I had only seen my new high school once before my first day of school, walking through its open-air hallways and the tropical garden courtyards as my “mom” here, Lidia, gave me a tour. As it turned out, her son didn’t even attend this school; this was where she worked. Needless to say, this only increased my nervousness as I realized there wouldn’t be a single kid there that I knew.
On my first morning of school, Lidia marched me up to a girl in the hallway standing in a small knot of kids, turned to me and said in Spanish “This is Michelle. She’ll help you find your classes.” And then she promptly left, my only lifeline fading down the hallway. I slowly turned back to Michelle and managed an “Hola.” All my mental capacities strained to decode her reply, which blew by me in a splash of gibberish. My incomprehension must have been obvious because she repeated the same sentence again, more slowly. With a feeling not unlike realizing your pants are on backwards, it suddenly became clear to me that she was speaking in English. She told me that she had lived in the States for 9 years, so she spoke English fluently. As she introduced me to the rest of her friends it was obvious that she was the only one with these circumstances; everyone else pelted me with rapid-fire questions in Spanish.
I got settled in pretty quickly after that, or as quick as you can when you only understand 30% of what the teachers are saying. The kids are so friendly here – every morning when I walk into school, etiquette requires a hearty handshake with each guy, and a kiss on the cheek for the girls. The amount of handshakes tends to get a bit ridiculous; it’s like one of those factorial math problems, “if there are 40 knights in a room, and they all shake each others’ hand…”. I’m forgiven every time I forget a name, which is often, because to me they all sound like beautiful combinations of random letters, like “Sai” or “Fiorena.” Teachers treat me like a native, even though it’s obvious I’m a foreigner – I’m by far the whitest kid in school. (To be fair, I also held this title in Hopkinton.)
The most obvious differences here are the appearances – the school requires a uniform, which consists of a Polo T-shirt and dress pants. Uniform checks occur often, causing a panic as kids struggle to tuck in their shirts and take out any piercings they might have. Also, since 11th grade is the final grade here, my class is allowed to wear purple and grey striped sweaters. Despite the fact that sweaters don’t seem to be the best choice of clothing in this climate, my grade wears them religiously -- the sweater is a sign of age and power, mainly allowing one to cut the lunch line. The hairstyles are different too – guys use more hair gel than I thought possible. In the spirit of adopting the culture, I’ve started using some myself, but it’s difficult not to feel like I’m a character from the first season of Pokemon.
Beneath the surface, though, Ticos (what the Costa Ricans like to call themselves) have many of the same qualities as my friends back home. Guys still talk about girls, girls still whisper about guys, and we all laugh at the same jokes. In many cases these jokes involve the mess I tend to make of the Spanish language. The other day, for example, I told some friends that back home I play guitar in a “bando.” Their eyes widened as they imagined me playing guitar in a street gang (the word for “band,” I’ve since learned, is “banda”). I’ve also found that small mispronunciations can lead to large misunderstandings. Yesterday, as I chatted with a friend’s mom, I told her how fascinated I was with the living fences in Costa Rica, made from a combination of small trees and barbed wire. But instead of “fence”, apparently, I blurted out a vulgar term for penis.
The people back home all told me adjusting to this new life was going to be hard. For a while I didn’t know what they meant, but as time goes on their words start to sink in. Each night on the computer I instant-message with friends from home and new amigos from here, and I can feel both worlds pulling at either end of me. The green mountains that tower over the city on all sides are a constant reminder of how far away I am from home.
Homesickness really hit me Friday night, after my first week of school. In the States my Fridays were meant for friends and parties, and with my birthday coming up on Sunday my weekend would have been one to remember. I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for myself as I sat in the backseat of the family car that night, driving with my parents to go visit relatives. I braced myself for an awkward evening as we walked through the door, preparing my prefabricated answers to “where are you from?” and “how long are you here for?” that I use so often. But as I walked through the door there was a movement to my right and a flash of light as people jumped up yelling “Sorpresa!” On a second look I recognized them as my new friends from school, wearing birthday hats and laughing. People aren’t lying when they say Costa Ricans are the friendliest people on earth – especially if it’s your birthday.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
First Impressions - Article two
I arrived here in Costa Rica last Monday, with about a week to go before school starts. I never really believed in the whole culture-shock thing. I knew the language would be different, the food too, perhaps, and getting off the plane in San Jose seemed to confirm my doubts – it was just like a U.S. airport, except with Spanish signs. But my naïve bubble burst as soon as I got into the car of my new family. I discreetly tried to find my seatbelt, until I realized that it had been ripped out. No matter, I figured, no one else in the back seat was wearing one anyway. I started having second thoughts though, after we narrowly avoided several motorcycles and a truck ( apparently all vehicles have the right of way in Costa Rica). I quickly found out that these were the least of the changes coming my way.
