and said “play.” The ball was knocked in my direction within the first few seconds and I kicked a beautiful pass … to the other team. That pass stood out as my high-point over the next half-hour, as I proceeded to miss shots, miss slide-tackles, and for the most part miss the ball altogether. It was incredibly frustrating for me – I could understand the situation, I knew what I needed to do, but I just lacked the soccer skills. It actually had a lot of similarities to communicating only in Spanish, both experiences leaving me feeling trapped in the body and mind of a five-year old. It can be maddening trying to contribute to class discussion with the language barrier, or even just maintain a social life. I’ve found it’s surprisingly difficult to hit on girls when your only pick-up lines are, “Hola” and, “Where’s the bathroom?”
For the most part, the game itself had been pretty uneventful. The players continued to defy the laws of physics with the soccer ball, each team doing something more impressive with each possession. But try as they might, neither side could make progress, the only goal a fluke, scored by the other team. Gradually my own focus was changing from trying to kick the ball to finding a way to stop running, my vision blurring from tiredness. I slowed down near the middle of the field as I waited to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard a boy bark “mierda!” as he missed a pass (“Mierda” is the common swear-word here, but I can’t help feeling like it’s some type of Harry Potter spell.). Next thing I knew, the ball rolled by me and in the direction of the other team’s goal. I awkwardly ran after it, aware of people sprinting at me from all directions. I don’t really remember what happened next. I just kind of kicked the ball with the tip of my shoe, and suddenly everyone was screaming “Gringo!” while the soccer ball came to a rest in the back of the net. I’d always thought professional soccer players were being poor sports when they celebrated for five minutes after scoring. I’ll think I’ll cut them some slack now though – I’ve never felt happier than after that goal.
But when sign-ups for the school soccer team were tossed onto my desk, I hesitated. Before I left, people had smothered me with cautionary advice: “Make sure you make copies of your passport,” “Don’t buy fruit from street vendors,” “Always put the toilet seat down” (thanks mom). But one warning kept popping up again and again: “Whatever you do, don’t play soccer.” It did make sense – the last time I’d played soccer was in second grade, spending most of the time retying my shoelaces. Not to mention the fact that Latin America is home to the best soccer players in the world. But despite my inhibitions, the next day my name was printed on the roster, its eight letters looking pathetically inadequate amongst the flowing, hyphenated, double last names that surrounded it.
The first day of practice came quickly, and I felt more nervous than on my first day of school here. As I put on my running shoes, I watched the bright-neon cleats of the others do things that seemed physically impossible with a soccer ball. But just as I was about to rank the intelligence of joining the soccer team up there with bull-fighting, I was yet again saved by Costa Rican friendliness. A skinny kid kicked a soccer ball in my direction, just as the young coach shook my hand and practically hugged me as I explained I was a foreign exchange student with no soccer skills whatsoever.
I’m still trying to decide who’s friendlier here – kids or adults. Of course, the friendliness can get a little overwhelming at times, especially since personal space is a much different concept here. As the soccer team sat on the bench waiting for practice to begin, the guy sitting next to me turned and said in Spanish, “Hey man, how big is your foot?” (I actually thought he asked me something else at first, considering the word for foot is pronounced “pee-ay”). Before I could reply he yanked off my shoe, checked the tag, and proceeded to try my shoe on. Suddenly the rest of the bench was curious to see if they, too, would fit into the strange American footwear. Needless to say I spent an uncomfortable, shoeless five minutes, hoping I’d have something other than socks to play in.
Practice started and instead of running drills as I had expected, the coach just pushed us onto the field, and said “play.” The ball was knocked in my direction within the first few seconds and I kicked a beautiful pass … to the other team. That pass stood out as my high-point over the next half-hour, as I proceeded to miss shots, miss slide-tackles, and for the most part miss the ball altogether. It was incredibly frustrating for me – I could understand the situation, I knew what I needed to do, but I just lacked the soccer skills. It actually had a lot of similarities to communicating only in Spanish, both experiences leaving me feeling trapped in the body and mind of a five-year old. It can be maddening trying to contribute to class discussion with the language barrier, or even just maintain a social life. I’ve found it’s surprisingly difficult to hit on girls when your only pick-up lines are, “Hola” and, “Where’s the bathroom?”
For the most part, the game itself had been pretty uneventful. The players continued to defy the laws of physics with the soccer ball, each team doing something more impressive with each possession. But try as they might, neither side could make progress, the only goal a fluke, scored by the other team. Gradually my own focus was changing from trying to kick the ball to finding a way to stop running, my vision blurring from tiredness. I slowed down near the middle of the field as I waited to catch my breath. Suddenly I heard a boy bark “mierda!” as he missed a pass (“Mierda” is the common swear-word here, but I can’t help feeling like it’s some type of Harry Potter spell.). Next thing I knew, the ball rolled by me and in the direction of the other team’s goal. I awkwardly ran after it, aware of people sprinting at me from all directions. I don’t really remember what happened next. I just kind of kicked the ball with the tip of my shoe, and suddenly everyone was screaming “Gringo!” while the soccer ball came to a rest in the back of the net. I’d always thought professional soccer players were being poor sports when they celebrated for five minutes after scoring. I’ll think I’ll cut them some slack now though – I’ve never felt happier than after that goal.
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