SimpaTico

Estar como un pulpo en un garaje

2010-06-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Typically, I take pride in trying to blending into the local culture whenever I travel. But for our last hurrah in Costa Rica, we decided to turn truly tourist, thanks mainly to my friend Ellen, who came to visit and encouraged me to do all of the typically cheesy activities that Tim and I would normally avoid. So for this trip, I reveled in blatantly displaying my American-ness: I wore clothes with designer labels, I booked tours and private shuttles on the Internet, and I didn't feel bad about not leading off with Spanish in many interactions. After all, since we are heading back to the States, it was good ethnocentric practice. And, honestly, in the end I didn't mind "being like a octopus in a garage," the Spanish equivalent of the English idiom "sticking out like a sore thumb."

After I picked up Ellen from the airport, I suppose the correct tourist course of action would have been to pick up our rental car. But also being typically cheap Americans, we opted to take the bus to La Fortuna, at the base of the Arenal Volcano. Now, Tim and I have been to the area together twice before, and his family has been there many times. I'm not sure if it's just coincidence, but after Tim mentioned that his mom had brought student groups to a particular restaurant, we got a free flambe dessert.
Our first full day was full of tourist fun. We spent the morning and afternoon riding the Class-III rapids of the Rio Toro, or Bull River, which sounds like it was named with travel brochures in mind. We all stayed in the boat until the very end when our guide Roberto decided to have some fun by making us all crowd on the back of the raft, which created a ride as if we actually were on a bull. Unfortunately, Roberto, Ellen, and I got bucked off. I got a wet wedgie as I was thrown back into the raft, then I had to catch and hold onto a rescue line so our boat wouldn't head past the disembarking area -- the kind of extreme adventure only a tourist can treasure. (Photo courtesy of Desafio Tour Company)
After almost three hours in some pretty chilly and rocky rapids, we headed to the steamy and tranquil waters of Eco-Termales, one of three hot-springs attractions in the Arenal area. With this visit, Tim and I completed the trifecta, so I can say with confidence that although Baldi has more pools and Tabacon has better ambiance, Eco-Termales has the best piña coladas, the required nectar of tropical tourists. (Photo courtesy of Ellen)
The next day, we had some time to kill before our next tourist activity, so we walked (yes, I know we should've taken a taxi) to a nearby swimming hole, where the locals were performing some crazy acrobatic stunts as they dropped from a rope swing into the water. After watching a few of them come quite close to the rocks of the waterfall, I was perfectly happy to not embrace local culture. (Photo courtesy of Ellen)
Our next excursion was quite atypical of my traveling style: I paid someone to take me on a hike. At the volcano, it is necessary to hire a guide if you want to go into the national park, but we didn't even do that; we visited Arenal 1968, a private reserve where you can visit the lava field of the volcano's most destructive eruption, which buried three villages and killed 87 people on July 29, 1968. While there, we discovered that the loud booms we thought were thunder were actually explosions from the crater, spewing out rocks that crash together as they tumble down the volcano.
