First Tuesday Reflections

  Navigating a new culture without language skills is an interesting challenge.  Adjusting to a very hot and humid climate in addition to these adds spice to the chili.  I’m finding myself so very exhausted at the end of the day that I eat a quick supper with my host “mama” (I’m 20 years older than she is!), quickly shower (sans hot water) and take care of all the bedtime routine, and then collapse into the bed with no ability to further any communication or thinking.  If I’m able, I get up before the sun so I can walk the length of the beach and watch the sun rise.

My first Tuesday in Samara, I was soundly asleep by 8 pm.  I intended to leave the house when I awoke at 4:30.  Intentions are half the battle.  The body has to be willing.  A moment after I awoke, I heard the tap, tap, tap of my host’s tiny hand on the door.  Her voice showed concern.  “Cah lee, Cah lee, tu tiene que estar a clase en cienta minutos.”

Clearly I’d dreamed that I had already gotten up.  It was 7:45 and I had class at 8.  

I hurriedly dressed and put in my contacts, grabbed my morning meds and threw on some shoes.  My host had breakfast on the table, tea poured, my oat milk from the refrigerator, and was seated at the table waiting for me to join her.  I nearly inhaled the scrambled egg on a tortilla and fruit that awaited me.  I gulped my morning meds with the tea, found my swim suit and towel on the line and stuffed them into my back pack, and I all but ran the 1000’ to the campus.  

As soon I sat in the air conditioned classroom, I noticed it, again.  I had a new cluster of bug bites all over my legs and feet.  How does this happen, I wondered. 

Bugs are an inevitable part of life in tropical climates.  And biting bugs have always had an affinity for me — as though they seek me out.  Deet is my friend (yes, I know that it’s really not good stuff, but we’ll save that conversation for another day). There is an ant here in Costa Rica that bites and those bites can turn into welts larger than a half dollar coin in about 15 minutes on my skin.  These ants are everywhere.  Since my host family has poured concrete floors, they come up from the cracks in the concrete.  

I discovered the full extent of this reality when I got out of bed in the middle of the night and needed to refill my water bottle (even at night it is well above my comfort level for heat).  As I entered, my flashlight scanned the floor and counter of the outdoor kitchen.  Silently, the counters changed color as the areas outside of the glow of my light appeared to be moving.  I tried to make myself believe that I was somewhat dreaming things.  But when I put my large (2 quart) water bottle in the sink and it was met with the same effect, I physically jumped.  I left my bottle unfilled as I sprayed the water around the sink to rid it of its night time occupants.  

The “food truck”

In the morning, I respectfully asked my host to not prepare breakfast or dinner for me, that I would eat at the school.  She was surprised but accepted the news.  And the moment the office at the school opened, I queried the staff about the “normality” of the situation.  They were sympathetic and explained that my original host had a last minute family emergency and I was staying in a home rarely chosen for exactly these reasons.  However, because they had record numbers of students enrolled for the next two weeks, there was no place available for me to move.  They did assure me that they would move me as soon as another place was available.  

And, I made due.  I used my “jungle level bug spray for clothing” to spray the bed and the cracks in the bedroom floor.  I always filled my water bottle at the school as soon as I arrived and before I left.  I purchased a large portion of lunch from the “food truck” that sits outside the school’s gate at noon each day, and I skipped dinner.  And I stayed at the school and studied late into the night (if 9 pm is late).  On the weekend, I arranged to take excursions out of town with my classmates.

   

And then, last weekend, I left all my belongings that I would not need for the excursion in a locker at the school.  When I returned on Sunday afternoon, my new host met me and brought me to their lovely, spacious, clean, and light-filled home which they share with up to 5 students at a time.  My lovely host had made up a small room where I will stay without a roommate for the last 4 weeks of my stay.  Here, the floors are tiled, the walls are drywalled, and ceilings are high and topped with ceiling fans, the glass windows open and close, and have high quality tightly-meshed screens.  The indoor kitchen has almost all the amenities of my kitchen in the states, and the “summer” kitchen is also enclosed.  The only thing missing is, of course, hot water which is not considered necessary in most parts of Guanacaste Provence. 

And I’ve not had more than 3 ant bites since…. And all of them originated from the beach after I’d been swimming.  

It is now 3 weeks since I met my first host, and 20 days since that Tuesday morning encounter with reality.   As I think back about that experience, I have a lot of mixed feelings.  I am immensely grateful that she was open to share her home with a white-privileged anglo American.  I feel guilty — nay, ashamed — that I found her living conditions “not up to my standards” while she considers herself lucky to have a home with a roof and indoor plumbing.  And I feel great relief that I no longer am staying in that home.  

On my 15 minute walk from the school to my new hosts’ home, I saw my first host walking toward me on the dusty, pothole ridden road.  When she recognized me, she displayed a huge smile and ran (in 100 degree heat) to greet me.  She asked about my well being. She laughed as her dog expressed how much she missed me by jumping into my arms and licking my face.  And she asked if I needed anything from the store because she was on her way to buy groceries for her sister who lived in this neighborhood.  And I was humbled by her continued hospitality.  