At first, I could just pick out little differences floating on the surface. The constantly warm weather lent itself to some innovations. Tiny, open courtyards are built inside the house, filled with foreign plant life. The bathroom never steams up after a hot shower – a vent in the ceiling leads directly outside. The house itself seems a bit surreal to me. It’s a conservative, one-floor ranch in the middle of the city, immaculate at all times. It appears void of people, except for the occasional sign of life, like a stray book on a table, or an unused knife on the counter. Despite this cleanliness, however, my family wears shoes inside at all times. For example, my “brother,” Gabriel, a 17-year-old boy whose room I stay in, wakes up and puts his sneakers on before he goes to brush his teeth.
The neighborhood here is a bit different than Hopkinton too. The noise of the city is constant, with sirens, laughter, and strange music flowing in through the permanently open windows. Every conceivable entrance to the house is covered with iron bars, and the multiple locks on the front door take 30 seconds to open. Naturally I’m curious to explore the city. I asked Gabriel if I could go for a run in the streets, and he pantomimed getting shot. I’ll take that as a no. We get exercise instead at the local country club, just a few minutes car ride from the house.
The Spanish is tough for me. People here don’t speak in the robotic voices we listen to in Spanish class. The language is like syrup -- continuous, without breaks or consonants. Just dissecting a sentence is difficult. If I pause for a moment to remember the meaning of one word, five more will fly by, lost. Each day I can feel myself improving, though. I spent the whole second day here trying to understand why Gabriel and his friends kept saying “mae,” until I realized it was the Spanish equivalent of “dude.” The language barrier makes life interesting, though. I never quite know where we’re going when we get in the car, despite their attempts to explain things to me. Yesterday, Lidia (the mom) spent five minutes trying to tell me something, varying her sentence structure until I understood, with a spark of realization, that all she was asking for was my dirty laundry .
The truth is, none of the above is what’s really different about Costa Rica. Foreign language, dangerous city, different foods – I expected all of that. It’s the mindset that shocked me, and still leaves me baffled sometimes. Since it’s the summer here, and school hasn’t started yet, we have free time to do whatever we want. In the U.S. this would mean hours filled with beaches, movies, board games – anything to fill the days to the brim with activity. Here though, there seems to be no concept of “wasted time.” Gabriel and I spend hours listening to music, sitting at the bar at the club, watching little children play in the pool. He noticed I seemed restless during the first few days, and asked me, “What do people do in the summer in the U.S.?” I listed some activities. He seemed puzzled. “In the States,” he said, “it seems like everyone does something all the time. Everyone has a sport to play, an instrument to practice. So busy.” In a way, he’s right. If I learn anything here, it will be how to enjoy life in the moment – something that seems to have been forgotten by most back home.
At first, I could just pick out little differences floating on the surface. The constantly warm weather lent itself to some innovations. Tiny, open courtyards are built inside the house, filled with foreign plant life. The bathroom never steams up after a hot shower – a vent in the ceiling leads directly outside. The house itself seems a bit surreal to me. It’s a conservative, one-floor ranch in the middle of the city, immaculate at all times. It appears void of people, except for the occasional sign of life, like a stray book on a table, or an unused knife on the counter. Despite this cleanliness, however, my family wears shoes inside at all times. For example, my “brother,” Gabriel, a 17-year-old boy whose room I stay in, wakes up and puts his sneakers on before he goes to brush his teeth.
The neighborhood here is a bit different than Hopkinton too. The noise of the city is constant, with sirens, laughter, and strange music flowing in through the permanently open windows. Every conceivable entrance to the house is covered with iron bars, and the multiple locks on the front door take 30 seconds to open. Naturally I’m curious to explore the city. I asked Gabriel if I could go for a run in the streets, and he pantomimed getting shot. I’ll take that as a no. We get exercise instead at the local country club, just a few minutes car ride from the house.
The Spanish is tough for me. People here don’t speak in the robotic voices we listen to in Spanish class. The language is like syrup -- continuous, without breaks or consonants. Just dissecting a sentence is difficult. If I pause for a moment to remember the meaning of one word, five more will fly by, lost. Each day I can feel myself improving, though. I spent the whole second day here trying to understand why Gabriel and his friends kept saying “mae,” until I realized it was the Spanish equivalent of “dude.” The language barrier makes life interesting, though. I never quite know where we’re going when we get in the car, despite their attempts to explain things to me. Yesterday, Lidia (the mom) spent five minutes trying to tell me something, varying her sentence structure until I understood, with a spark of realization, that all she was asking for was my dirty laundry .
The truth is, none of the above is what’s really different about Costa Rica. Foreign language, dangerous city, different foods – I expected all of that. It’s the mindset that shocked me, and still leaves me baffled sometimes. Since it’s the summer here, and school hasn’t started yet, we have free time to do whatever we want. In the U.S. this would mean hours filled with beaches, movies, board games – anything to fill the days to the brim with activity. Here though, there seems to be no concept of “wasted time.” Gabriel and I spend hours listening to music, sitting at the bar at the club, watching little children play in the pool. He noticed I seemed restless during the first few days, and asked me, “What do people do in the summer in the U.S.?” I listed some activities. He seemed puzzled. “In the States,” he said, “it seems like everyone does something all the time. Everyone has a sport to play, an instrument to practice. So busy.” In a way, he’s right. If I learn anything here, it will be how to enjoy life in the moment – something that seems to have been forgotten by most back home.
