DEAR ALIZARIN: 80's -- the destruction of innocence

Over the past 24 hours we have looked at about 2000 slides of my family's past.   We scaled it down to about 1200 for scanning.  

 

I am so incredibly adorable, I just love myself.  Then the 80's came.   I tried to convince my mom to destroy all evidence of my clearly misguided (brainwashed) fashion sense, but she would not let me.   I am just thankful I do not have any of those clothes left so I will never, under any amount of alcohol or sleep deprivation or laundry crisis, be tempted to wear them again.  Ack!  It was like a bad trip.  Not that I have ever really had one, but how I would imagine it would be. 

 

Thankful the 80's revival has not hit and hope I am too old to take part if it does,

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Living Memories

This evening my mother and I tackled the much dreaded 'slides project:' viewing and judging the thousands of slides my father took of his young adult life, my parent's courtship, and the growth of our family.   I did not realize how difficult it would be to consolidate and select the slides we deemed worthy of transfer to CD-ROM, a gift my mom wants to provide for my sister and I to preserve the now more or less obsolete slides.  How do you select memories to discard and to save?   Moreover, how do you take the work of someone you loved and toss it in the trash, judge what is worth keeping and what is not?  

 

At times, the choice is easy and obvious:  too dark, too bright, too many of almost the same shot.   Sometimes there are people we simply do not know or like (i.e. the trip my parent's took shortly after their wedding with my father's ex and her husband -- ick!)  There are his friends, who were part of his life, but will I really miss them if not on the CD?   How much is this a part of my and my sister's history?    Out of exhaustion and frustration, one or the other of us would just say in or out in based on gut reaction.   My mother recorded the numbers; I worked the slides; thus we weeded and consolidated.   A few hours and few glasses of wine later, we reduced five trays to two and half. 

 

The most difficult choices for me were the at times stunning shots of landscapes and places visited, shots that were probably beautiful moments my father wanted to capture, but meant, really, nothing to my mother or me.  Usually we had no idea of the exact location.   Unlike with people shots, where we either knew who it was or didn't, where people were either in focus or out of focus, where they were in interesting poses or awkward angles, the beauty shots had no reference point.  Can we really pass on memories to others?     

 

Earlier in the day I was sharing my own photos from Costa Rica with my family.   My sister wanted to know where all the people pictures were.  (Of course, they are on the CD I cannot read -- how many times have I mentioned this and how disappointing is this?).  The two hundred some odd pictures mostly captured my own personal fascination of the jungle fauna and flora, of breathtaking moments on my hikes, fascinating foliage, of animals darting across the path, or of exotic bugs just hanging out on a leaf.  However, after an initial viewing of my vacation activities, who will ever give a damn about these pictures than me?  Even the people shots I cannot access, are they one time pictures to try to justify or brag about my vacation to family and friends?  Even myself, how often will I sit and relive this trip through the pictures?   In the end, I realize that it is all just for me, and thus, the activity of picture taking can be a reminder of the importance of living now for yourself.   Not living for yourself at the expense of others, but living for yourself for the benefit of living life fully, realizing the beauty each moment holds for you and capturing that, in image or in spirit, to carry with you and help live a life rich in vital and fulfilling memories. 

 

Poetic Wisdom

Advice Alizarin sent to me in a private email:

Let your destiny unfold itself otherwise you risk ripping it.

Namaste,
Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Who can figure out the time in any zone with a man on a cell phone in her ear?

After more or less hibernating in my apartment for 48 hour ours, I found myself once again on the Van Nuys Flyaway shuttle to LAX about to hop on another red-eye flight to a warm and humid place. Unfortunately, this time, it was to Florida for a family visit, not an exciting vacation (not that I do not want to see my family, but hey, Florida vs. Costa Rica -- no contest!) Just as we are pulling out of the Van Nuys station, the man behind me starts a conversation on his cell phone. It is shocking how many hard of hearing people in the world have friends who own cell phones in LA. I am sure even the person in the far back of the bus could clearly hear this man's conversation. Now, most of it I could not understand; I think he was speaking half in English and half in some other language (I am going to guess an African language). Maybe he just mumbles loudly. Who knows? Nor do I care. I just wanted him to at least attempt to be discreet so the rest of us could enjoy sitting in the traffic on the 405 freeway. Have some respect for tranquility.

Unlike the 4th of July conversation (see previous post), I momentarily felt very conservative as I advocated in my head for the strict regulation of cell phone use in public. Once again, I already longed to return the tranquility of Costa Rica. I was certain there were not such abuses of technology there.

It is ironic because while in Costa Rica, I came to appreciate the many privileges and eases we have in the use, for example, mostly unlimited and uninhibited access to hot showers. In Costa Rica, most showers contain an electric heater in the showerhead, providing, at best, a lukewarm shower. Given the hot climate, this is more or less tolerable. Also, just the fact that, despite being a public school teacher, being paid in American currency still affords me the luxury of traveling to places like Costa Rica and Belize with a digital camera and a small mp3 player. I can also afford without hesitation to check my email daily and know I have my laptop computer and DSL line waiting for me at home. We are lucky here, but how do we use these advantages?

