I have become like the hunter.
Because in this world, it's all about survival, and in this world, it is self against nature. It is the most timeless theme, man vs. nature, the struggle to conquer or be vanquished. And here in the wild tropics, the theme and the threat are larger than life. So immense is the danger presented by the elements in lands close to the equator, that they have come up with a term that describes the hapless writer's reaction to it: Tropicalization. The sweet siren call of liquid gold sunsets, crystal blue breakers and the saturated green of the rain forest gives way to the cruel extremes of weather and nature. It is a truly perilous journey that I now find myself on, but I can feel myself adapting, out of necessity, out of instinct, out of that clawing, scraping raw desire to live.
Because, after all, it's me against the bugs.
I have developed, through trial and error, methods which limit my interaction with these small enemies. I make sure that as few things as possible cluttering my floor so that my perimeter checks to ferret out corner lurkers and shadow squatters are smooth and quick. I turn lights on before entering rooms and block cracks whenever possible. Luckily the weather has cooled off and I can keep the slatted windows near my ceilings fully closed at all times to limit entry points. I know to look in my sink immediately upon entering the bathroom because there is a centipede that resides in the drain that, unless I'm prepared, tends to startle me (It's actually really funny, he can't quite make it up the sides of the slick sink and so his little legs, of which he really only has 40, work tirelessly to achieve nothing).
My senses have sharpened as well. I know, now, the rustle of the cockroach. I immediately become aware at the slightest buzzing sound. Flies have a particular, familiar buzzing, but there are all manner of new bugs here which I am not familiar with. I can spot an ant on my floor out of the corner of my eye, even though the floor tiles are speckled, and often try to trick me.
I have three different repellent methods of different strengths which I employ to keep bugs out of my bed (which is really the only objective, as I can easily deal with them when I am fully awake during day time): dryer sheets (work well, though not perfectly with mosquitoes), OFF with DEET (work better with mosquitoes), and not showering.
I have learned to live with some, and I think the bigger bugs have come to realize the zero-tolerance policy that is enforced within the confines of my room, and oddly, with cockroaches.
Long have I pondered our repulsion and hatred for cockroaches. To watch one, trapped and still, in a corner during daylight, they aren't threatening or repulsive really. Some are thinner with hard, glowing mahogany shells. Some are fat and striped. All have those long, elegant feelers that gracefully dip and reach. They aren't venomous, and hardly ever bite. We fear spiders because of their danger and their propensity of munch on human flesh. We abhor mosquitoes for their obvious taste for human blood, and also because they make us itch like the dickens. Could the reason we hate cockroaches be solely a societal construction? Could we only hate them because, they eat our trash instead of our flesh and so tend to be found in places that we associate with filth? (Which of course leads to disease-carriers, but so are flies and we don't, generally, shudder at the thought of a fly.) They are big compared to other bugs, but small compared to us. So what exactly is it about these creatures that causes girls to squeal and boys to cringe.
It could be that peculiarly loud skittering sound they make, and ominous indicator of their unseen presence. It could be the sickening sound they make when killed which is too loud to allow their death to pass by casually as it does with so many other bugs. Or it could be the fact that they are FAST little bastards that, the minute they are scared from their disturbed little corner, take off in crazy circles, like a five year-old at the wheel of a Cadillac who can't see the road ahead and who knows WHERE they will end up, except we're all pretty sure it'll be on our bodies somewhere...
And so I'm learning. Learning to stalk, not silently like a jaguar, but with as much scary, ground shaking noise as possibly. Learning to appreciate the smell of roach-killer (as I have become hardened to bug-death by my life among the creatures). Learning to sleep without cocooning myself in my sheets. For the most part...
In other, completely unrelated news: What with the coming of the rains, days here feel like the opposite bend of the season, the one which takes us into the throes of winter. I awoke this morning to the rain, cool and fresh and comforting. And it turned out to be a very good day to listen to The Cure and to delightfully apocalyptic Eastern European romantic music composers.
Showing posts with label accustoming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label accustoming. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Two Thursdays ago the choir changed classrooms and I couldn't find the new one. After 10 minutes of wandering campus, that uncomfortable feeling of obvious unfamiliarity started to take over and after 45 minutes I gave up. I was feeling, once again, like I didn't belong, which was frustrating after nearly a month of feeling at home.
