Por un pelito de rana

This Spanish phrase literally means “by a frog’s whisker.” The idiomatic equivalent in English is “a close shave,” as when we narrowly escape from danger. The danger for us during the Thanksgiving holiday was giving up and resigning ourselves to the same weekend routine: getting groceries, washing laundry, and catching up on schoolwork. So yeah, we did that on a couple of days, but despite our mutual aversion to planned tours, we signed up for two trips, a day pass to the Tabacón hot springs beside Arenal volcano in the northwest part of the country and a cruise from Puntarenas through the Gulf of Nicoya to Isla Tortuga on the Pacific coast.

In honor of the impending holidays, I will recap these two trips to the tune of a famous Christmas carol:

12 jokes too many (por exemplo) 11 pools a-boiling (at 27ºC to 42ºC, 80ºC to 107ºC) 10 Cubans kvetching (about a life they haven't lived for two decades after moving to Miami) 9 waterfalls misting (and mixing with the rain, which made them all that much more relaxing) $8 piña coladas (but worth every cent at my first swim-up bar)

7 kayaks awaiting (although we choose to snorkel instead)

6 ships a-sharing (a single beach on a remote island)

5 hours of no school 4 heaping plates (of fish, chicken, rice, salad, milk and rice, and even wine on the side)3 palm trees (to lie under and see this view)2 luxuries (the jacuzzi and Caribbean band in the background)and a nice sunset for the cruise home

My holiday wish to all of you -- 'cause you ain't gettin' no card through the Costa Rican Correo, you see -- is that you can de-stress in time for the madness of the new year. May it not overwhelm you so fast that it seems like only two days of rest.

Al final del arco iris

Not all idioms are different between Spanish and English. The literal translation of this Spanish phrase is "at the end of the rainbow," which shares its figurative translation with English: an unreachable place with an unattainable prize. The phrase fits very well for us this weekend because Tim and I chased a pot of gold we would never find: a relaxing beach vacation. We had reserved a rental car so we, including the dog, could find some solitude in a cabin in Manzanillo, on the Caribbean coast. The plan was to do nothing but rest and recover.

But upon going to Alamo right after school on Wednesday, excited to start our road trip, we found out that we were not allowed to rent the car. Because we have been in the country longer than three months, we are no longer classified as tourists; therefore, we must have Costa Rican driver's licenses to be on the road. However, the type of work visas we have do not allow us to get such licenses. Heck, we're not even able to get a cell-phone number without a cédula, a legal identification document.

So there we were, down $50 for our lost cabin reservation and lacking the escape we so desperately had awaited. I was in need of serenity, now, so I decided to look for another rainbow. The next morning, during my regular walk with Sage on our property, I was able to find one:
Unfortunately, there was no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow either. But I did reach a small epiphany about unattained prizes. With all the crap being thrown my way, there are still some flowers worth stopping to smell.

Echar las entrañas

This Spanish phrase means “to throw out the entrails,” a much less euphemistic version of the English idiom “to toss your cookies.” This post title starts out metaphorical, but then sadly proceeds into the literal. Tim and I finally got organized enough to actually go away for a long weekend, mainly meaning we found a kennel for the dog (Incidentally, this was the most stress-free part of the weekend; the taxi ride was cheap, and Sage seemed to enjoy his Dog Whisperer pack experience at Perrodise). We badly needed this weekend because both of us had been so stressed and frustrated by work that we wanted to "echar las entrañas." In other words, incidents at school were at least making us want to puke -- or perhaps even commit hari kari in protest.