On my last day in Heredia, I enjoyed coffee and conversation with my Spanish teacher. In Costa Rica they have the saying "Pura Vida." Pure life, by a strict interpretation. Locals say it is used as a greeting or an expression such as "Cool!" or "Fantastic!" However, he expressed frustration at how for tourists it represents this idea of Costa Rica as a utopia, as a slogan to sell Costa Rica as a paradise getaway. Somewhere in here I think I lost a bit of his point, but gathered that this foreign commercialization and romanticization of the phrase left him and his country feeling objectified. I added that the phrase is not necessarily about Costa Rica and living in Costa Rica, but about an attitude of living life fully, which can and should be done whether in Costa Rica, the United States, or the south pole. Being back here, I realize how this is a foreign concept to many, thus is easy to sell to tourists who long to find such purity in a foreign land. Unfortunately, most only manage to bring it back on their t-shirts. However, I also wonder in Costa Rica how many truly live the "pura vida" life. I think my Spanish was not good enough to figure this out nor was I there long enough to see and decide. Another excuse to return one day.

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: How do you know what time zone you are in if you are ZEN?

Muy interesante (one of my favorite Spanish words – I like how it feels I my mouth) pregunta, Alizarin.

If you are ZEN you don’t give a damn about time zones. Time zones are so non-ZEN. If it were not for being sure that I do not miss my planes, I would never change my watch when I travel. In fact, I only bought a watch for this trip because I needed an alarm clock and could not find a travel alarm clock (I did, after I bought the watch though). That is because I am ZEN. Or try. For example, I am not at all lamenting that I am no longer in Heredia, Costa Rica, enjoying the lessons of my animated Spanish teacher and the many questions and frustrations of my peers. Nor am I annoyed that the 137 pictures I took in Heredia and on the excursion to waterfall are able to be seen as being on the disk, but are unable to be viewed. Nope, not me. Total ZEN. Like this morning at 5am when my insomnia that started about a week ago kicked in again. I got up to pack for my trip to Florida tonight.

After an hour of packing and an hour nap, I got up to check if I had any email to live vicariously through those still in Costa Rica (I didn't) and then went to my long anticipated yoga class (not that I need any practice at being more ZEN). However, after a week of solo yoga practice, I was looking forward to being led by my often wise and always calming instructor and feeling the community of mediation and breathing. It was very relaxing and rejuvenating and felt great. Afterwards, I had a lovely breakfast of a muffin and coffee at my favorite breakfast spot, Vivienne’s. We will go there when you visit.

I am very excited about your visit. It means I can put off working FOREVER! We must practice Spanish when you are here, though it will not allow us to talk about people as most people here will understand us (well, maybe not given my level of Spanish). I miss it. Why do people seem nicer when you cannot understand EVERYTHING they say?

Two positive results of leaving LA for two weeks: I now drink my coffee black (partly because I did not want to bother getting milk for one day) and I have no desire to watch TV and will see how long I can go without turning it on. Though, my mom’s place will re-addict me to TV. Step one: pack the yoga mat.

Namaste,
Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Culture Shock in the USA

Why do I always seem to suffer from culture shock more when returning to the U.S. than when going to a foreign country? I remember this when I flew back from Hungary 10 years ago, longing for the luxury of the airline over the dusty, hot, noisy trains only to be squished between two strangers for nearly 24 hours in airless containers. Getting to the airport in San Jose was absolutely stress free (despite my tardiness in meeting the taxi and the traffic jam caused by one villages day of celebration where the entire town was walking in the street with large puppet like costumes).

The San Jose airport reception area is a bright, airy glass structure. There is fairly tasteful classical music playing (something one step above muzak) and an abundance of staff to calmly point you in the appropriate direction. There are no long lines or pushing and huffing and puffing. Even baggage inspection was done with patience and respect. Within about 15 minutes of arrival I was checked in and through security. However, my enchantment with the San Jose airport in Costa Rica ended as soon as I entered the gate area.

I knew I had several hours to go and wanted my last Costa Rican snack to bring with me onto the plane for dinner. However, all the options were American fast food chains or imitations of them. There was nothing even resembling an empanada or quesadilla.

Not even a Taco Bell. I could not even find the little wooden frog I should have bought in Monteverde (the last place I saw one) in order to make a pair with my wooden turtle from Belize (which needs a pair as it is in the marriage corner of my apartment -- pairs are supposed to attract partners, which, I guess I must admit I really would like to have one day). Still hungry, the only Costa Rican option was beer. Beer is filling, right?

Annoyed and figuring it at least would knock me out to sleep for much of the five and a half hour flight home (it didn't), I ordered a Pilsen, which I had to down quickly. The rush of the alcohol caused me to start heading into the men's room as I made my last bathroom run before boarding. Luckily, there were no embarrassing results except for the guy standing outside the door who pointed me to the ladies' room. Phew.

Upon the plane, the adorable steward greeted everyone with his stunning smile and a sincere "Buenos tardes." Most of those around me ignored him as if they did not know what this meant after some stay (I assume) in Costa Rica or they responded unenthusiastically in English. This annoyed me. I, of course, responded, "Buenos tardes." For this I was rewarded with an added "Como esta?" and the following appropriate exchange in Spanish. I assume I was unique among most of the other passengers as the steward seemed to remember me after this, particularly after I also was the only person within my earshot who ordered my drinks in Spanish (though I did have to clarify a question in English because, well, I am still way down at level one). Even when he passed at the baggage claim in LA he gave me a friendly, confidential smile. If I were about 7 years younger and not preoccupied with other thoughts, I might have attempted to strike up a conversation (actually, at one point on the flight, insomnia taken over but too exhausted to read, I actually thought about trying to go and practice my Spanish with the staff -- I didn't).