So I gave up and stalked home. I got halfway though the park before I gave up on walking home. I threw myself underneath a tree and gave myself up to star gazing and pleading with the cosmos. The lightning bugs danced around through thick ropes of greenery and the bougainvillea bushes and the warm tropical air was sweat and thick and made me think of nothing more that that classic image of New Orleans. Why, I wondered, did I idolize the bohemian culture, but can't seem to feel like I'm living it? I always seem to end up on this side of socially acceptable and distinctly respectable?
I guess someone was listening, or maybe the stars were lined up correctly, because the next day I ran away with the circus.
Let me back up a bit. You see, there are these street-performers, mostly jugglers, who hang out at stop lights and perform in the cross-walk when the light is red. Ems and I sit at our bus stop, which is about 30 feet from a stoplight, and watch them while discussing the awesomeness of juggling. So imagine our surprise when, after an entire day of running errands we collapsed onto the bus and watched a gaggle of them slide into the seats across the aisle from us. It was even cooler, of course, because one of them had an accordion.
(I would like you to please now paint a mental picture of a band of classic bohemian gypsies mixed with a depression-era circus, to the sound of 1920’s accordion and harmonica music that would fit best in black-and-white Paris (or Amélie), with distinct flavorings of Peter Pan and the Moulin Rouge and completely saturated with that fantastic, although elusive concept of wandering artsy (which can obviously only be described with rather quirky coupling of an verb and an adjective, as opposed to the infinitely more conventional coupling of an adverb and a verb.) That’s essentially how I remember the weekend.)
To continue. So what with the circus sitting next to us on the bus and all, Ems got really excited and tried to convince me that if I talk to them, they’ll play something for us on their cool instruments. Actually, it will probably work better if we say it’s her birthday, NO! It’s MAGGIE’S! Maggie! Talk to them even though you are sitting by the window and trying to scrouch as far away from human interaction as possible because you have just spent 2 hours trying on jeans because the only jeans you brought with you to wear are indecently filled with holes and so now you are immensely tired and hungry.
But eventually Ems gave in and asked them herself, in nervous Spanish, where they were going to “play.” By the stoplight, of course, and do we want to come?
Now, I’m not exactly how this exchange went. I think a lot got lost in translation. I’m not sure if they asked US to come along, or if somehow we thought they did and tagged along anyway. I do know that they asked us what we were doing, and we answered honestly: nothing. And so we got off the bus with them? It was a little awkward at first, just randomly deciding to follow them. I was still carrying a bag with two pairs of jeans in it for cripes sake. When they started to set up under a stoplight, we plopped down and strove to look comfortable and natural by conversing casually. (Even though I spent most of the time suppressing nervous giggles.) Stephan was fiddling around on the accordion and David and César brought out the juggling clubs and promptly lit them on fire. Yes fire. Playing with fire is a funny thing. They’d juggle the clubs between them or they’d take three and balance them into a hat or they play like they were going to light someone on fire, getting the flame too close to this one’s back while he wasn’t paying attention or dangerously close to that one’s dreads while he was talking to us. At one point David extinguished his club in a cup of kerosene and these crazy whorls of white steam/smoke erupted up and out of the cup like an explosion of dry ice. I watched it and wished that I’d randomly brought my camera. He looked up and grinned at me “Wow, huh?” (They say “wow” here, but it sounds different. Like it’s more self-conscious of its English origins. Kind of like how I saw “no bueno”)
The stoplight wasn’t doing much for them because it was Labor Day, and in their words the day for “trabajo para taxistas y maravillosos.” (work for taxi drivers and jugglers.) So they told us they were planning on going to do a show downtown and then head to this bar called La Chicharronera. So we said “okay” and continued to follow them.
We walked all the way to downtown San Jose through the back streets, reciting stories, quips and poetry in between bars of accordion music, ringing doorbells and running and other such forms of goofing off in the streets. At one point we stopped in front of a small art-house theater where a line was waiting to get in. The guys set up a small show, jokingly directing traffic around their fire-clubs and jokes, and passing the hat afterward. Ems and I sat off to the side with that kind of smug thrill that I get from being “with the band” as it were.
At one point I looked around and realized we were walking through my favorite part of the city. It’s also probably the most sketchy part too. It’s one end of what is called the “California District” and it’s so cool. It’s bounded on that far side by railroad tracks and at one point there is an antique locomotive just rusting in its house. There are a few dilapidated buildings with artfully broken windows and overgrown grasses. But most of all there are expanses, like I’m talking multiple city blocks, of pure white wall that has been covered with extraordinary graffiti. Every time we bus or taxi through the area I tell Ems that I want to come back on foot and walk around and take pictures and she always tells me that we can do that as long as it’s during the daytime and in a REALLY BIG group. So imagine my glee at finding myself walking through it at 9 pm with a group of locals. We walked by this bar called Raffa’s which is so small that everyone sits outside on the curb. And they are the coolest people too. They’re all in black and safety pins, or plaid flannel and worn jeans and converse. Totally my kind of people. Further down the California district are other bars and music venues. It’s just really hip.