So for our first overnight trip, we chose a beach where development is limited because of the leatherback turtles that lay their eggs there. Playa Grande's seclusion seemed just the ticket, and the "one night free" offer sold us on the hotel. But this isolation turned out to be a blessing and a curse. From Tamarindo, where we rode the bus to, you can either take a half-hour taxi ride or cross an estuary in five minutes. To get away from our cares and to our hotel, we opted to walk about 2 kilometers after taking a $1 water-taxi ride:
But indeed, the sojourn was worth it. The enormous stretch of sand was sparsely spotted with only a few surfers and sun-bathers:
The solitude allowed us to spend most of the morning relaxing on the beach, catching up on some required reading:
And as the sun got hotter, we braved the riptides of the Pacific reef to cool off:
I had felt a little queasy all morning, but after some down time, I felt strong enough to take a hot hike north to Playa Carbon, a black-sand beach where the swimming wasn't great but the tranquility was:
After so much sun, and maybe some bad fish from the night before, I needed a break in the hotel before we walked to Tamarindo to buy our return bus tickets, which strangely enough cannot be bought at the transportation office in San Jose. This, of course, meant retracing our steps. We managed to walk part of the 2 kilometers back in the shade, but as you can tell from my expression, this wasn't enough to quell my aching head and belly:
This expression hardly rivals Tim's (which unfortunately I did not get a photo of) when about 20 minutes later, I left a puddle of Tampico along the main road in Tamarindo. All the hydration I thought I had been giving myself apparently had been just idling in my stomach, waiting for a chance to reveal its ineffectiveness.

Now devoid of any nourishment, I tried to avoid passing out while Tim bought the bus tickets, groceries, and a falafel sandwich (seriously) for lunch. The former effort was fruitless as the ticket office was closing, and besides, the departure times were 3:30 and 5 a.m., much too early for the recovery I could tell I would need, and 2 p.m., much too late for when we hoped to get back to collect Sage. I was hardly concerned about this, or the $20 we paid a taxi driver to get us back to the hotel, where I promptly curled up in bed, waking only to eat some quesadillas Tim bought at the hotel restaurant and watch the first 10 minutes of Don't Mess with Zohan.

The next morning, I managed the walk back to Tamarindo. It was much better in the early morning, a time frame we chose to take our chances on making a faster bus connection through Santa Cruz or Liberia. We sat around at bus stops for about two hours, until the bus to Liberia finally came by. We didn't have any more luck in Liberia, where we had to wait an hour to catch the next bus to San Jose. The traffic from the long weekend ended up with us getting back perhaps even later than if we had just stuck around for the 2 p.m. direct bus from Tamarindo. We skipped picking up the dog and made it back home just before 11 p.m., time to go to bed to prepare for the next day at school.

So the weekend didn't exactly turn out to be the respite we were after. But at least for a little while we were frustrated with something other than work. And we are more than motivated to find traveling redemption during our next long weekend, only a month away for Thanksgiving in November.

Llevarse de miedo

At my school last year, a few of my students felt comfortable enough to dress as me during a spirit week day (One was quite the doppelganger, being mistaken for me a couple times throughout the day). But this year, I don’t think any students are going to opt to embody me in their spirit at all. We are not going to llevarse de miedo, literally "carry away from fear," or get along really well. In fact, I'm a little afraid because I feel like I’m back in my first year of teaching, when I struggled to establish rapport with my students.

Now sure, this rapport takes time. I’m sure no student during my first year in Israel would’ve even known my personality well enough to come up with a costume to represent me. And I’m sure that kind of thaw will happen in Costa Rica, too, as I get more comfortable and let down my guard.

But I get the impression that it’s not going to be the same here. Rapport involves reaching some common ground, and I just don’t know how much I have in common with these students. There are basically two kinds: the locals who have enough money to go to private school (or parents whose jobs at the school gets them free tuition) and the foreigners who have moved to the country to do some type of church-related goodwill.

I never was privy to the entitlement of the first group of students; my mom never drove me to school simply because I didn’t want to ride the uncool school bus. And I’m not exactly the model of spirituality the other students might hope for. On the very first day, one student asked me about my religious beliefs. He didn’t seem upset when I told him I practiced morality instead, but he did point out that his father was a Baptist minister.

The problem is, with this lack of diversity – which the school plans to maintain in the interest of keeping instruction individualized (and finances in check) – it’s hard to find students who are willing to share in my brand of cynicism and sarcasm. I have all 50 high-schoolers, and not one has responded enthusiastically to my clearly brilliant and witty teaching methods yet.