As we headed further around the volcano in hopes of seeing lava flow, our guide stopped to show us a red-eyed tree frog. As exciting as the animal's eyes were, the red simply could not compare the glow of the sparks on the volcano's face. I have no photographic proof of our sighting because it was hard enough to see with one's own eyes, much less with a camera lens (although that didn't stop many fellow observers from trying to take pictures -- with flash -- a tourist ritual in which I refuse to participate). (Photo courtesy of Ellen)
With nearly all the tourist activities in La Fortuna exhausted, the next day we took the bus to Quepos, on the Pacific coast. We exhibited our American sensibility by finding the first Mexican place we could for lunch, even though we were in an area renown for its local seafood, such as the red snapper on this man's bicycle. But hey, at least we had fish tacos, right? (Photo courtesy of Ellen)
The next day, we went on a canopy tour, during which we were unable to keep from learning about the local culture. As we headed through a plantation, our guide told us about the palm-fruit industry in the area, which flourished after the banana crop was killed off by disease 20 years ago. Despite my American sensibilities, I couldn't help but empathize with the workers, who not only have to risk the venom of snakes that hide in the dead palm leaves on the plantation ground but also have to pull down the fruit manually with a long sickle that would make the Grim Reaper envious.
We braved the Reaper ourselves as we completed the canopy circuit of 10 ziplines, 2 rapels and even a Tarzan swing. After yet another tourist-friendly Costa Rican meal (surprisingly similar to our school lunches), we celebrated cheating death with some beers bought from a bar owned by the family of one of our guides. (Photo courtesy of Canopy Safari)
As if the beers weren't enough, after getting back to town, we went in search of fruity drinks to complement the sunset. We found them at El Avion, a restaurant built around a plane that was funded by the United States during the Iran-Contra affair and that was abandoned at the international airport in Costa Rica. Leave it to some gringos to take a piece of Costa Rica's dirty history (the U.S. built an airstrip in Santa Elena, in the northwest part of the country, to help the Contras strike into southern Nicaragua, but it was never used) and turn it into a nightclub. (Photo courtesy of Ellen)
On our last full day of vacation, we headed to Manuel Antonio National Park, where in the American fashion of lack of class and cash, we didn't hire a guide but simply looked where other group's guides were pointing. In the end, we managed to spot quite a few species on our own, the most ubiquitous of which was the "rowdy American high-schooler," which displayed pre-mating rituals on the park's sandy and swimmable beaches.
But there were some native species as well, such as the three-toed sloth, which is not nearly so slothful when it defers to gluttony.
And when committing the same sin, the white-tailed deer loses much of its shyness.
The white-faced capuchins were the opposite of shy as they boldly stole snacks from sun-bathers. Even this one with a baby was unruffled when we came within feet of it to get photos.
This agouti was more difficult to find, but it exhibited the same politeness in letting us capture it on digital memory card.
Our last spotting, as we headed out of the park, was the blue iguana, which quickly jogged our minds about numerous American bars of the same name.
I thank Ellen immensely for letting us view Costa Rica from a tourist's perspective, which negated some of our lesser attitudes about the country -- at least until we returned to pouring rain in San José, which soaked us as we had to do laundry, get groceries, and find a hot plate to replace our sole and now non-functioning source for cooking. Costa Rica, it's a great place to visit, but sometimes I wouldn't want to live there.