Emerging from the bowels of the customs area at LAX, I was greeted by people talking loudly on their cell phones, groups and loners wondering without awareness of anyone around them, and then, through the automatic doors, horns, exhaust from buses and SUVS, and the usual traffic jam. Early, I set up camp on the curb waiting for my ride. After the time appointed, I called to find out she left a message on my cell, which I explicitly said I would not have. I was tempted to just lie down and take a nap, so tired at this point, but instead, I managed to drag myself out to wait another 30 minutes for the Van Nuys Flyaway rather than the $50 cab home. At the next terminal, the bus was delayed as the driver called to find out how to he should handle the two sun-wrinkled old men outside with six 4 x 4 boxes of fish. Damn. It was now nearly a quarter to midnight. I still would have to catch a cab at the FlyAway terminal and realized I did not have anymore cash. Sure enough, when I arrived the cashier would not accept my credit or ATM cards. Luckily, he did take my traveler's check. Inside, I went to the ATM as I still needed more cash for the cab. It would not work. Again, I wondered about sleeping there for now. I thought about my charming teacher asking me earlier in the day if I would consider living in Costa Rica. At that moment, I would have gladly gotten back on a plane to Costa Rica without a return ticket. Standing with what I am sure was a desperate and aimless look on my face, the cashier, who was locking up the office, asked if there was a problem. I explained and he kindly said he would cash another traveler's check for me. As he unlocked the office, my faith in the U.S. was restored. In another 20 minutes, I was happily home in my lovely apartment. My bed never felt so good.

Welcome home (for about 48 hours)!
Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Aburrida en Manuel Antonio, el parque bonita

Manuel Antonio make Florida seem cool and dry.

Stepping off the bus in downtown, consisting of one corner around with hovers two outdoor restaurants competing for the appetites of resorters surrounded by shops and services for tourists, I knew that for the next two days any effort to feel fresh or clean would be in vain. First on our agenda was breakfast. We chose the restaurant without the seemingly inappropriate classical music (which half way through our meal turned to some light rap). Meanwhile, we strategized about finding a hotel. We were dismayed by the non-centralized composition of the town and annoyed that our Costa Rican bible, the Lonely Planet Guides (three between the two of us), did not warn of this difficulty. We decided to take a cab up to the Hotel Banana, advertising $20 rooms and recommended by a friend from Intercultura. We go there and were told they had no rooms. Luckily, it was at the top of the hill and we decided to head down and try our luck along the way. We didn't have much. All the hotels were either $60 a night or more resorts and/or had no rooms. My budget for the weekend being about $200 total, I was not willing to give up. After the mid-range hotels in the book were filled, Derzblog, exhausted by the heat, hiked back up to find the $60 room. I kept going down hill hoping for something at least around $30 or $40. I think he felt I was either cheap or felt badly for leaving me, I think it was for the best and unlikely we would find two rooms in one place anyway. I was closer to 'downtown' than I thought and asked for one of the cheap hostels listed in my book. It was just up the street (unmarked) and they had a room for $10. I took it. The common eating area and courtyard had a jungle charm. My room did not. Like the book said it was small and stuffy. The bed looked lumpy. There as a table and a stool made out of a tree stump. I reorganized my stuff to prepare for a hike or whatever would happen that afternoon, trekked to the bathrooms to attempt to freshen up (in vain, as expected) and headed to explore the beach and get info about tours. I had two hours before meeting Derzblog for lunch. He thought it would take me that long to find a hotel. I think he just wanted to rest and shower. I figured showering was pointless.

Walking around, I easily found that there was one tour option, the best at 7am the next morning, and two horseback riding options. I then shopped for a towel, which I forgot to pack and is not part of the hostel services. Since the beach towels were large, heavy, and pricey, I opted for a parea instead, which I figured would dry better as well as be something to wear later. I practiced my Spanish as I killed time bargaining and browsing. Along the way I befriended the fruit seller, a young man drumming up business in the street in English. However, when I spoke to him in Spanish, he happily switched to Spanish and we discussed my travels, my study of Spanish, and fruit. I told Lingo (not sure of the spelling) I would probably be back later for some pineapple. I headed toward what I thought was the entrance to the national park, but only saw men charging to row folks across a small estuary formed by the incoming tide. I walked by to talk to the tour guides and confirm the 7am tour time and price. Again, they were patient as I haltingly spoke in Spanish. I bought pineapple from Lingo and learned the word for yellow. After more wandering on the beach and I met Derzblog for an uneventful lunch. We were going to attempt horseback riding that afternoon, until thunder and clouds led us to decide to postpone until tomorrow. Instead we headed up to El Avion, a somewhat famous bar built around an old airplane made famous by its relation to poltical scandals (see Derzblog's entry for details). We were there quite early so we got the prime table in the corner of the large deck where we had the luxury of the leather rocking chairs the front row seats of the spectacular view from the hilltop. We passed several hours sipping beer and wine, finally ordering dinner, and discussing everything from time zones in the South Pole to our family dynamics. The restaurant filled up with mostly Americans as the sunset. I had the displeasure of overhearing the conversation of two loud older men at the next table. The gist of it was that the one man wanted to be catered two and did not know Spanish, did not want to hear it, and definitely did not want to learn it. A totally understandable sentiment for someone traveling in Costa Rica (much sarcasm intended here). Not long after I thought it mildly amusing as I listened to him order apple pie. How very American. I was extremely thankful to have the company and conversation of Derzblog on this trip as I would have possible found the culture of Manuel Antonio intolerable.

