CR 091709 Thursday, 8am

“The world ages us too fast. We grow up too quickly, we stop dreaming too early, and we develop the ability to worry at far too young an age.” – Doug Wecker

I have hit a gold mine with the Pool Boy. His name is Héber and it sounds a little like “ever.” While I’m talking he looks at my ears. I don’t know why. I feel slightly self-conscious that maybe I’ve done something un-Tica with my ears, but I can’t imagine what. Maybe he’s an ear guy. I feel guilty for what I have used him for. I have violated all of my own moral and ethical standards. I am a hypocrite. My motivation, in my defense, is that age is creeping up on me and I am trying to fight it back even if the fight is just an illusion. I look at myself in the mirror and it makes me want to find the fountain of youth. I know it’s not an excuse. I know that even small transgressions add up to huge transgressions over time and that I am participating in the worst kind of subjugation and disharmony. And yet… I push past my guilt and embarrassment and go ahead and ask, with very little confidence at all, because I am afraid that just saying it outloud will reveal to some hidden moral tally-taker that I am unworthy of the pedestal I occasionally climb onto in order to pontificate on my own world view of the importance of social justice and equality.



“¿Dónde está el Wal-Mart en Liberia?”



I know. I know.



But none of the supermercados or pulperias here has Oil of Olay and I’m getting a little face tan with sunglass shadows. I have more pronounced worry lines with deep white un-tanned crevices.



I realize my error in wandering blindly around Liberia hoping to pass the “Wal-mart” and asking for directions to the “Wal-mart.” It is called “Maxi-bodega” here. Oh. How silly of me. It’s a Wal-mart in disguise.



After an hour and a half of sitting and talking with the Pool Boy… I mean Héber… I have directions to a book store, a library and the old jail. He calls this the “Tico Way.” The Tico way is to give directions in landmarks and meters. “It’s 200 meters past the old jail.” These are excellent directions if you happen to know what was housed in a particular building 50 years ago but isn’t anymore. Also helps if you know how far 200 meters is. 100 meters, by the way, is 328 feet. So… think about driving along and thinking in feet instead of miles. If someone told you to turn left 986 feet after the old jail… uh-huh.



He sets my heart aflutter by telling me all of the Costa Rican books I should read. I talk to him with a pen. This 22 year-old kid is more than willing to sit down and correct my Spanish vocabulary… which used to be right, I swear, and now is littered with words no one here uses because they have made up their own. At this point now, though, I have started making errors in my English writing, too. As my head begins to happily turn to Spanish mush, I am incapable of remembering basic English spelling rules. Lovely.



He tells me there are books of Costa Rican legends I should read. Cadejo and Latule Vieja. The Costa Rican book is Cocorí. He also says that the library is where I will find announcements about actividades sociales, like plays. He seems vaguely mystified that this is something someone would want to do, so I hope the library, in fact, has information.



The land I’m on right now, Palo Alto, used to be owned by the family by the beach. 100 years ago to claim land, all you had to do was cut down a tree and make a fence and say, “This is mine.” The grandparents did that. Over the years they gradually sold off pieces of land and then, with large sums of money and no idea how to invest it, use it or save it, they spent it and are poor again. They still have more land here near Palo Alto (he points to the hills). They will sell more. Scott has told us the same story. To hear Heber tell it it sounds primarily like a story of lack of education. They are fishermen. They just want to fish and live. Marcos is one of the smarter ones. He bought a boat. He has a business. He has a way to make money.



I am also learning that everyone in Playa Hermosa knows everyone else. I was originally cautioned not to tell people where we live in order to provide an extra layer of insulation. I try to be vague and the waiter says to me, “Oh, my wife works for Beachfront properties. You must be the people who just moved into Palo Alto.” Nice.



Time here, moves slowly. The school still has not called. The test has been graded. She has been placed in 7th grade. We are now waiting for them to call to schedule an appointment with the psychologist and then she needs to go buy a uniform and books and then can enroll. I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m going to call again today. Because… seriously. But even so… I am trying to adapt to the pace of everything happening slowly and late. What I don’t understand is why people drive so fast if they’re so committed to a slow and leisurely “Pura Vida” pace.