Deja de dar leña al mono

2010-04-18T13:30:00.000-07:00

This phrase literally translates to “stop hitting the monkey with firewood,” which might be what you want to tell me after this, the third blog post about my spring break trip, because its English equivalent is “stop beating a dead horse.” It's fitting that both of these idioms involve animals, because that's what this post is about. I'd say more than half the photographs I came home with were of animals, or at least some plant that purportedly contained some. The following are the photos that most clearly display more fauna than flora.

Costa Rica has more butterfly gardens than Ohio has auto-parts stores. And the one we visited was behind a restaurant where we ate for lunch. Despite the odd location, it was pretty cool to be so close to so many varieties of butterflies. I found it interesting that most of the species tended to be attracted to the flowers that resembled them, like this orange-on-orange action. Maybe the animal kingdom isn't as color blind as we like to claim.
Butterflies aren't the diverse insects in Costa Rica; there are plenty of arachnids to go around. Unfortunately, they don't tend to be attracted to flowers, but to human abodes, as I can attest to from the abundance near our apartment. This one was a bit close for comfort as well, because it had built a web large enough to trap a person outside our cabin in Tortuguero. Luckily, every time I checked, it was always in its web.
Next, we move to reptiles, the most prolific species of which seemed to be lizards. We saw plenty of iguanas, including dozens in a tree on our way to Rio San Juan. This Jesus Christ lizard was hanging out on the banks of the river. The running joke about its name is that when you see one, you say, "Jesus Christ, did you see that lizard!" But really, the nickname comes from the fact that they can run on water, much like the Christian figure did at the Sea of Galilee.
We didn't see as many snakes as lizards, although they are just as ubiquitous. Costa Rica has some of the most venomous species in the world, including the highly aggressive fer-de-lance. This snake from the canals at Tortuguero is not near as threatening, but in the rainforest by Arenal, we also saw the dangerous pit viper, which much to my dismay was the size of a garter snake, about as small as the dead snakes I have seen around our property.
The best animal that I saw and photographed in Tortuguero had to be a caiman. This one was hiding out in some rushes by the bank, but when we approached, he dove into the water and came within 2 feet of our boat. I think he might've been coming for me; I mean, look at the evil eye he is giving me and my camera.
In truth, caimans don't eat humans; they're not big enough, like their crocodile cousins. They mainly eat other reptiles, amphibians, fish, and water birds, like this that was hanging out, totally undisturbed with a caiman a few feet away. I didn't get a photo of that caiman because he was hiding out so well, lying in wait for a good meal, I imagine. I also don't remember the name of this bird, but I call him "caiman chow."
Later on in the day, when we took a boat ride further into the canals, our guide spotted a houtou. I had become pretty good at spying herons and egrets, but I would've never found this bird. Apparently, seeing a houtou is a treat for bird watchers because it is so well camouflaged and lives deep in the forest, but not being an ornithophile myself, I wouldn't know. As just a regular schmoe, though, I did find its timber mimicry pretty amazing.
On the other hand, we saw so many anhingas that they began to seem pedestrian; actually, you can find them in Florida, so they are pretty common. Nonetheless, I find it fascinating that they don't have the oil to make their feathers waterproof so they must dry their wings before flying. That means they have to sun themselves between every meal they catch. Can you imagine if people had to go to the tanning salon after every stop at the drive-thru?
Kingfishers are found troughout the Americas, too, but Costa Rica is special enough to have all six types of them living in country. We saw three of the six during our ride on the Rio San Juan: the green, belted, and Amazon varieties. I'm not sure which one this is, because the three vary only slightly in color and crest, but I can tell you it is real, even though it looks like a wood-carved model you would put in your yard.
When a fellow tour member went running while we were at the Hanging Bridges in Arenal, because she saw a big, colorful bird, I was hoping it was a quetzal, one of the most unique-looking but hard-to-spot endangered birds. I was only slightly disappointed when I discovered a pair of blue macaws instead. Blue macaws aren't endangered, but they have dwindled in population in Costa Rica, so there is an effort to reintroduce mating pairs to the wild. Macaws mate for life, and they can live for up to 70 years, so there's a good chance the population will recover, as long as divorce remains taboo in avian society.
Birds aren't the only cool flying creatures in Costa Rica. These bats, which our guide on the Rio San Juan pointed out, are camouflaged even better than the houtou. See those six bumps that make the tree look like it has teeth? Those are actually bats. Although I wasn't quick enough to get photographic proof, I was able to verify the veracity of the guide's assertion when he provoked them into flapping their wings a bit.
The bats ranked pretty high on my list of favorite animal sightings, but when it comes to the ones I was able to capture on film, nothing beats the howler monkey. Oh sure, I've seen the spider monkeys scramble over my head and I've even heard the howler monkeys grunt at me from a disconcerting distance, but this was the first time I was able to get a full frontal photo. And trust me, this guy clearly voiced his objection to giving us a free publicity shot.
In the end, we didn't get to see a jaguar attacking a tapir as it was being eaten by an anaconda, as we had hoped, but our Costa Rican safari was still more than satisfactory.

Dando por sentado

2010-04-08T13:49:00.000-07:00

When Spanish speakers accuse someone of doing this, they literally mean that person is "giving for seated" something, or "taking it for granted." I believe I am not alone in "giving for seated" one of my typical breakfast foods: bananas. During a short stop at a banana-packing facility, I quickly realized that this fruit, which is so easy to eat, is quite difficult to produce.

I'm not even going to address the effort required to start a banana plantation. I'll just pretend some Juanny Bananaseed magically planted pairs of trees and dug ditches for drainage in fields across Latin America. But then the work begins, first with the effort of keeping the plants pest-free. Planes are used to drop pesticides on the fields, but individual bunches of bananas also are wrapped in bags -- by hand -- to protect the fruit from infestation.