Navigating a new culture — with or without language skills —is an interesting challenge. It is also an enlightening experience.  Things that I take for granted cannot be taken for granted by so many people of this world.  Things that I assume to be universal are indeed privileges.  And normal is only a setting on some washing machines.

Domingo Uno

 El Primer Domingo

I have played with words most of my life.  I love words.  Palabras. Worter. .ֿמילים.  Λογια.  Mots. Word games, word puzzles.

So I’ve been dabbling with Spanglish.  Using an game-like app to fool my brain into learning new vocabulary, phonics, grammar, declensions, conjugations.  And it’s been 2 years of fun. I have learned a lot.  But…

Friday began a new journey.  Immersing myself in an immersion, Spanish-only program for 6 weeks is a huge step.  In the household where I am staying, my host and her (large) extended family are instructed to hablar solo Español.  This is the real deal.  My brain is spinning as I exchange my local phone number (which I don’t know) with my host, as she gives me the password to her wifi.  As we try to create contacts in our Whatsapp apps — the primary way Ticos are communicating in this area.  This is washing machine spinning, not a merry-go-round ride.   

Children understand words before they can say them.  And they can learn to say over 1000 words before age 4.  A 4 year old can assemble words into phrases.  

I’m a 4 year old Spanish speaker.  My vocabulary for the written words is around 1500 words.  Listening and understanding those words spoken by a native es muy dificil.  In this environment, I understand why children get frustrated when they cannot comprehend what is being said.  Smiles, hand gestures, and tone of voice go a long way in helping convey meaning, but words tumbling out of someone’s mouth can feel like Niagara Falls pouring into my ears.  Auditory drowning.  

Yesterday, I attended mass at the local Catholic church with my host’s sister Sara.  I’m familiar with the mass in English.  Many parts of it I know by heart.  I sat in that space, where the sound was a musician’s dream, and heard all the words as they were spoken.  In my mind, I could discern where I was in the mass, but I could not make sense of any of it.  The rote English version did not help my understanding of the Spanish.  Reciting the Apostle’s Creed in English while being recited around me, it dawned on me that the rhythm and pattern of the phrases matched. The melody was similar (all plainsong).  The meaning behind the words remained the same. But the words meant nothing to me. 

The actions of the people were indeed very familiar.  I understood the reading was from Isaiah (Santo, santo santo)…. And when everyone stood, I recognized that the priest was about to read the Gospel and from his repeated use of “Simon” and “pescado”, and from my knowledge of the lectionary, I guessed he was reading the familiar story about Jesus preaching off the shore of Lake Genesaret from Luke.  But his words did not connect into ideas for me.  And when two children walked the aisles with baskets at the end of long poles, I knew what was expected even though I did not understand the lector’s words.  

I recognized the actions of the priest over the altar; through rote, I offer similar concepts over bread and a cup so often.  He lifted the bread and broke it, and then lifted the cup all the while speaking words, and I knew what those words meant but I did not understand a single one of them.  At the end of the service he lifted his right hand over the heads of those gathered and said words, and I knew what those words meant. But I did not recognize any of those either.  

And so the guitar strummed melodies I do not know (no se), singers intoned words I could not understand, and for the first time in my life I felt totally out of place in worship.  I could name each station of the cross that adorned the walls — in English — but I could not be at home with the words used.  I know the architectural names for the various parts of the space, and a part of me critiqued the quality of the sound due to the nature of the materials used to build the space. But I could not relate to what was being spoken. 

And that feeling of being out of place slapped my face.  Of all the places I should feel at home, it should be the church.  Nothing this particular church did showed any sign of my not being welcome — they indeed did welcome me.  People’s eyes smiled from behind their masks.  People bumped elbows in greeting.  

I’m still processing this feeling of not being at home, of being out of place.  Part of me says if I knew the language I would feel more a part of what’s going on.  Part of me said that I wished it were in English (and then a mentally slapped myself for the Anglo-privilege that through stood upon) so I could be included.  

And yet another part of me felt sorry for all those people who walk into a church for the first time and have no idea what is going on. People who have never been to church.  People who do not know the language used by the “Church.” People who have no experience with communal singing, sharing communion, or being blessed by the last words of the priest.  

And part of me wished I knew how to include people through action, through being church instead of wording church. How to share and involve people in caring for others, working to benefit others, and changing systems of injustice.  Worship is positively the worst way to try to introduce what the faith is about.  Worship is illusive. Worship is verbal. Worship is etherial.  

Worship is not illustrative.  Worship is the high school level of vocabulary in a world of people with a 4 year old’s faith vocabulary.   

How do we BE the Church so others can learn.  What are the necessary changes that I need to make in how I lead in order to walk the path with people instead of leading them by a leash, or from behind them with a stick?  How do we involve people in the faith instead of introducing them to it? 