I am keeping an open mind that perhaps I will be pleasantly surprised as the year progresses. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find my inner privilege and piety. But I’m not holding my breath that I’ll be held in high enough esteem to be flattered with imitation – I’d even take mockery – any time soon.

Llevar a cabo

We had our first long weekend break from school, and there was no Prague or Budapest, because we still haven’t figured out overnight arrangements for our dog. But even though that meant only day trips, we were still able to llevar a cabo, or "carry to end," which means "pull something off": seeing the Caribbean and the Pacific oceans in two consecutive days.

The long weekend was because of Costa Rica’s independence day, so we decided to spend one day in Limón, the Caribbean port city that was the focus of celebrations (At our school assembly, this meant students wearing fake dreadlocks and Bob Marley shirts; hardly the heritage the tourism ministry would promote, I bet).

We thought that perhaps the city, not normally a tourist destination, would have some sort of timely patriotic draw. Apparently, though, celebrating independence in Limón means freedom from capitalism. The downtown was pretty dead except for one bar and a handful of shaved ice vendors, both of which we patronized.

So we decided to celebrate independence day just like some do in the States: going to the beach and drinking beer. The nearby beach, Playa Bonita, wasn’t extremely bonita, as you can see, but the beach restaurant food was good and the Pilsen was cold.

We had already decided to celebrate our independence from school by going to a beach on the Pacific. Playa Jaco, recent host of the international Billabong surfing competition, is dogged by controversy because of imposing development, which has driven the quality of life down and the cost of living up. Tim can verify the latter from inquiring about a hookah, which cost $45. I guess the shop owner, who happens to be Israeli, wasn’t expecting us to know that the same nargilahs cost $10 in Jaffa.

But by going on a Monday, when the rest of the country still had to work, we perhaps dodged the normal ire directed at the tourist influx. Besides, we spent most of our time on the beach, avoiding typical tourist activities; because of the rough waves, not even that many people were swimming. We didn’t get in most of the time ourselves, preferring to veg on the sand instead.

Ironically, when we went to find independence festivities in Limon, they were nowhere to be found, but when we went to Jaco, they seemed to follow us. On the bus ride there, we passed the independence torch, being carried throughout Central America by students, in a kind of united, flaming middle finger to Spain. And on the way back, the bus had to take a detour because a drum corps, in full regalia, was playing for some village residents in the middle of the central plaza.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t get photos of either from the bus window. In fact, I was too lazy to take shots of nearly everything. Let’s just say I was too busy enjoying my independence from constructive thought and action.

Pasa como una nube de verano

Spanish-speakers describe something of short duration as “passing like a cloud of summer,” a much more lively version of the English "short-lived." Indeed, time seemed to fly when Tim’s mom and sister visited the second weekend we were in country. With us being fairly unprepared for visitors, our weekend together was quite the whirlwind. We were stressed about just starting school, but still, it was nice to have a reason to blow off work and go tour a bit of our new home.

We got off to an early start to try to beat the clouds to Volcan Irazu, just east of San Jose, although a long trip up winding roads. Unfortunately, the clouds won. When we arrived, the nearby lava-flow field was nearly hidden with condensation.

But the winds rewarded our intrepidness by blowing off the mist long enough to look into the crater, where you could see the bright aquamarine of the crater lake, so otherworldly because of the active volcano’s sulfuric chemicals mixing with rainwater.

By the time we hiked back to the parking lot, the rain was coming down steadily, but still, we hiked up to the highest point of the mountain. By then, unfortunately, the crater was entirely shrouded; but I could still see some of the people walking where we had just been, giving me vertigo only made worse by the thin air.

Back in the parking lot, some tourists were taunting the coatis, despite signs asking that they not be fed (the wild animals, that is). In some cases, it was hard to determine which was the more peculiar animal.