The next morning we met early to grab breakfast before we met our tour. This would have been possible had the family next to us not taken 10 minutes to order. Instead we settle for a cup of coffee and hot chocolate. Our tour consisted of us and a Spanish speaking couple. I enjoyed the bilingual nature of our tour and was again pleased with my ability to understand a significant amount of the guide’s explanations in Spanish. It was amazing the things he focused his telescope on in the jungle that I would never, ever have seen on my own. The jungle is amazing. It was not as dense as I expected, but the fauna and flora did make me feel as though I was definitely in a new world. We saw monkeys, sloths, iguanas, caimans, and various other critters, big and small. We even saw the very rare stick bird, which indeed resembled a twig on the tree. Our guide said he's only seen a handful of them in his lifetime. I felt lucky. As our hike ended, the heat really started to descend upon us. In my jungle gear to protect me from bugs and sun, I was definitely the most overdressed person in town, but I left without a mosquito bite or sun burn.

We had breakfast and planned the afternoon. We decided to stop by my hotel to take advantage of their service to get us bus tickets for the next day. However, we were told they could not do it today and all the buses would be full. We debated heading to Quepos, the neighboring bigger town, to get tickets before going horseback riding. However, another man said the station closed a half hour earlier. We would have to take our chances. However, knowing what I know now, I wonder if it would not have been open.

We booked our horseback riding tour and within about 30 minutes were picked up at the tour office. We spend the 30 minutes in the cool, air conditioned office watching TV so I felt a bit refreshed as we headed out. The guide put Derzblog on his horse and gave him a 30 second lesson in horseback riding. I mounted my horse, a pretty reddish-black horse named Cherry. AS I did so, Derzblog somehow ended up in the stable where he hit his head on the rafters. The guide held on to a rope tied to my horse and simply guided us on the ride. I did not get any lessons. I suppose it is because I am the muchacha. Though this would have outraged me as unfair earlier in my life, I saw it as a chance for me to relax and enjoy the ride without worry. I was thus able to take several pictures along the way. This was my first ride ever and I must say there is something to the connotations about horseback riding and women. Not a lot, but a bit. In line with my yoga training, it was interesting to be aware of various parts of my body that were used to keep me balanced and to guide the horse (though the guide did most of that for me). Likewise, though sitting and riding, it is a rather active physical activity, which I did not expect. We started off along the beach, staying in the shady sandy forest when possible. I relished the silence in which we rode, listening to the beat of the hooves, the whoosh of the waves, tuning out the murmur of the tourists on the beach. We then climbed up a rather steep road to another breathtaking lookout of the ocean and cliffs. On the beach we continued again to more rocky cliffs. One of the highlights of my tour of Costa Rica is this tranquil hour and half ride with my gentle friend Cherry.

After lunch, we returned to the park on our own for a hike through the peninsula where we did not go with the guide. Derzblog challenged me to see who could spot more wildlife. I immediately spotted an iguana and a chameleon. He gave up after this. This trail was much more rugged -- steep and muddy -- and led to denser jungle. The heat and humidity at this point were approaching oppressive. We reached another look out point and then found a community of monkeys. I finally was able to get my fairly up close monkey pictures, another item checked off on the mental to do list. I frequently lagged behind Derzblog, who kept up a quick pace, as I cautiously negotiated the mud and stopped for photo ops. We descended to a secluded and pristine beach where we rested a bit. Knowing the park would be closing soon, and seeing Derzblog was eager to rest, we did not stay on the beach as long as I would have liked. On the way out, there was another iguana waiting for me to snap his photo. Sitting in direct sunlight, looking right at me, I think it is one of the best photos of my trip.