When the fruit is ready for harvest, while the bananas are still green, workers hack off the bunches with machetes. Then, to add insult to injury, they have to cut down the whole tree so its planted partner can grow while it recovers. Each bunch of bananas is carried to -- by hand -- and hung on a rolling hook attached to an extensive maze of overhead tracks, which lead to the packaging building.
The bunches of bananas are dragged to the building by human power, not motors. And by bunch, I don't mean the amount we usually buy at the store, but tiers of "feet" on a single stem that can weigh upwards of 100 pounds. Workers have to use all their strength to get the momentum to pull the stems --by hand -- to the facility, which can be multiple kilometers away.
Then the tiers are cut off the stems -- by hand -- and thrown into pools of water to wash off dirt and insects that were able to get through the protective blue-bag covering.
The tiers are then cut apart -- by hand -- by women who determine within a split second of sight what grade each banana is, based on its length and peel condition. The lowest-quality bananas are thrown into the overhead conveyor belt, which delivers the fruit to a truck that takes them directly to local stores. These "rejects" are given away for next to free, then resold for only slightly more, and let me tell you, they are even better than the ones you get in the States because they are fresher.
The two higher grades of bananas continue to be prepared for export. They are sprayed -- finally, not by hand -- with solution that seals them off from pests and bruises during shipment.
Yes, even the stickers are labor-intensive because they are put on -- by hand! The top-grade bananas are labeled Chiquita, and the second level gets a variety of brand names. But in the end, they all come from the Chiquita farm, and if even the rejects taste good, is it really necessary to pay extra for a prettier sticker?
Last but not least, the bananas are packed into boxes -- by hand -- for export. The boxes of fruit are shipped both by land and sea into the United States. The duration of delivery is about about a month, which is why the bananas are shipped while they are still green, so they will be the perfect ripeness when they appear in your produce department.
All this work, just to create a food that takes only the effort of an easy peel to eat. Perhaps the next time you complain about a brown spot, you won't take that for granted .

Tirando por el atajo

2010-04-08T13:07:00.000-07:00

This phrase, which literally means "pulling the shortcut," is the Spanish equivalent of "taking the easy way out," which I definitely did for this year's spring break. For the first time in a few years, I didn't go "out" anywhere because I stayed in Costa Rica. And the 10-day tour included a lot of long bus rides that I would hardly call "shortcuts."

I didn’t have enough time or energy to plan a trip for myself, much less my father and his girlfriend, so I signed up for something I normally dislike: an organized tour. Usually, I think such tours are too confining for my traveling style, but this time, it was the best choice to see a lot of the country in a short amount of time, without having to arrange all the details.

After spending a night in San José, we took a day trip to Volcán Póas, an active volcano just north of the capital. We were lucky enough to have clear weather, so we could see the highly acidic lake in the volcano’s crater. If we hadn’t been able to see, though, we still would’ve been able to smell the sulfur of the surrounding fumaroles.
On the way back from the volcano, we stopped for lunch, where we saw a traditional indigenous dance. At one point, two tribe members aggressively danced to dispel the evil jaguar spirit. Although not yet invented in tribal times, Velcro came in handy as the two women ripped off their skirts for a butt-shaking native boogie. Apparently, Velcro is a Costa Rican tradition because it was used for the same purpose in three other shows we saw during the trip.
The next day, we left our hotel for Tortuguero National Park. On the way, we stopped by a banana plantation, where we saw every part of the harvesting and packing process, from hacking down the fruit to smacking on the Chiquita stickers (see my post "Dando por sentado").
After one and a half hours on a boat, we made it to our isolated lodge in the national park. We were greeted by howler monkeys prowling around the turtle-shaped pool. At that same poolside, we would later see people acting like monkeys as they tried to dance the mambo and limbo.
The next day we saw rarer wildlife as we took two rides through the intracoastal channels (see my post "Deja de dar leña al mono"). We also stopped at the Caribbean Conservation Corporation to hear about the protection of the nesting green turtles. It was neither egg-laying nor hatching season, but we swung by the beach to see their habitat anyway.
We retraced our route out of Tortuguero to go to Volcán Arenal, a volcano so active that it frequently shoots lava and constantly is monitored for an eruption. People are not allowed to get near its crater; nevertheless, our luck with the weather allowed us to see its distinctive conical shape.
Our day trips from Arenal included a soak in the Baldi hot springs and a ride on the Rio San Juan, a thoroughfare to Nicaragua. As we stopped at the official border, a water bus bringing passengers from Nicaragua passed by.
While circling Lake Arenal on our way to the Pacific coast, we stopped at the Hanging Bridges attraction, where we crossed six suspension bridges leading us through the rain forest. I couldn’t get very many pictures of the bridges’ height off the ground because I was afraid I would drop my camera when they swayed.
We made it to our Marriott resort just south of Tamarindo right before sunset on Playa Mansita. We took a morning nature walk in the area, but only a fourth of the group showed up. Most people just wanted to relax in the resort’s extensive pool. We did the same later in the day after getting scared by the rough undertow on nearby Playa Avellanas.
The last full day was a long trek back to the capital, with some stops to assuage us with ice cream and souvenirs. If that wasn’t enough, at our farewell dinner that night, we were served filet mignon. Truly, I couldn’t have planned it any better myself.