At Raffa’s we were joined by a group of girls who were friends with our jugglers. We found out later that they are all part of the drama department in the University of Costa Rica, where I go, which ends up saying a lot about them. As in they were really cool. (There are a ton of universities in the area, but UCR has a reputation of being the more artsy-hippie school.)
So we all sat down at the fountain in the very middle of the center of San José and the boys started gathering a crowd around. Teasing, cajoling and pushing people into sitting down, which, because of the clownish way they did it, drew more people. They commenced with their routine fire show, the feats of dexterity, the humorous stories all mixed up with perfect improv when it was appropriate. Like then a soaking wet drunk wandered into the middle of the show and they had to entice him out with a fake phone call from a nearby payphone. Or when they drew a crowd member up and made him take off his backpack and David pretended to walk off with it with exaggerated motions while Jason yelled at him that “that’s not for now, we do that later…” They then told the poor bastard that Stephan was going to walk over him juggling fire, and he had to watch while Stephan did a few practice rounds in which he kept dropping the flaming clubs while his friends shouted encouragement. “Good try! You’re doing great! One more time!” It was really cool to watch people we knew, people we’d been interacting with and hanging out with do this entertaining, professional-quality show which was, to all intents and purposes, impromptu.
Finally, the show was over and we headed to La Chicarronera with the girls, walking down the street, laughing and joking as if we’d been friends for AGES. We grabbed a couple of drinks at La Chica, sat on the low stage upon which, one month earlier, I’d watched some of the most awesome break-dancing, under crazy-colored lights and chatted. When the boys showed up we exchanged card tricks and magic. We finished the night singing “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette and “Zombie” by the Cranberries with our new Tica friends in one of the karaoke bars on La Calle, the row of bars that juts off campus. By the time we got in the taxi at 2am we’d been speaking Spanish for 8 hours straight and forgot to switch back to English as we reveled in our new friends and our awesome day.
And that’s about where we thought it would end. The next day was designated for finding a café and studying. We sat for four hours in this café where they make awesome chai tea and Indian food and the walls are yellow and red and the roof is but an awning. When it started to rain, I got distracted and stared out at San José existing around me and the mist-shrouded mountains rising up around it and thought about how cool it was to be sitting, essentially, outside in the rain, but not being cold and not getting wet, with a hot mug of tea. So like Berkeley and so different.
After four hours of studying we started to walk home. We walked instead of taking the bus even though it was kind of raining because I had absolutely no money on me (as per usual) and didn’t really want to borrow MORE money from Ems. But as we got close to the mall, (and Ems stopped at a street vendor to inquire about crocheted bikinis) we ran into on of the jugglers! It was a little awkward, mostly because of our being caught off guard and thus not being able to speak Spanish with much confidence. But he asked us if we were doing anything that night, and when we said no, he said there was a party at his friend’s place in Heredia and if we wanted to come, we could meet them at Raffa’s at 11. We thanked him but didn’t sound hopeful about it. The night before had been draining and after four hours of studying we just couldn’t conceptualize going out. But as we started to walk home, we started to talk about it. Should we go out to cement our friendship with these guys? Or would that be too creepy-soon? Would we seem too pushy?
Long story short we spent four hours discussing it and waffling. Yes, we’re going. We’re only going if we can get MK to come. We’re going even though MK isn’t. Maggie, I asked four online 8 balls and they all said we should go. Well, I checked my horoscope AND yours and it’s not giving me a clear indication. Ems, I don’t want to go to Raffa’s in a taxi, that’s just too uncool. Ems, I have a bad feeling about this. Maggie, I’ve just called the taxi, be outside in 4 minutes. Crud.