My shoes soaked from trying to traverse the tidal estuary without the boat (who knew the tide would come in at that moment), I headed back to my hotel to change my shoes and ended up changing into the parea and dousing myself in another layer of bug spray. We opted for dinner at the opposing restaurant than our usual, which turned out to be noisy and have very slow service. After dinner and a round of drinks, we headed up to the upstairs bar next door hoping for a more conversational noise level. This didn't happen, but we did get two for one drink. Or I did. After three beers, I was approaching looping. I managed to get Derzblog to stay out until 6:30pm. In a light rain, he caught a cab to his hotel and I was on my own for the evening. Dismayed by the Hooligans/American like culture of downtown Manuel Antonio, I went to my hotel to check email. The electricity at my hotel was out, so I went back to town and paid too much at an internet cafe (which came out to about $1.50). I then put on my mp3 player to tune out the bad bar music and sat along the dark beach to watch the whiteness of the crashing waves break the monotony of the blackness of night. Not wanting to wander to far from the safety of the crowds, I paced up and down the small stretch of beach near downtown, dodging couples cuddling in the moonlight. Finally, I headed back to my room to attempt sleep on the lumpy bed listening to the incredible jungle noise of chirping bugs, rattling somethings, and what I think sounds like mating monkeys. Somehow I did achieve sleep, only to be woken around 4am by a torrential rain. Apparently this woke up the jungle life too and the call of an animal I cannot even phantom began. It started as a low deep groan and swelled into an agonizing aaaarghh, aargh, aaarghhhhhh resembling the agonizing cries of Frankenstein's monster attempting to speak, then the call faded out in a groan of surrender. A pause of varying lengths would punctuate these long calls through the jungle. If it were not so fascinating I am sure I would have been outraged at my loss of much needed sleep. After two hours I went to take my cold shower, dress, and go meet Derzblog to catch the bus in hope of being first in line at the ticket window in Quepos. The morning was cloudy and cool. I watched the surfers from the orange bus stop and enjoyed the peace until a man came who wanted to become friends. He tried to tempt me to delay my leaving of Manuel Antonio with offers of surfing lessons and 'friendship.' Thankfully, Derzblog and the bus arrived just as I was trying to figure out a way to remove myself unabruptly.

In Quepos, at a quarter to eight, the ticket window was obviously open well before eight in the morning and we joined the long line. A slow line as each person debated with the one woman working there, who, it turns out, is also in charge of taking in and dispersing the stacks of packages in the office. We got up there and found the only available tickets were on the 6pm bus. For the first time in Costa Rica, I felt despair. It was already sweltering and I just wanted to get back to a city were everything did not feel like a tourist trap. We bought the tickets and went for breakfast to figure out possible ways to escape this city. I was too upset to eat, especially at the prices which were even more inflated than Manuel Antonio. Pancakes were about 3 times more than other places in Costa Rica and I was also hoping I would not have to change more money for leaving in two days. Scouring our three Lonely Planet guides for advice, I found two alternate routes and went to ask for advice. I got limited info -- we could not change our tickets, but I could not understand why or if there was space available. Finished with his breakfast, Derzblog went back with me and explained we buy the other tickets on the bus. If it meant getting out by 10 am, I would gladly pay the extra. As it turns out, we somehow managed to get on a direct bus to San Jose, though we had to stand the entire ride. I spent the ride listening to my mp3 music, enjoying the view, and being thankful I was healthy enough to stand on a bus for three and a half hours.

Getting back to San Jose and Heredia felt like coming home. This made me think even more that I want to return to study Spanish and to learn more about Costa Rica in the future. I also discovered I am a traveler who likes to find the maybe less spectacular but more 'real' parts of country, to settle in a place for a bit really get to see the day to day life, experience the people and get to know the country more from the inside (or as much as is ever possible as a foreigner).

Back in Heredia, my last evening there, I decided to go home, change, and check email. I figured I would email some people to see if anyone is around. An odd idea, true, in Costa Rica, but I had no one's number and address and didn't want to spend my last hours sitting my room. I also figured my houseparents could only have enough patience for dinner conversation. The electricity was out so I took a cold shower and decided to take the bus back to San Jose to email and maybe see a museum (though it was getting close to closing time). The electricity came on when I was a block from the station, so I headed back to town. I went to a cafe, emailed, and then found a small fair in the main park. There I ran into Alan, a boy from the dance classes, and we chatted a bit in English. I was too tired to really attempt Spanish and he really wanted to practice English. We parted and then shortly after ran into each other in a cafe where we chatted more over of coffee. He left for new job training. I went home for dinner, then back out. There was live music and dancing in the park. I sat to listen and watch the festivities. It was a pleasant surprise. Once again, Alan passed by. We talked and walked again and ran into his friend Julio. They were both excited to practice speaking and listening in English. I attempted some Spanish practice, but was out numbered. They both expressed shock at my age, insisting they thought I was only in my mid-twenties, out of politeness or sincerity, I do not know, but I allowed myself to feel extremely flattered. After about an hour, I caught a cab home, packed, studied some Spanish, did some yoga, and slept soundly but shortly.

The last day consisted of breakfast, shopping, visiting my friends at Intercultura for the last time, and sharing a final afternoon of coffee and extremely interesting conversation with my teacher. Hesitant to leave, I rushed back to meet DC woman at the school, who was patiently waiting. She walked with me back to my house to get my bags and my cab. I was only 5 minutes late.

Mucho gusto, Costa Rica.

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: La cultura de Hooligans

Lesson 1: Never take entertainment advice from an 18-year-old (unless, of course, you are also 18).