Tener mas lana que un borrego

2010-03-05T10:05:00.000-08:00

This phrase is the Spanish equivalent of to be filthy rich, literally meaning to “have more wool than a lamb,” as do the people who hosted us during our recent long weekend in Guatemala. Accustomed to our bare-bones backpacking, the royal treatment was shocking at first, but after a few days, we were more than happy to be shepherded around in luxury.

After a delicious steak dinner, a delightful night's sleep and a delectable steam shower, we left for the journey from Guatemala City to Lago de Atitlán in our host's bullet-proof SUV. The weather was cloudy, so our hosts drove with us, instead of taking their helicopter. Despite the vehicle's extra-largeness, I had to squeeze into the third-row seat, leaving no room for their bodyguard.
Had our hosts not generously provided our transportation, our safety would not have been so ensured, as we might have opted for one of the ubiquitous chicken buses. After our hosts told us about how the bus drivers, competing for business, try to beat each other from one stop to the next -- disregarding the no-passing lines on windy, hilly roads -- even we decided to splurge on the $6 tourist minibus to get from the lakeside city of Panajachel to Antigua, during our self-guided portion of the trip.
The SUV ride ended at a launch where we transferred to our second mode of transportation, our host's motorboat, to get to their lakeside retreat. The view from this craft was even more stunning, what with the lack of those ammunition-repellent lines. While our host was giving us a lift to Panajachel the next day, so we could catch the bus to Antigua, we swung by San Santiago de Atitlán, where a fisherman hopefully was bringing home his catch to fill one of the many morning oven fires that wafted a romantic haze over Volcán Tolimán in the distance.

We could catch glimpses of the volcano from our bus as we left Panajachel, but for some reason, the overall panorama wasn't nearly as appealing. When there wasn't a sign or a bush blocking the view, then there would be some man leaning over the guardrail, just in time to document an unflattering butt shot.

The sights provided by our hosts once stationary were extraordinary as well. Walking up bunches of terraced steps from the boat dock to the house balcony was well worth the quad burn. Even with the lake clouded over (anti-helicopter weather), it still lived up to Aldous Huxley's description: "on the limit of permissibly picturesque."
Later, the clouds that covered Volcán de Agua, which towers over the Antigua skyline, didn't permit as stunning a scene. And besides, the cost to get into the San Francisco ruins was the equivalent of 50 cents, more than the free workout at the lake, and not nearly as thigh-toning.
By evening at the lake, the clouds started to clear, unluckily just after sunset, but there was a nice afterglow, made even more impressionable by its reflection off our host's almost-infinity pool. Our hosts said they don't swim in the lake, because they believe it's polluted, but if you had this heated bath of tranquilty, would you?

The only water we saw at night in Antigua was from the fountain in the city's central park. Its basin does not afford calming vistas of the sunset, and as far as I know, it is not heated, but it does have some pretty interesting sculpted features, like the female figures with jets of water shooting from their nipples.

While we were at our host's lakehouse, we mainly just sat and looked around. To break up the monotony, we ate and drank. Nothing says high living like having drinks on a veranda that was featured in a coffee-table book about great Guatemalan architects. And to accommodate for all those balcony beers, the bathroom had not one, but two, toilet-paper holders, ensuring that the most important party staple is always in abundant supply.

Our hosts' tastes tilted toward the international : American barbequed chicken and Italian pressed paninis for meals and European new-age covers of classic rock ("Back in Black" by AC/DC and "Patience" by Guns 'n' Roses, to name a few) for music. We didn't get authentic Guatemalan food and entertainment until we reached Antigua, where Tim tried the traditional chicken stew called pepian while a duo strummed and crooned out ballads in Spanish.

So for a few days, we were "apaleando oro," or "beating gold," otherwise known as "rolling in dough." And although it was a little difficult to give up our instinctual independence while traveling, the free transportation, lodging and food made it a whole lot easier.

Muerto el perro, se acabó la rabia

2010-01-17T16:31:00.000-08:00

Literally, this idiom means "died the dog, finished the rabies," with the figurative implication being that when the reason for a problem disappears, the effects of the problem also disappear. For example, when we left San Jose, our problem, to spend a week on the Caribbean coast, our problematic stress seemed to dissolve. Even though we encountered some obstacles, including a persistent flat tire, our heart rate still never rose to the same levels as when we are doing the daily grind.