I think I just got nervous. I’d gotten ready to go out, so obviously I was planning on going out, but when I got in the taxi apparently, I looked like I was going to be sick. Raffa’s is one of THE coolest bars in San José. It’s in a dangerous enough neighborhood that the tourist welcome mat, so to speak, isn’t really out. It’s more of a place to go and bump into your friends, which is hard to do if you’re a transient gringo and don’t HAVE friends there. I practically DRAGGED her up to the bar because “I really needed a drink” and then we went and leaned against the wall just outside the door, framed with graffiti, trying to construct some sort of semblance of cool. It was around 11 and we couldn’t see them, so we assumed that they’d left. Oh well. That’s cool. No Heredia party tonight. It’s probably for the best. And as long as we’re here, let’s enjoy ourselves and chat. Blend. Eventually a drunk kid came over and wanted some of my drink. I thought it was funny because he was trying to convince us that he’d never tried a Cuba Libre before. (Here they come in cans, already mixed. It’s genius. And it’s also almost as popular as beer.) Then later he told us it was his favorite drink… Anyway, Ems told him we have swine flu and refused to share and then they started talking about places to go in Costa Rica. At one point she leaned over and hissed “I see them. Right. There. No over, leaning on the fence.” We waited, but the douche walked RIGHT past us into the bar and back out again. At that point we figured it was over. Obviously he’d seen us. Obviously he didn’t want to hang out. Obviously we were being creepy desperate.
So we shook off our new “friend,” bought two more Cuba Libres and decided to make the best of it. After all, we had ended up at a way cool bar. We chose a spot off to the side and chatted for a little while longer. FINALLY Jason came over all “hey! You guys made it!” and we were all “yea! Hey, we thought you’d left.” You know how it is when it’s obvious that everyone is lying? Yea. Then it was established that we were, in fact, still in for the party in Heredia. But first we have to wait for David and César who are doing a fire show at Club Latino Rock for one of the bands that was playing.
We ended up waiting outside Raffas, and Ems ended up talking with some drunk guy. Some drunk guy who turned out to be the sopping wet drunk who had wandered through the show the night before. They chatted about his broken life and sang Frank Sinatra and the Mammas and the Papas. Finally the other guys joined us, char smudges on their white collared shirts and big grins, and we headed off, laughing and joking. It’s good to have friends.
In the end, the party didn’t happen, and when I woke up the next morning to a white sky and the sound of the rain on a Sunday morning. The perfect kind of sleepy day to cap off a whirlwind weekend.
So I gave up and stalked home. I got halfway though the park before I gave up on walking home. I threw myself underneath a tree and gave myself up to star gazing and pleading with the cosmos. The lightning bugs danced around through thick ropes of greenery and the bougainvillea bushes and the warm tropical air was sweat and thick and made me think of nothing more that that classic image of New Orleans. Why, I wondered, did I idolize the bohemian culture, but can't seem to feel like I'm living it? I always seem to end up on this side of socially acceptable and distinctly respectable?
I guess someone was listening, or maybe the stars were lined up correctly, because the next day I ran away with the circus.
Let me back up a bit. You see, there are these street-performers, mostly jugglers, who hang out at stop lights and perform in the cross-walk when the light is red. Ems and I sit at our bus stop, which is about 30 feet from a stoplight, and watch them while discussing the awesomeness of juggling. So imagine our surprise when, after an entire day of running errands we collapsed onto the bus and watched a gaggle of them slide into the seats across the aisle from us. It was even cooler, of course, because one of them had an accordion.
(I would like you to please now paint a mental picture of a band of classic bohemian gypsies mixed with a depression-era circus, to the sound of 1920’s accordion and harmonica music that would fit best in black-and-white Paris (or Amélie), with distinct flavorings of Peter Pan and the Moulin Rouge and completely saturated with that fantastic, although elusive concept of wandering artsy (which can obviously only be described with rather quirky coupling of an verb and an adjective, as opposed to the infinitely more conventional coupling of an adverb and a verb.) That’s essentially how I remember the weekend.)
To continue. So what with the circus sitting next to us on the bus and all, Ems got really excited and tried to convince me that if I talk to them, they’ll play something for us on their cool instruments. Actually, it will probably work better if we say it’s her birthday, NO! It’s MAGGIE’S! Maggie! Talk to them even though you are sitting by the window and trying to scrouch as far away from human interaction as possible because you have just spent 2 hours trying on jeans because the only jeans you brought with you to wear are indecently filled with holes and so now you are immensely tired and hungry.
But eventually Ems gave in and asked them herself, in nervous Spanish, where they were going to “play.” By the stoplight, of course, and do we want to come?