The Pool Boy… I mean Héber… explains. It’s not about pace, it’s about freedom. We’re always late, he says. But once we’re driving, we don’t want anyone telling us how to drive. I was pulling out of a side street to join the main street in Liberia and trying to make a left turn. Apparently I took too long because the TWO cars behind me sidled up NEXT to me and made the turn. The three of us then pulled simultaneously into one lane. Huh? I have seen absolutely no accidents. I have placed myself on a self-imposed learner’s permit, though, and avoid driving outside of Playa Hermosa at night. Better safe.



We are going to Liberia today to visit the… um… Old Jail… and the library. I’m crossing my fingers that we can also go to the school and finish this up. Kassidy has great days when we do a lot during the day. Even though her heart’s desire is to stay home and watch T.V. all day, she gets sad at night if that’s all she does. It is interesting, though, seeing what shows she’s willing to watch in Spanish in order to be able to watch them. She has talked to Laura Jane and Morgan in the last couple of days and caught up on school gossip. She has just finished Chapter 1 in her American History book and learned from them that the class skipped the entire first unit and jumped to the second one. Whoops.



I hear Congos Aulladores. The relationship between howling and rain has turned out to be completely unreliable. Yesterday, though, after a scorching hot day, it rained for about 15 minutes. I stood outside and let it drench me while the temperature dropped and fog thickly descended upon the shore and the surface of the pool dimpled with rain drops. The weather here is the best teacher of presence. If you think, “I’ll go stand in the rain later” it will have stopped raining by the time you go. If you think, “Oh, I don’t want to miss the sun set,” but then don’t immediately step outside, the sun will have already dropped off the side of the earth and you will have plunged into darkness. If you think, “It’s so hot. I think I’ll go for a swim”, but don’t put a suit on that very minute, a lightening storm will prevent you from even putting your feet in the water.



At 7:00, when it’s cooler after the rain, we go back to El Pescado Loco for dinner. Luis is our salonero and we order ceviche and arroz con pollo. We have decided not to order drinks to see how much it really costs to go out to dinner without Foo Foo drinks. About $13, including the automatic 10% gratuity.



While we are waiting for our food we take pictures of each other and then the restaurant and then the salonero, Luis, and then the food. The pictures of me motivate me to take that sojourn into Liberia. Back at home we talk to Aunt Heather on Skype. We have a web cam. She doesn’t. It’s not fair. She’s telling us how her new roommate doesn’t know how to properly make coffee. She is watching me laugh so hard I cry. She is watching Kassidy wipe the tears from my eyes. She is watching me spit my drink out. All we can see is a big grey question mark.



The moment I started writing, the electricity went out. It’s 9:20 and it’s still out, which means no internet, either. There are black outs and brown outs here. A brown out is the opposite of a power surge. It just sort of … wanes… I wonder if parking in the garage is really that great an idea.



*Update: Today was a non-electricity day. ICE drove around in a truck last night telling everyone there wouldn’t be electricity from 7am until 4pm today.



SPANISH LESSONS





He enters my name into his phone and says, “R-O-doble uve-A-N.”



I’ve heard doble vay and doble oooo, but never doble uve. (Like grape, with an e instead of a.)



Librería does not always mean book store. We walked into a “Librería” in Playa del Coco and there were greeting cards and wrapping paper. Not one book.



People named José are nicknamed Chépe.



Pulpería is what Heber calls a tiny neighborhood grocery store. If you just need a kilo of sugar, you aren’t going to go to the Supermercado, you go to the pulpería.



Cajuela is the word for car trunk. He uses it when explaining what I saw with the police. These are random, massive police check points designed to check ids and search for things like drugs.



I explain what happened Saturday night. Marcos got chest to chest with the drunk parker. “Guaro Vaquero” is what Heber calls it. It’s like “Cowboy drunk”, when someone gets drunk and wants to fight.



If you have stuff to do… errands… obligations… they are called mandados. Tengo que hacer unos mandados. Mandado is “algo importante que tiene que hacer.”



On my phone it says, “Buscando Red” when it is re-programming. But other than that I have not heard “Red” at all. Everyone says “internet”, and all of the signs say “Café internet.”



I ask him how to say dirt road and paved road. “Calle de tierra or Calle de lastre” for dirt road and calle asfaltada for paved road… only no one says that. It doesn’t matter if it’s paved or not. Only the landmarks and meters are used to give directions.