Lesson 2: Always expect rain at the waterfalls

First, lesson 2: excursion to Los Chorros waterfalls and the coffee farm. We never will make it to the coffee farm. Attending is I, Derzblog, my classmate from DC, and two college boys from either Ohio or Minnesota or some other Midwest state. About five minutes into the ride, the boys start drinking beer. Oh, to be young and have high alcohol tolerance. We arrive at the falls and start hiking in. The tour description recommend sandals, so I have a bit of a struggle keeping up in my flip flops over the muddy and, at times, narrow trail. Thankfully, my vertigo does not set in on the rickety wire and wood bridges. However, I am still better off than the DC woman who is wearing high heeled sandals. Derzblog is in his usual khaki's and leather shoes, looking more like he is ready for a business casual lunch date than a hike into the falls. The boys run ahead with their youthful zest, sneakers, and swimming trunks. Besides them, I was the only one brave enough to go in the water. Modesty and the coolness tempted me not to, but I figured to hell with both. It was a painful sacrifice. As soon as I stepped in I could feel the icy coldness creeping up and tightening all my muscles until it reached my lungs as I gasped for air. Then, I put in the rest of my foot. I scaled tiny, razor like pebbles (and a few large mossy rocks) to finally get under the falls for the picture to prove I was there and went into the water. Then, I scrambled out and snuck around a corner to discreetly put on dry clothes as I was now quite cold. An attempt that would prove to be pointless in a few minutes.

That done with sat and admired the naturally grandiose beauty of the whiteness of the waterfall against the deep greens of the forest. Everything glimmered in the hazy spray of the falling water.

The second fall was around a long bend which required navigating our way over a shallow rocky part of the stream. I left my backpack sitting behind as it would only encumber the slightly precarious walk. It was amazing. Despite the noise of the rushing water, this grotto was peaceful. Rocks glimmered in shades of gray, brown, red and green. The cool water was so clear that its depth at times was deceptive, causing me almost fall and resubmerge myself in the water. Then it started to drizzle. I made it around the bend to see the boys already frolicking under the new falls. I headed back to the more quiet stretch around the bed to attempt to photograph the more obscure hideaways tucked into the walls of the stream. Then, it started to rain. Without my umbrella, I tried quickly work my way back to the bridge and path. The slippery rocks pretty much prevented this. By the time I reached my belongings and my umbrella I and everything I had was soaked. The rain came down harder. I grabbed all I could and started to quickly work my way towards the exit. At this point, it was pouring and each person for her/himself. Our tour guide passed us all, as did the boys. Derzblog moved quickly in his leather shoes. My flip flops became more of a burden. I could not even imagine the DC woman in her high heels and checked back to make sure she was still following several times along the way. Then, the hiking trail became a river. Mud flowed down around my toes. I wanted to run, but opted for just being soaked and actually making it back to the van. I did. Somehow my camera survived dry. But that was the only thing. In the warmth and safety of the van, I felt slightly exhilarated by the downpour. I checked off my mental Costa Rica to do list getting caught in a torrential downpour. To celebrate, on the way back to Heredia, our guide stopped for the boys to stock up on beer. DC woman and I decided to join them. Before heading back to the van, the boys bought us all a shot of tequila for the road. I quickly developed a nice buzz and gracefully spilled my beer in the van.

Showered and changed, I am walking the now mundanely familiar route to the school to meet the Intercultura posse for a night of dinner and salsa dancing at the in-famous Heredian club, Hooligans. The name should have clued me in. Half way to school, the lights go out in all of Heredia. By the light of the traffic, I make it to the school where a few people are gathered. The school decides to close early due to the lack of electricity. Our group gathers outside in the dark, now drizzling night. Once a consensus formed, we hailed a cab (after much waiting) for this remote and exotic club. We arrived at a strip mall on the outskirts of town. The electricity was back on, but did nothing to bring light to my trepidation about the future of the evening. The club was not even open yet and our dinner options included a bar and what appeared to be a local fast food chain. I was very hungry this evening and ordered the 'plate of the day,' aka the daily special, which always seemed to be at most local restaurants rice, beans, salad/veggies, and some choice of meat.

We walked by the club again and waited for the other members of our party to arrive. The club was still closed, though now a few adolescent looking clients were lined up. I grew more and more weary as the girls resembled my students back in East LA with their undersized tank tops, plastered hair, and heavy make-up. I decided I did not want to stay here. The technopop music blaring out from inside confirmed this instinct. I proposed to Derzblog that we take a cab and find the club in San Jose. He wanted to be back to his hotel before 10pm. We went to the bar next door for drinks and to kill time. Slowly, more of the Intercultura posse arrived, mostly the 20-somethings. Finally, DC woman, the other 30 something woman at the school, arrived. We decided to head to San Jose. I was relieved the evening would not be a waste. Our cab did not know the club we wanted (I think our accent was on the wrong syllable, of course making the name of the club completely unrecognizable) but dropped us at El Castro where he assured us there would be salsa and merengue. There was. However, in Costa Rica (as my Spanish teacher later confirmed) you do not just show up to salsa, but must go with a partner. So, our choices were slim pickings. I danced with an older gentleman who smelled of cigarettes and later kept asking me to dance. DC woman found a young man who then plastered himself all over her on the dance floor. They seemed to have and he seemed nice enough and a decent dancer. He told his friend to dance with me, which I appreciated, until I got on the floor. He was a great solo dancer, but my wrist and my back were a bit battle worn after the tumultuous dancing. We left a few minutes after that. I firmly bargained a fair cab ride home, sticking to the 3000 colones the school said should be the top we pay versus the 4000 the cabbie wanted (it was early and there wasn't much business). So, I saved us a whole 2 dollars US. Thank goodness for my rapid Spanish study. Maybe during my next visit (yes, I think there will be a next visit) I can find a nice Costa Rican local, like my professor or one of the guys from the dance class, to take me dancing. I'll have to be more discrete, also, in who I follow for entertainment advice.