Now, I’m not exactly how this exchange went. I think a lot got lost in translation. I’m not sure if they asked US to come along, or if somehow we thought they did and tagged along anyway. I do know that they asked us what we were doing, and we answered honestly: nothing. And so we got off the bus with them? It was a little awkward at first, just randomly deciding to follow them. I was still carrying a bag with two pairs of jeans in it for cripes sake. When they started to set up under a stoplight, we plopped down and strove to look comfortable and natural by conversing casually. (Even though I spent most of the time suppressing nervous giggles.) Stephan was fiddling around on the accordion and David and César brought out the juggling clubs and promptly lit them on fire. Yes fire. Playing with fire is a funny thing. They’d juggle the clubs between them or they’d take three and balance them into a hat or they play like they were going to light someone on fire, getting the flame too close to this one’s back while he wasn’t paying attention or dangerously close to that one’s dreads while he was talking to us. At one point David extinguished his club in a cup of kerosene and these crazy whorls of white steam/smoke erupted up and out of the cup like an explosion of dry ice. I watched it and wished that I’d randomly brought my camera. He looked up and grinned at me “Wow, huh?” (They say “wow” here, but it sounds different. Like it’s more self-conscious of its English origins. Kind of like how I saw “no bueno”)
The stoplight wasn’t doing much for them because it was Labor Day, and in their words the day for “trabajo para taxistas y maravillosos.” (work for taxi drivers and jugglers.) So they told us they were planning on going to do a show downtown and then head to this bar called La Chicharronera. So we said “okay” and continued to follow them.
We walked all the way to downtown San Jose through the back streets, reciting stories, quips and poetry in between bars of accordion music, ringing doorbells and running and other such forms of goofing off in the streets. At one point we stopped in front of a small art-house theater where a line was waiting to get in. The guys set up a small show, jokingly directing traffic around their fire-clubs and jokes, and passing the hat afterward. Ems and I sat off to the side with that kind of smug thrill that I get from being “with the band” as it were.
At one point I looked around and realized we were walking through my favorite part of the city. It’s also probably the most sketchy part too. It’s one end of what is called the “California District” and it’s so cool. It’s bounded on that far side by railroad tracks and at one point there is an antique locomotive just rusting in its house. There are a few dilapidated buildings with artfully broken windows and overgrown grasses. But most of all there are expanses, like I’m talking multiple city blocks, of pure white wall that has been covered with extraordinary graffiti. Every time we bus or taxi through the area I tell Ems that I want to come back on foot and walk around and take pictures and she always tells me that we can do that as long as it’s during the daytime and in a REALLY BIG group. So imagine my glee at finding myself walking through it at 9 pm with a group of locals. We walked by this bar called Raffa’s which is so small that everyone sits outside on the curb. And they are the coolest people too. They’re all in black and safety pins, or plaid flannel and worn jeans and converse. Totally my kind of people. Further down the California district are other bars and music venues. It’s just really hip.
At Raffa’s we were joined by a group of girls who were friends with our jugglers. We found out later that they are all part of the drama department in the University of Costa Rica, where I go, which ends up saying a lot about them. As in they were really cool. (There are a ton of universities in the area, but UCR has a reputation of being the more artsy-hippie school.)
So we all sat down at the fountain in the very middle of the center of San José and the boys started gathering a crowd around. Teasing, cajoling and pushing people into sitting down, which, because of the clownish way they did it, drew more people. They commenced with their routine fire show, the feats of dexterity, the humorous stories all mixed up with perfect improv when it was appropriate. Like then a soaking wet drunk wandered into the middle of the show and they had to entice him out with a fake phone call from a nearby payphone. Or when they drew a crowd member up and made him take off his backpack and David pretended to walk off with it with exaggerated motions while Jason yelled at him that “that’s not for now, we do that later…” They then told the poor bastard that Stephan was going to walk over him juggling fire, and he had to watch while Stephan did a few practice rounds in which he kept dropping the flaming clubs while his friends shouted encouragement. “Good try! You’re doing great! One more time!” It was really cool to watch people we knew, people we’d been interacting with and hanging out with do this entertaining, professional-quality show which was, to all intents and purposes, impromptu.
Finally, the show was over and we headed to La Chicarronera with the girls, walking down the street, laughing and joking as if we’d been friends for AGES. We grabbed a couple of drinks at La Chica, sat on the low stage upon which, one month earlier, I’d watched some of the most awesome break-dancing, under crazy-colored lights and chatted. When the boys showed up we exchanged card tricks and magic. We finished the night singing “Ironic” by Alanis Morissette and “Zombie” by the Cranberries with our new Tica friends in one of the karaoke bars on La Calle, the row of bars that juts off campus. By the time we got in the taxi at 2am we’d been speaking Spanish for 8 hours straight and forgot to switch back to English as we reveled in our new friends and our awesome day.
