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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

New Kid at School - Article three

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.

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.

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.

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.