Uno mas dias en Intercultura. Lo muy siento.

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Lychee en Heredia

Day three of language school in Heredia. Yesterday, my host father told his brother-in-law how impressed he was by how my Spanish has already improved. What can I say? There is the chance I did not properly understand what he said, but I am sticking to this interpretation as no one has proof otherwise. Though I think for one week at home and three days at school I am doing well, I think I just have a talent for non-language based communication and general intuition. Or common sense. But if they want to think I am brilliant, I won't argue. He then told me that I should come back another year and stay with them, which flattered me as sometimes I wonder if I do anything that seems impolite or annoying to them. Particularly since the first night I went out with other students for drinks. However, despite being retired, they are very hip and respect me for the adult that I am (or think I am).

Getting to Heredia was a bit precarious. I could not get in touch with the school or my host family over the weekend, so just hopped on the bus from La Fortuna to San Jose to figure out the journey as I went along. In San Jose there is no central bus terminal, so once I arrived I had to decide whether to walk or take a cab to the Heredia bus stop. On my map it was only six blocks, so I practiced my little of bit of Spanish and made sure I was headed in the right direction. It was still mid-afternoon and figured it would be ok. I second guessed not taking a cab as I zigzagged across the street to avoid the people and other shady characters sleeping on the sidewalks. I made it to the general area and asked several people for the bus to Heredia. I could not understand everyone's confusion until I remembered the 'h' in Spanish is always silent.

Once we got to Heredia, there were several stops and I had no idea where to get off. When the driver asked I just said the central terminal, which turns out to be block in the center of town bustling with lines of people and more shady characters. I originally planned to try to call my family again, but did not see a phone anywhere and felt too vulnerable to be still for that long anyone, so I hopped in the first cab I could find and showed him the directions from the email. I figured anywhere in town would be better than there.

During my cab ride to my family's house, seeing more of the same deserted town look, houses with large metal gates, I immediately questioned what my friend was thinking when she recommended going to school here. Heredia was not the picturesque Costa Rican town I expected. We arrived at the papaya colored house with three almond trees in front. Here it goes. Luckily, someone was home. From the sidewalk outside the gate, I saw an endearing elderly couple some see who this strange woman was banging on the gate. "Estudiante de Intercultura" I managed to say in my rudimentary Spanish. They looked at each other with surprise, let me in, and served me coffee and biscuits. From what I gathered, they did not know I was coming and were amazed I found my way there on my own. They showed me to my huge room in a separate upstairs section of the house. I have my own bathroom and more than enough room to do yoga next to the double bed, desk, and dresser. There is also a balcony and view of some mountains. After letting me settle in a bit, they called me downstairs, indicating we were heading out. We climbed into the SUV and ended up at their children’s' homes to introduce me, I guess. On the way they made several stops, one of which turned out to be Chinese takeout. I guess they were not expecting company for dinner. It was quite good shrimp fried rice. Somehow I understood I needed to be ready to leave for school by 7:30am the next morning. It was a relaxing and restful night and a very comfy bed. I almost forgot I wasn't home.

The next morning my host father walked me to the school and again, I was wondering about my friend's recommendation as I took in the stuccoed houses stacked side by side along the narrow streets lined with deep gutters. Moving from the residential areas to downtown the squished homes turn into squatting businesses behind metal gates. There is one central park surrounded by a church and some historic buildings, but other than that, the town is a bit cold and unappealing. I have not even been able to find a cozy cafe to work in, though internet cafes are on almost every block. Actually, Heredia reminds me a lot of Hungary. My new friends laughed at me for the comment last night over beers, but it is true and not expected.

Arriving at the school and entering through the doors is like entering a portal to a new world. The garden in the front foreshadows the festive and well-manicured interior of the school building. Inside, the walls are all painted in bright earthy colors of peaches and ambers with murals of salamanders, turtles, and flora that reflect a Central American style. In the center of the school are several small courtyards with umbrellaed tables. The class rooms are bright and airy, a bit plain a sterile, yet comfortable. There are tables for the small interactive classes rather than individual desks. There is a comfortable lounge area next to the receptionist, one computer for quick internet use, and a coffee and refreshments area. Immediately, everyone speaks to you in slow and patient Spanish, beginning your instruction from the moment you enter the walls of the school. The staff is friendly, always willing to help and let me figure out how to say what I want in Spanish. Really an amazing way to start studying a langauge. That coupled with living with a local family and my fabulous instructor has allowed me to feel that I have progressed greatly in three days -- perhaps more than I would have after 3 weeks going to a weekly class in LA.

The other students are from all over and a few are not just out of high school or college, which is a relief, though I do feel old at times. For example, in the bar last night I made a reference to the TV series, Fame, and this 20 year old girl from Canada looked at me as though I were talking about a different planet. Also, in my class, I am the second oldest, out aging even my instructor (he is only three years behind and I think I have convinced him to at least consider the possibility that life gets better after 30). In my class there is one French-Canadian man (the one member who is older than me), a young Canadian woman, a young man from Holland, and another woman from Washington D.C. I like the rapport our class has and our professor's amicable and charming teaching style really helps to set everyone at ease as we waddle our way through this new language. I also admire that he really seems to include himself in the class, sharing the same information about himself that he is asking us to share and is so patient as I haltingly try to convey my ideas in Spanish, though we did switch to English for a stimulating conversation about education and teaching during the break today.