And that’s about where we thought it would end. The next day was designated for finding a café and studying. We sat for four hours in this café where they make awesome chai tea and Indian food and the walls are yellow and red and the roof is but an awning. When it started to rain, I got distracted and stared out at San José existing around me and the mist-shrouded mountains rising up around it and thought about how cool it was to be sitting, essentially, outside in the rain, but not being cold and not getting wet, with a hot mug of tea. So like Berkeley and so different.
After four hours of studying we started to walk home. We walked instead of taking the bus even though it was kind of raining because I had absolutely no money on me (as per usual) and didn’t really want to borrow MORE money from Ems. But as we got close to the mall, (and Ems stopped at a street vendor to inquire about crocheted bikinis) we ran into on of the jugglers! It was a little awkward, mostly because of our being caught off guard and thus not being able to speak Spanish with much confidence. But he asked us if we were doing anything that night, and when we said no, he said there was a party at his friend’s place in Heredia and if we wanted to come, we could meet them at Raffa’s at 11. We thanked him but didn’t sound hopeful about it. The night before had been draining and after four hours of studying we just couldn’t conceptualize going out. But as we started to walk home, we started to talk about it. Should we go out to cement our friendship with these guys? Or would that be too creepy-soon? Would we seem too pushy?
Long story short we spent four hours discussing it and waffling. Yes, we’re going. We’re only going if we can get MK to come. We’re going even though MK isn’t. Maggie, I asked four online 8 balls and they all said we should go. Well, I checked my horoscope AND yours and it’s not giving me a clear indication. Ems, I don’t want to go to Raffa’s in a taxi, that’s just too uncool. Ems, I have a bad feeling about this. Maggie, I’ve just called the taxi, be outside in 4 minutes. Crud.
I think I just got nervous. I’d gotten ready to go out, so obviously I was planning on going out, but when I got in the taxi apparently, I looked like I was going to be sick. Raffa’s is one of THE coolest bars in San José. It’s in a dangerous enough neighborhood that the tourist welcome mat, so to speak, isn’t really out. It’s more of a place to go and bump into your friends, which is hard to do if you’re a transient gringo and don’t HAVE friends there. I practically DRAGGED her up to the bar because “I really needed a drink” and then we went and leaned against the wall just outside the door, framed with graffiti, trying to construct some sort of semblance of cool. It was around 11 and we couldn’t see them, so we assumed that they’d left. Oh well. That’s cool. No Heredia party tonight. It’s probably for the best. And as long as we’re here, let’s enjoy ourselves and chat. Blend. Eventually a drunk kid came over and wanted some of my drink. I thought it was funny because he was trying to convince us that he’d never tried a Cuba Libre before. (Here they come in cans, already mixed. It’s genius. And it’s also almost as popular as beer.) Then later he told us it was his favorite drink… Anyway, Ems told him we have swine flu and refused to share and then they started talking about places to go in Costa Rica. At one point she leaned over and hissed “I see them. Right. There. No over, leaning on the fence.” We waited, but the douche walked RIGHT past us into the bar and back out again. At that point we figured it was over. Obviously he’d seen us. Obviously he didn’t want to hang out. Obviously we were being creepy desperate.
So we shook off our new “friend,” bought two more Cuba Libres and decided to make the best of it. After all, we had ended up at a way cool bar. We chose a spot off to the side and chatted for a little while longer. FINALLY Jason came over all “hey! You guys made it!” and we were all “yea! Hey, we thought you’d left.” You know how it is when it’s obvious that everyone is lying? Yea. Then it was established that we were, in fact, still in for the party in Heredia. But first we have to wait for David and César who are doing a fire show at Club Latino Rock for one of the bands that was playing.
We ended up waiting outside Raffas, and Ems ended up talking with some drunk guy. Some drunk guy who turned out to be the sopping wet drunk who had wandered through the show the night before. They chatted about his broken life and sang Frank Sinatra and the Mammas and the Papas. Finally the other guys joined us, char smudges on their white collared shirts and big grins, and we headed off, laughing and joking. It’s good to have friends.
In the end, the party didn’t happen, and when I woke up the next morning to a white sky and the sound of the rain on a Sunday morning. The perfect kind of sleepy day to cap off a whirlwind weekend.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Waiting for the Rain
Sometimes in life, a person makes bad decisions. Sometimes in life a person makes good decisions. And most times in life you have no idea which type of decision you are making as you are making it.