This idiom is also apt for this post because this trip was the first where we were able to bring our dog. Unlike our last planned expedition to Puerto Viejo, we were allowed to rent a car, because we had entered from the United States less than three months ago. One problem dead. As relaxed as he is, Sage is not a stress-free pet. Recently, he was attacked by a dog in our neighborhood, and even before that, he was starting to be less sociable. When he fought with two dogs right before we brought him home from the kennel, we realized our tension was part of the problem. We had concerns that our nerves would cause him to not be friendly with all the roaming dogs on the beach, but he proved us wrong, thereby helping him and us chill out.

One of our favorite places to hang out, including for the dog, was the porch of our beach house rental. It was a good place to drink potfuls of coffee, read three whole books, and do dozens of Sudoku puzzles, which is what we did for the first couple of days because it rained so much. And we didn't mind at all.

Since Sage seemed comfortable enough and is not a fan of water in any form, we left him at home while we explored nearby Punta Uva and Manzanillo. Unfortunately, we got trapped behind a fallen tree coming back from our first trip, which meant that I walked 3 kilometers back to the house to make sure Sage was all right. He didn't even seem to realize that we were gone. So later, when we went to see Playa Chiquita and Cahuita later in the week, we weren't as worried about leaving him alone.
On my way walk home, I saw even more downed trees, some of which were precariously and scarily hanging on power lines. Even though the tree our car was stuck behind was moved within an hour (Tim pulled up to the house just as I arrived on foot, of course), the storm wreaked havoc on the local infrastructure, leaving us without water and electricity for the evening, so we had to head into Puerto Viejo for dinner. After a straight 24 hours of rain, we decided Sage would have to suck it up, so we drove him down to Manzanillo and took him out in the light drizzle. He wasn't exactly thrilled to get damp, but he seemed to enjoy the empty beach. And he even got along with a frisky street dog who was overeager to play, giving Sage a dose of the medicine he doled out when he was a puppy.
After the rains receded later in the week, we took Sage to the remote sands of Playa Chiquita, within walking distance of our house. Because the beach is rocky there, we saw hardly any people. But Sage did get to meet yet another friendly beach dog, who hung out with us for at least an hour before he suddenly whined loudly and, after I didn't respond to his request, inexplicably ran off.
We didn't see very many people, but toward the end of day, we did see a group of 20 or more monkeys migrate down the beach through the treetops. We tried and tried to get Sage to look up, so he could figure out the source of all the rustling branches and falling leaves, but he never did spot them.In fact, it was hard enough for us to spot them because they were moving so fast, but I did manage to get at least one photo where you can tell from the tail that it is actually a primate. We couldn't tell for sure, but we think these were capuchins, because they were not making the noises of the ubiquitous howler monkeys, whose early-morning grunts would've made me think monster if I hadn't been made aware of their presence.Sage also didn't see this sloth, literally hanging out about 100 meters from where we set up camp on the beach. I wanted to get the animal's face, but it refused to budge, and besides, I wouldn't have had the patience to wait for it to move; their actions truly are slo-mo. Some other wildlife too quick to take pictures of that we saw and Sage didn't were the green and black poison dart frog, chesnut-mandibled toucan, and blue morpho butterfly.When the weather had cleared for good, we were too afraid popular Playa Cocles would be packed on a Saturday, so we left Sage at home. But even though the sand was smoother, we still saw very few people, and even fewer dogs. Clearly, we would've been okay to share the waves with Sage, not that he would've swum in them.
On our last day on the coast, we decided to give Manzanillo a third chance to be the cool beach town we hoped it would be. We were rewarded with the most swimmable water in the region, the most welcoming Caribbean community vibe, and the most picturesque (and actually only) view of the sunset.

A las anchas de uno

2010-01-07T14:01:00.000-08:00

I have to admit, it took me a while to figure out how the literal meaning of this phrase, "to the width of one," translates to the figurative meaning, "feel at home." But I guess it means that if there is only one width, you are a part of it, and that's what I felt during our trip to Nicaragua. Tim has always told me how comfortable he felt amid Central American cultures, something that hasn't been apparent in Costa Rica. But when we got to Nicaragua, I understood. All the kids smiled and waved. Their parents exchanged hellos with us. Nicas did not have the "chip on their shoulder," as my landlady describes Ticos as having.