We then headed back below the clouds into the valley and the city of Cartago, mainly known for its church devoted to the negrita, a black Virgin Mary statue. The story goes that the stone likeness kept being taken out of the woods, only to disappear from the finder’s possession and reappear at the place she was found. Lucky for religious fervor that they’ve now managed to keep her contained in the church.

There actually are three likenesses of the negrita, one of which is accompanied by a fountain (of run-off rainwater perhaps?) where people douse themselves and collect the holy water in negrita-shaped plastic containers. A second negrita is kept in a sort of shrine where people bring all sorts of charms representing ailments and problems that prayer to her presumably solved, including breast cancer, judging by the gold boobie pendants. On the more dramatic side, one man credits his survival at sea, stranded on a raft, to her. The most prestigious negrita, complete with a bejewel headdress, is kept within the church, of course, although recently they have been touring her around the area in the back of a pick-up, so the devout but immobile can catch a glimpse of her – and cause traffic jams.

The last stop of the day was heading into the Orosi Valley, one of the main coffee-growing regions of the country. We drove past grove after grove of the bean trees on our way to a public spring. The spring wasn’t very hot, and the water wasn’t very clean, but you get what you pay for: $3 worth. The view alone was enough for me.

Mientras que en mi casa estoy, rey soy

The direct translation of this Spanish idiom is pretty close to an English saying. "While I am in my house, I am king" is clearly a form of "A man's" -- er, woman's -- "house is his" -- er, her -- "castle." I guess the Spanish might even be the better phrase because it is more gender neutral, unless you are sexist enough to think a woman can't be king.

In any case, I am feeling pretty royal right now, because after three weeks of living out of suitcases and boxes, we finally moved into the house where will be living more permanently (for 11 months, anyway). Although we liked our apartment, this place gave us a little more solitude as it is further up the mountain on property that used to house a granola factory. In fact, our house is in the building where the crunchy goodness was made.

Oddly enough, the new place is a little more accessible as well, because the bus to the school still passes our place (the bus stop is 25 meters away), but multiple buses directly to San Jose do as well. Plus, we couldn’t beat the price; it was less expensive of course, but even with the utilities we now have to pay for, we will still beat the old rent, leaving us to have more than half of our housing for food, travel, and recreation, mainly beer. Which is a good thing, because there’s a nice neighborhood bar right up the street, along with a supermarket, from which we can walk – or stumble – home with groceries.

Coming in the door leads to the living room/dining room/kitchen. It reminds me of Israel a little with everything out in the open. But the furniture is not so porn-like and the art is not so kitschy, being left by a painter that lived here previously.

The kitchen is tiny but functional. The refrigerator is at least as big as in Israel, and there’s actually an oven! It’s a tight squeeze, but if Tim is doing the cooking, and I the dish-washing, we can stay out of each other’s way. Just outside the door to the left is the washing machine. No drier, just lines with clothespins, but so far I’m enjoying the freshness of air-dried clothes; but then again, I haven’t had to race to bring them in before a downpour either.

From the front room, you enter a sort of anteroom. The landlady had a big closet built here, which was a godsend, because Tim and I forgot how many unnecessary clothes we shipped from Israel. Right now, this is Sage’s room, but we’re looking for a futon and a TV so it can become the guest/recreation room. Off this room is the bathroom, complete with a suicide shower where you can see the water-heating wires sprouting out the top. To be honest, though, I’m less scared of that than the huge spider I found on the tile floor the other day.

The bedroom is the last room of the house, and it includes a huge king bed that means I haven’t decreed that Sage can’t share the bed (but don’t tell the landlady). Because of the higher altitude and more open space, it gets colder here at night, but the house came with plenty of blankets – and flannel sheets.

One of the main reasons we decided to move was so Sage could have a yard. The property is big, and we can let him run free, but we won’t until we patch up some holes in one bamboo hedge and make sure the landlady’s chihuahua won’t incite Sage to bite. Tim already has big plans for a garden and some kind of tiki hut, too.

The phone is already set up, and we should have the Internet set up within the week. So feel free to start calling with your reservations. We have five weeks free for winter break, after all.