This morning, I awoke early to an already-slightly-uncomfortably-warm day. I put on my new favorite shirt and sat for a minute contemplating whether to wear my flip-flops or my Chucks. Flip-flops would keep my feet from getting too hot in this weather, but on the other hand, Chucks are just all-around cooler and closed-toed shoes seem to be the norm around here. My Chucks and I headed out to my favorite breakfast (gallo pinto = rice and beans mixed together) which was made (defying the seemingly-impossible) even more amazing with the addition of avocado.
Leave early for class so as not to rush and sweat, thus ruining the happiness of my favorite shirt. And at the last minute I grab my iPod, thinking, "this is not a good idea." I have no idea why I grabbed my iPod. I don't travel with it anymore because I have a crippling fear of it getting stolen. But with said fear screaming in my head, I left, stringing the headphones underneath the back of my shirt and hiding the earphones in my hair, and my Chucks, Jackie Greene and I all trooped towards campus.
It wasn't until half-way through my second class of the day that the sky opened up and unleashed every ounce of humidity that it ever had or ever will hold with a vengeance.
I was saved from pretending to not be surprised so as not to stick out by the other students who seemed as confused as I was. And the great big peal of thunder. That was pretty obvious and pretty distracting.
For the rest of the class I struggled between a desperate attempt to retain and copy down information, a futile effort to stop my hands from shaking after I forced myself to actually speak up, and occasional vain prayer for the rain to stop.
Which it didn't.
Even though I had to get my picture taken for my ID card right after class. And it was weird because I was absolutely convinced that the sky would clear just as class was letting out. Some times I get the feeling that my life works out like it would in a movie, like the universe and I communicate like old college buddies and it is completely legitimate for me to assume that the rain will magically let up just as I'm stepping outside, "luckily."
But it didn't.
I reached the front of the building to find the usual handful of people milling around and a sheer wall of light grey rain. So I did what I usually do. I changed the song on the soundtrack to my life, and prepared myself for a mad dash between buildings, to shelter-hop half way across campus to the Registry office. Dodging puddles and run-off I made it along the slightly covered walkway from the main entrance to the Social Sciences building to the side entrance of the same building where I stopped short. There were three different covered areas within my sight and all of them were filled with people just... standing. Waiting for the rain to let up.
It was pura vida at it's purest. No one looked angry or stressed or even inconvenienced. They just watched the rain and waited for the hole in which they could continue on to their respective destinations. Some leaned against nearby objects. A few with umbrellas shuttled people between shelters. But mostly people shuffled their feet bemusedly. Occasionally someone would realize that they really should get to class, or would tire of waiting and dart out into the rain. It looked cool, exciting, adventurous. So I secured my bag and made my own dash to the next length of hallway, where I continued, grinning and shaking raindrops out of my hair until the next doorway where I stopped again.
I leaned up against the door jamb and reveled for a while in my ability to be Pura Vida. I could wait here, just like everyone else, as long as it took. Especially because my next dash would be a long one. So it seemed okay to wait.
There's something to be said about acculturation. It's always such an achievement to feel like you've integrated yourself into a culture to the point where you no longer stick out. Where you know the slang, know the habits, know the mannerisms and can pretend like you belong. It's nice when you can feel like maybe, just maybe, people don't automatically write you off as a foreigner. And that's how I felt leaning against that glass door. Like part of the club.
Until I didn't want to anymore.
As I sat and watched the few, the proud and the crazy doing the hundred yard sprint to their various destinations, I remembered that I LIKE sticking out. I like it when I don't blend in, when people notice me. Especially if it's for something that I personally consider cool. And at that moment, just like it would have in the movies, I heard Jackie Greene reminded me, as the song faded out, that "Better stand tall if you’re gonna stand at all/ And if you’re gonna fall, well you might as well fall." So I did. Well, first I started the song over again, and waited for him to sing it again, then I took off sprinting. By the time I reached the concrete wall of the library on other side of the parking lot, where I paused for a moment in the relative shelter offered by a vertical wall to grin up at the sky before I was off again.
And then in that too, I found an odd camaraderie through smiles and glances shared with others who, like me, lacked umbrellas and sense.
When I finally made it to the office of the registry, I was soaked and my make up was running but I couldn't stop grinning (check my ID picture). Rain always gives me an uncontrollable feeling of elation. My Chucks were sopping wet, but I've never been happier to have my iPod. Best. Decision. Ever.