The warm welcome began with the arrival at our first hostel in Managua; even though we showed up in the middle of the night after ringing in the new year on a plane, our host graciously got out of bed to give us our room, trusting us to pay in the morning so she could quickly go back to sleep. The next day, we headed to the city's malecón, or promenade, on Lago de Managua. Despite the fact that we were clearly the only foreigners in sight, we were enthusiastically greeted and served the first of many cheap liter cervezas and ceviche cocktails (all emptied with impunity).
Before catching the bus to our next destination, we wandered around the Área de Monumental, one of the few tourist attractions, if you can call it that, in the capital. One church was left in ruins after two earthquakes. A sign on it read "Christmas for solidarity"; in this country, apparently, the holidays are politicized, not commercialized. A photo posted in front of the cathedral showed how Faith Plaza is where people recognize the anniversary of the Sandinista uprising that felled Somoza's dictatorship in the country.
On the eve of New Year's Day in León, the whole town seemed to be shoring up their resolutions with a mass Mass in the central plaza, which was filled with hot dog, fried chicken, T-shirt and other vendors. There was even a trampoline and bouncy house to occupy the youngsters while the adults exercised their piety. The former capital appeared to be suffering from a clash of its colonial customs and its liberal leanings (rumor has it, the entire town fought against Somoza).
The mass ended in a flourish, with a small series of fireworks set off from just beside the church, which sealed the deal on this being a progressive city. As if the Jesus figure adorned in Christmas lights atop the cathedral wasn't enough. But just to make sure we had seen our full share of forward-thinking, before we left the next morning, we visited the home of Rubén Darío, who helped spread the Modernist literary movement from the Americas to the world.
From León, we headed to its cross-country rival, Granada. The city was the first colonial outpost, leading to its establishment as an economic powerhouse. Not to be outdone, León chose to get a foothold in the political arena by endorsing an American to control Granada from abroad. The competition ultimately led to Managua being declared the capital and Granada choosing to be politically opposite of León in the Sandinista revolt, even today considering itself the more conservative city. Indeed, one sign indicated more restrictions: At the "tourist center" malecón on Lago de Nicaragua, people aren't allowed to swim in the water. But apparently, cows and horses may graze on the basketball court nearby.
The real tourist center of Granada is a pedestrian-only street connecting the central plaza to the lake. While walking back toward the square, we stopped to watch a sandlot baseball game, where players sang the praises of former Cleveland Indian Dennis Martínez, the first Nicaraguan to play in the Major Leagues, and tipped us off to game that night at the local stadium. The liberalness of León still lingering on us and not sure whether the game started at 5 or 6 p.m., we stopped for a beer. We made it to the game only an hour late, but it was already in the seventh inning. Apparently, the action moves faster without TV timeouts. And in another distinction from American stadiums, beers were being sold until the last out -- for less than a dollar!
Our next stop, San Juan del Sur, was plenty American, but we had to spend at least one night at a beach, right? Many people had told us it was overwhelmed with tourists, but on a Sunday night, we had no problem finding a room. But those same people were right about the beach being overrated. The sand and surf wasn't spectacular, but the view from our balcony was serene enough.
The tourists in San Juan del Sur must head to the surrounding hills after the sun goes down, because after drinking happy-hour beers right up until the 8 p.m. deadline, the town seemed to shut down. I was a little worried about finding something to eat, but when we wandered into the locals part of town, plenty of people were out and about. An enticing odor lured us to the first of many standard grilled meals: chicken, rice and beans, plantain chips, and cabbage salad. Our thanks goes out to Juanita for keeping us from starving and making our first BBQ platter the best.
With that load of food still filling up my belly, we headed to another coastal location, but this time it was on the freshwater Lago de Nicaragua. As we rode the ferry to Isla de Ometepe, with lots of waves and little breathing room, I was hoping not to be that tourist, the one who gets seasick. I needn't have worried, though, because an old lady native beat me to it; and yet, after seeing her do the deed, I was still able to keep my chuck down.
After another packed ride, this time by bus, to our hotel in Altagracia, we ended up resorting to another BBQ meal in a sleepy town. But it was a good idea to power us through riding bikes the next day around the island, which happens to be quite hilly and have very few paved roads. Our first stop was Ojo de Agua, a natural spring that manages not to get heated by the two volcanoes that make up the island. But the cool water pools -- which reminded me of Blue Spring in Florida, but with more English speakers -- were refreshing after nearly an hour of bumpy biking.
After cooling off, we continued on to Santo Domingo, purportedly one of the nicest beaches on the island. The rough water didn't look enticing to me, but the smooth beers at the beachside huts did. Plus, the view overlooking the lake was a nice reward after another leg on our rocky ride.
Tim did brave the waves while I stayed safely on the shore, worrying that we wouldn't make it back on our bikes before nightfall, especially if he got tired out by the battering whitecaps. But I did at least discover how to use the full digital zoom on my camera, which let me shoot Tim, photographically that is, from at least 400 meters away.
The boat ride back from the island was not only less jarring than the first ferry trip and bike trek combined, but it was also more scenic. The mystic majesty of Volcan Concepción, foreground, and Volcan Maderas wasn't a bad impression to carry in my mind as we took a 9-hour bus ride (okay, three were spent getting through the border) back to Costa Rica.