Caerle bien a alguien

This Spanish phrase means "to fall well to someone." This literal translation fits me fine, I suppose, considering my propensity for klutziness. But it is the idiomatic meaning, to "seem pleasant," that I thought would best introduce the explanation of this blog's title.

In Spanish, simpático, con acento, is an adjective used to describe a person as pleasant, nice, kind, likeable, etc. Clearly, this word does not describe me, so I capitalized the T in order to emphasize "Tico," the slang word a Costa Rican uses to describe his or her nationality. In other words, I am trying to practice good karma by complimenting my new neighbors before I even meet them. But in case this paronomastic plot doesn't work, I also wanted to reference the word sans accent, in terms of its English connotation of "having a like mind or temperament." It is my hope that, unlike the clear outcast I was as non-religious, lower-class German progeny at an upper-class school in the "Jewish state" of Israel, I will find a more comfortable place in this new country and school.

I did hope to establish some syntactical synchronicity with my previous blog, but "Gringa in the Mayanland" (thanks Evan) and "Girl in the Gringolandia" (thanks Tim) just didn't sound as good, despite the parallel alliteration of the latter. Plus, I love puns. At first, I tried to combine my temporary home abroad with a play on the Costa Rican catchphrase for "this is the life," until I realized that "TemPura Vida" sounded more like "this is the lightly-breaded and deep-fried life." So in the end, even if the title is not original (at least a dozen albums, one play, one movie, and even another blog share the same name), I hope these posts eventually seem pleasant to you.

Como el burro que tocó la flauta

The above post title, literally translated from Spanish, means "like the burro that played the flute," which is equivalent to saying "by a stroke of good luck." The story goes that when the burro found the flute, he accidentally brayed, managing to play the instrument successfully; when the burro thought he had played with skill, a wise bird told him it was just luck. And so, in the case of my new job in Costa Rica, I am a lucky ass.

But my story didn't start with much good fortune. Tim and I went to an international-teaching job fair in Boston with high hopes, which were quickly dashed when we saw how the laid-off crowd had infiltrated the job market. Not only had the number of attendees risen, but the number of open positions had dropped. My school, for example, initially posted three positions that they ended up deciding not to fill to save funds. At the fair two years ago, my mailbox was full of inquiries and my dance card eventually was full of interviews. This year, we had only one inquiry, and we had to beg for interviews, even from schools that previously said they want to meet us at the fair. We were outright denied for me not being Christian or Tim not being certified. We only had four interviews over two days. Two, from the inquiry school in Germany and another in Ecuador, went well, but resulted in "not the right fit." Another, with a school in Egypt, went a little too well, as they offered us the jobs five minutes into the interview; however, my spidey sense told me to deny the offer (as it turns out, it looks like we dodged a bullet, according to online reviews of the school).

We left town with only one lead, with another suspect college (read: diploma mill) in Turkey. But with no other options we continued the application process, first having to analyze and write essays then having to do Skype interviews. During this process is when I found the flute: A school in Costa Rica contacted me about an English teacher position. Even though there was no position for Tim, I agreed to do an interview with this school because Tim thought he could find private ESL positions in the country.

I was offered the job, but I was wary of Tim having to play the visa game again; once bitten by Israeli bureaucracy, twice shy, you could say. So despite my unemployment worries, I decided to turn down the job to wait for potential positions in the States. So far, no bird was chirping to me; I thought I could still find a job through my skills. But in response to my "regret to inform you" e-mail to the Costa Rican school, I heard a little birdie start to sing: An ESL teacher at the school was about to go on maternity leave and another wanted to go part-time before eventually retiring. These occurrences have nothing to do with my skill, just luck, and yet they are the reasons that Tim interviewed for a job at the same school and that we eventually accepted positions in Costa Rica. I basically will be the high school English department, teaching all levels both reading and writing. Tim will be a middle school ESL teacher, supplementing in-class instruction. And the moral of my story is, An accidental ass is better than an unemployed one any day.