This is the task at hand.  This concrete and tangible challenge is what I need to be about.  No. What we all need to be working on together.  Because this is not a word game.  This is not a puzzle that is solved once and for all.  It is an ongoing journey that we must embark upon if we are to be faithful to what we’ve said we believe. 

So, these are my deep thoughts for a Sunday morning.  I’ve swum. I’ve eaten. I’ve read. And now I’ve written.  My day must be complete now!  Oh, wait.  It’s only 11 a.m.    

Llegó!

It is hot.  very hot.  And its only 9:30 in the morning.  

Private homes in Central America are humble.  I'm staying with Dora, her cat Mimi, and her dog, Nana.  "My room" is a 10' by 8' space with a bed, nightstand, a small table, and an empty bookcase.  And an old office chair.  the floor is poured concrete, and unlike the rest of the house, there is a drywall ceiling.  The rest of the house is divided by 8' walls open under the sheet metal ceiling.  

El baño es pequeño.  Muy pequeño.  There are closets in the victorian house I live in (the manse)  that are larger.  The basics are all there..the shower is separated from the rest of the room by a small step down and a shower curtain.  In CA, its important to know where the electric swith is that turns on the on-demand water heater.  I did not did not find that switch until after my cold shower last night.

But cold is relative. The temps are in the 90's already before noon. So by 7:30 at night when Soy Ducharme, the 80° water felt like jumping into Lake Michigan in Febrero.  

Dora's home is homey and comfortable.  like most homes, the windows are open spaces covered only by a nylon mesh supported by a metal or wooden lattice.  There is no need for glass in a place where the temperatures rarely fall below 65°.  The breeze is constant in the morning, but in the heat of the day, it fades in proportion to one's energy in the heat.  On the beach, there is a bit of a breeze off the ocean, but the sun nearly negates its benefits. Y, el rey es mismo fuerte.  My EuroAmerican skin would fry in no time if I were to linger in its light.  

Day 2 began with desayuno de frutas y pan.  And té.   Then a swim in the Pacific and a walk on the beach whilst i chatted (in forbidden Inglés) with my sister in frigid Nueva York.  I had intended to run this morning, but that requires getting up before the sun breaches the horizon to avoid the heat.  Today, my body said, "rest." And I obeyed.  The swim and walk led my Fitbit to believe id walked 10k steps.  es loco.  

Today I shall wander this town and be a tourist.  Las Tardes, I will attend mass with my host at the iglesia de católica whose priest serves 7 congregations along the coast.  Whew!  After supper, I'll sit on the beach and watch the sunset behind the gentle waves of the Pacific.  

La clases empiezan el lunes a las 7 a.m.  con una prueba de ubicación.  Hasta entonces, tengo libertad para explorar, descansar, escribir, y leer.

Descanso, santo descanso.  

el aeroplano primo

Thursday, February 3

I was at the wrong gate.  My ticket clearly said H6,. but it be came apparent to me when my phone announced that the flight was boarding that the boarding pass did not match the airline's plans.

By the time i arrived at K16, the last group number was just about seated and having been assigned to seat 13A, my compatriots in row 13 had assumed the seat was to be vacant, and had appropriated it.  

These were no small hombres.  i feared they would need the winch to extricate them from the narrow  crevice that comprised row 13.  

My tardiness resulted not only in the embarrassing groans of two half masked men, but also a lack of overhead space into which to place my rucksack.  Alas, under the seat in front of mine i shoved it, leaving scarcely 10" for the placement of my feet.  

Deicing the plane, which Flightaware indicated had been at this gate for 16 hours, pushed the departure to 20 minutes past the assigned time.  

I could not convince the air vent over my head 🗣️ release any air despite my attempts to turn it in every direction. Within the first 15 minutes in the air, my long-covid nose was innundated with the stench of vomit.  of course every thing that doesn't smell like dead fish smells of vomit to me, but i tried anyway to wrap my face in the huge kerchief id brought for this exact situation.  i'd dosed the cloth with essential oils to mask whatever wafted by.  i tied it behind my head and over my NIOSH approved N95 mask creating, or so i'd planned, a scented barrier between me and whatever else floated by my face.  It worked remarkably well.  not only was the tuna scented oil more pleasant than that of my neighbor, it offered the added benefit of reducing the oxygen to my brain putting me almost instantly to sleep.  

I awoke when GreyCoat Hombre immediately to my right stood and made clear that he needed to find the restroom.  His mask covering only his upper lip, his nose hung over it like a dangling participle.  DressShirt Hombre to his right exuded a creaking sigh as he stood and extricated himself into th aisle so GCH could remove himself and head toward the back of the plane.  And since je was standing, DSH decided to saunter to the head in first class.

I took advantage of the vacant space to pull my water bottle out from beside me.  I carefully lowered my mask as my left hand fumbled to lift the lid. just as i opened my mouth to sip from the silicone straw, a fountain of water arose from said straw and I gagged on the unexpected stream that not only filled my mouth, but spewed a full 18 inches above my head.  Pierdo las palabras.   el primo!  

Jerry can quote me on that