Valer la pena

2010-01-07T13:08:00.000-08:00

Literally, this Spanish phrase means "avail the punishment," which is a little harsher than the figurative meaning: "worth the effort," which is an apt description of how I felt after spending a day making tamales with one of our colleagues, who was nice enough to invite us to participate in one of her family's Christmas traditions. It reminded me a lot of my family's tradition of making popcorn balls, where a third of the time is spent cooking, while the other two-thirds are spent socializing and eating, totally undermining the task at hand.

It was also similar in that people take on different roles in contributing to the food production. For example, as a kid, I was always put to the easier and more mindless task of popping popcorn. In Costa Rica, the assessment of my prowess was much the same: My first task was to clean off the banana leaves that make the casing for the tamales, not to be confused with the corn husks that are used for the Mexican version. As you can see, I was assisted by an equally able toddler:
The heavier lifting, literally, was left to the more experienced in the kitchen, where they made the masa, the doughy mass that binds all the fillings together. Masa is a simple recipe, mostly just corn meal and chicken stock (the preferred option over lard by the nutrionist matriarch), but the procedure requires more upper body strength than I have acquired. But they were good-natured enough to at least let me have a go of it. Once again, though, the toddler got a shot, too, and I think she bested me:
The masa-making gets even harder because after the ingredients are mixed together, they must cook on the stove, with continual stirring, a difficult prospect while standing. And as the mixture cooks, it gets thicker, requiring even more effort to stir. This is one reason men should definitely be in the kitchen:
As the masa simmered, I and most of the rest of the family were left to the less strenuous task of preparing the fillings. This included cutting peppers, beans, pork, chicken, a mixture of vegetables in a mustard-based sauce, and twine as well as putting peas, prunes, olives, and rice into serving bowls, ready for the assembly line. I was more than happy with this assignment because it afforded the possibility to drink wine in between cutting and pouring:
When all the prep work was finished, we took a break for lunch, to fortify ourselves for the upcoming ordeal. When production began, the pros were in the lead, with the mother splatting just the right amount of masa on a banana leaf, followed by one daughter on rice and mustard vegetables and another on pork and chicken:
Then Tim and I got in on the action, with him on beans and carrots and I on peas and peppers. I was followed by the granddaughter, who had fun mooshing in a date and prune for each tamale. But man, sometimes that toddler got distracted, and I had to cover her station as well as mine; I guess that's what you get from free child labor:
Last but not least, the son-in-law had just the right knack for folding the leaves around the stuffing (and I do mean stuffed). The whole assembly line shut down whenever he had to chase down the aforementioned distracted toddler. Then dad tied two tamales together with twine to create a piña, or pair:
The magic number of the day was 80: 80 pieces of carrots, 80 pieces of pepper, 80 slices of beans -- the list goes on and on, because we were shooting for 80 tamales. Once we reached our goal, it was time to relax (or in some toddler's cases, nap, or in some adults' cases, drink more) while the piñas boiled for a couple of hours:
By late dinnertime, our payoff was to be had. Normally, we'd get to take the fruits of our labor home with us, but since we were leaving the country the next day, we took our loot on site. I only had enough energy to eat one, but Tim demurely accepted double the pleasure:

Por un pelito de rana

2009-11-28T12:46:00.000-08:00

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 cavetching (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

2009-11-28T11:58:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-18T13:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

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, the 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 celebrated 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

2009-08-24T07:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-14T13:08:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

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.