This morning, I awoke early to an already-slightly-uncomfortably-warm day. I put on my new favorite shirt and sat for a minute contemplating whether to wear my flip-flops or my Chucks. Flip-flops would keep my feet from getting too hot in this weather, but on the other hand, Chucks are just all-around cooler and closed-toed shoes seem to be the norm around here. My Chucks and I headed out to my favorite breakfast (gallo pinto = rice and beans mixed together) which was made (defying the seemingly-impossible) even more amazing with the addition of avocado.
Leave early for class so as not to rush and sweat, thus ruining the happiness of my favorite shirt. And at the last minute I grab my iPod, thinking, "this is not a good idea." I have no idea why I grabbed my iPod. I don't travel with it anymore because I have a crippling fear of it getting stolen. But with said fear screaming in my head, I left, stringing the headphones underneath the back of my shirt and hiding the earphones in my hair, and my Chucks, Jackie Greene and I all trooped towards campus.
It wasn't until half-way through my second class of the day that the sky opened up and unleashed every ounce of humidity that it ever had or ever will hold with a vengeance.
I was saved from pretending to not be surprised so as not to stick out by the other students who seemed as confused as I was. And the great big peal of thunder. That was pretty obvious and pretty distracting.
For the rest of the class I struggled between a desperate attempt to retain and copy down information, a futile effort to stop my hands from shaking after I forced myself to actually speak up, and occasional vain prayer for the rain to stop.
Which it didn't.
Even though I had to get my picture taken for my ID card right after class. And it was weird because I was absolutely convinced that the sky would clear just as class was letting out. Some times I get the feeling that my life works out like it would in a movie, like the universe and I communicate like old college buddies and it is completely legitimate for me to assume that the rain will magically let up just as I'm stepping outside, "luckily."
But it didn't.
I reached the front of the building to find the usual handful of people milling around and a sheer wall of light grey rain. So I did what I usually do. I changed the song on the soundtrack to my life, and prepared myself for a mad dash between buildings, to shelter-hop half way across campus to the Registry office. Dodging puddles and run-off I made it along the slightly covered walkway from the main entrance to the Social Sciences building to the side entrance of the same building where I stopped short. There were three different covered areas within my sight and all of them were filled with people just... standing. Waiting for the rain to let up.
It was pura vida at it's purest. No one looked angry or stressed or even inconvenienced. They just watched the rain and waited for the hole in which they could continue on to their respective destinations. Some leaned against nearby objects. A few with umbrellas shuttled people between shelters. But mostly people shuffled their feet bemusedly. Occasionally someone would realize that they really should get to class, or would tire of waiting and dart out into the rain. It looked cool, exciting, adventurous. So I secured my bag and made my own dash to the next length of hallway, where I continued, grinning and shaking raindrops out of my hair until the next doorway where I stopped again.
I leaned up against the door jamb and reveled for a while in my ability to be Pura Vida. I could wait here, just like everyone else, as long as it took. Especially because my next dash would be a long one. So it seemed okay to wait.
There's something to be said about acculturation. It's always such an achievement to feel like you've integrated yourself into a culture to the point where you no longer stick out. Where you know the slang, know the habits, know the mannerisms and can pretend like you belong. It's nice when you can feel like maybe, just maybe, people don't automatically write you off as a foreigner. And that's how I felt leaning against that glass door. Like part of the club.
Until I didn't want to anymore.
As I sat and watched the few, the proud and the crazy doing the hundred yard sprint to their various destinations, I remembered that I LIKE sticking out. I like it when I don't blend in, when people notice me. Especially if it's for something that I personally consider cool. And at that moment, just like it would have in the movies, I heard Jackie Greene reminded me, as the song faded out, that "Better stand tall if you’re gonna stand at all/ And if you’re gonna fall, well you might as well fall." So I did. Well, first I started the song over again, and waited for him to sing it again, then I took off sprinting. By the time I reached the concrete wall of the library on other side of the parking lot, where I paused for a moment in the relative shelter offered by a vertical wall to grin up at the sky before I was off again.
And then in that too, I found an odd camaraderie through smiles and glances shared with others who, like me, lacked umbrellas and sense.
When I finally made it to the office of the registry, I was soaked and my make up was running but I couldn't stop grinning (check my ID picture). Rain always gives me an uncontrollable feeling of elation. My Chucks were sopping wet, but I've never been happier to have my iPod. Best. Decision. Ever.
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