Leaving Home - Article One
A couple of months ago, I sat in the school cafeteria with fifteen other junior-class guys eating a sandwich, and during a lull in conversation, quietly mentioned that I was going to Costa Rica for five months for a semester abroad. A few seconds later laughter broke out and my comment was forgotten. I had expected my friends to be curious, shocked, maybe even sad, but I never thought they wouldn’t believe me. It took about a week of my insisting I was leaving for this rumor to turn into the truth: I was going to a Costa Rican high school to take my classes in Spanish, and live with a local family. Once people stopped asking me why I kept endorsing a ridiculous rumor about myself, their question changed to a new one, “Why are you leaving?” I didn’t have many answers for why I was leaving, but I had a lot for why I was going. I listed the obvious – become fluent in Spanish, a semester abroad looks great on college apps, and I wanted to see what it felt like to live in a different culture. Only a few people heard my real reason, though, hidden under the clutter of “Who will take your spot as junior class Vice President?” and “Can I borrow your car while you’re gone?” For me, this reason juts out high above the rest. Nothing scares me more than seeing my future lined up for me, secure and unalterable. For the past year I could feel myself getting slowly sucked onto the conveyer-belt of life, preparing for college, preparing for a job, preparing for a career, which in the end would bring me what, exactly? I didn’t know. So when the opportunity arose for a semester abroad, to do something so different from my life here, I jumped at the chance.
People ask me if I’m nervous; I’m an English-speaking Jewish guy going to an all Spanish-speaking Catholic school, switching my usual jeans and T-shirt for a white uniform and dress shoes. The truth is I haven’t had a chance to get nervous yet; I’ve been so busy. All college preparation that is normally done at the end of junior year I had to do now – including taking SATs, ACTs, and college searching. My grades for first semester here in Hopkinton will count double, so keeping them up has been vital. I’ll be getting grades in Costa Rica, but they won’t count towards my GPA, which is fortunate considering that I’ll most likely fail most of them in the first couple months before I become fluent in Spanish.
It’s tough to know what to expect – to my knowledge no one at Hopkinton High has ever done a semester abroad before. Everyone seems to have a completely different picture of what my experience will be like, and for the most part people emphasize one aspect of my trip. Teachers seem solely interested in the fact that I’ll be taking all my classes in Spanish, and whether or not I’ll be able to keep up. Girls are most curious about my family, and what my home will be like. All the guys can talk about are pretty Costa Rican girls. Even a few of the hard-partying types jokingly suggest that I bring them back some potent herbs. All these conflicting viewpoints have made me realize that I have no idea what to expect. I don’t have much to go on - just an address, names of family members, and a dimly lit photo of a shy but friendly-looking family. And a dog, of course. No matter who my family is, though, or what happens in the next five months, I’ll come back a changed person. An adult, perhaps. Everyone goes through an experience that bridges the gap between youth and maturity – and this is mine.
People ask me if I’m nervous; I’m an English-speaking Jewish guy going to an all Spanish-speaking Catholic school, switching my usual jeans and T-shirt for a white uniform and dress shoes. The truth is I haven’t had a chance to get nervous yet; I’ve been so busy. All college preparation that is normally done at the end of junior year I had to do now – including taking SATs, ACTs, and college searching. My grades for first semester here in Hopkinton will count double, so keeping them up has been vital. I’ll be getting grades in Costa Rica, but they won’t count towards my GPA, which is fortunate considering that I’ll most likely fail most of them in the first couple months before I become fluent in Spanish.
It’s tough to know what to expect – to my knowledge no one at Hopkinton High has ever done a semester abroad before. Everyone seems to have a completely different picture of what my experience will be like, and for the most part people emphasize one aspect of my trip. Teachers seem solely interested in the fact that I’ll be taking all my classes in Spanish, and whether or not I’ll be able to keep up. Girls are most curious about my family, and what my home will be like. All the guys can talk about are pretty Costa Rican girls. Even a few of the hard-partying types jokingly suggest that I bring them back some potent herbs. All these conflicting viewpoints have made me realize that I have no idea what to expect. I don’t have much to go on - just an address, names of family members, and a dimly lit photo of a shy but friendly-looking family. And a dog, of course. No matter who my family is, though, or what happens in the next five months, I’ll come back a changed person. An adult, perhaps. Everyone goes through an experience that bridges the gap between youth and maturity – and this is mine.
Switching from Glimpse.org
Used to have an account on glimpse.org... something wasn't working right. So here i am. These are all the articles i've written about my experience here, the first one at around january 25th.
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