In addition to my Spanish language study, I am getting lots of practice salsa dancing. They have two hours of classes every afternoon and many of the local guys who are studying English at the school attend. They are all very good and I must admit I prefer dancing with them than with the non-locals as they are mostly just learning and overall lack the grace and confidence of the Costa Ricans. Today, two of my partners complimented my dancing, so those lessons in LA really paid off, I think. Tomorrow night a group of us will go out on the town dancing. It is ladies night at the local dance club.

The week is going quickly and I really regret that I cannot stay longer. It just means I will have to return another time. Two more excursions are planned. First, tomorrow afternoon I will go with a group from the school to visit a waterfall and coffee farm. Then, it is definitely off to Manuel Antonio. I think I have almost persuaded my friend's friend from NYC to go with me. I hear they have all night parties with salsa dancing on the beach! And everyone says it is beautiful and that I will definitely see monkeys.

The only thing I have to look forward to returning is my apartment and your visit in August. Did you book your flight yet?

Hasta luego,

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: A new salsa adventure

Went salsa dancing again down in Marina del Rey -- way out of my neighborhood, but close to my friend's home.  Knowing I will not run into anyone in the grocery store makes it easier to practice my salsa moves, which at this point  may look more like misstepping and general confusion than dancing. However, I am comforted to know that it is often not me. The more people I dance with, the more I learn the difference between a good leader and a bad one.   It is really amazing how good I am when I am dancing with someone who REALLY knows how to lead.  As I realize that the missteps and offbeats are as often as not the result of a bad lead, this also makes me more confident and more able to follow when I find someone who does know how to lead well.  

 

After two weeks, my friend and I have concluded that all men tend to fall into one of the following categories as revealed in their salsa techniques:

 

The father:  This man waits for you to make even the smallest of mistakes in order to completely stop the dance and start 'the lesson' so that you may benefit from his infinite wisdom and grace.  The tone of voice usually switches to that of a father trying to find patience to explain the obvious and simple to his 5-year-old daughter.   This is extremely annoying to say the least, as well as really boring and usually not very helpful.   When your mistake is due to bad leading, it can be downright infuriating.   The upside is that he will probably not ask you to dance again.

 

The John Travolta:  This guy thinks he has all the moves and is all about showing them off.  Unfortunately, he has only a vague clue how to lead and absolutely no awareness of your confusion as you can neither keep up with his offbeat moves nor the correct beat of the music as he flicks you around trying to achieve something that looks great in his imagination.  After a few minutes, you realize how you are no longer dancing, but just trying to retain any sense of compusre, which is nearly impossible as the humiliation and the fear that no one will ask you dance after this fiasco only intensifies the chaos that has overtaken your feet.

 

The Latin Lover:  Don't be fooled by the name, as this man may be of any ethnicity.  He thinks that all that lesson stuff is for wimps and nerds.  He just wants to let the ladies get close to him and has no need for things like counting or leading.  You should follow is lead and ignore all politeness and lead the dance to show off how disgusted you are by his abuse of salsa dancing.

 

The Twirler:  This partner does not believe you are dancing unless you are spinning.  He has not come to appreciate the beauty, the  flow, or the expressiveness of  'the basic.'

 

The Wrestler:  This guy likes to push and pull you as though you are gumby.   Usually this type is found in combination with one or several of the above.  Again, remember your own safety must come before politness and salsa protocol:  if your arm does not bend that way, do not follow. 

 

However, for each of these there is a skilled dance or someone who is on his way to being one (hey we all have to start somewhere) but has the humility to admit his shortcomings rather than adopting one of these not so effective disguises.   For this reason it is important for us ladies to give a few dances to the newbies even if means an entire dance of 'the basic.'  

 

In apology to what might seem like cruel categorizationg (but, if the shoe fits . . .), I owe my progress over these two nights of practice to each of these types as each has, in his own way, taught me how to be more confident in myself and in following my partner.   In short, salsa dancing it isn't so different than many relationships -- you let the man think he is in control as you silently make everything look easy and smooth.  Not that would I ever tolerate this philosophy in my relationships, but on the dance floor, it is nice to submit to the music and the flow without worries.  

 

Love,

Lychee

 

 

DEAR ALIZARIN: I am a divine elephant . . .

"You are a divine elephant with amnesia

Trying to live your life in an anthole"

-- paraphrased from memory from my yoga teacher's reading of a Hafiz poem.

I love this image. At once it conjures up a circus-freakishness. In my mind it is a cartoony pinkish-white elephant, with an innocently ignorant sadness in her face. It was great lying in corpse pose, feeling a silliness arise in me as I pictured this in my mind. At the same time, I clearly understood myself on a new level. I am most definitely a divine elephant with amnesia living in an anthole. Doesn't this just explain all of life's obstacles and unpleasantness -- first, the obvious parallel to body image, but below that the very idea that we forget to remember and recognize our own beauty and divinity and purpose.

<>It also reminds me of this story "The Bear That Wasn't" by Frank Tashlin where a bear comes out of hibernation to find his forest is replaced by a town. When he is put to work, he tries to explain he is a bear, but no one will believe him because bears do not live in towns. Eventually, he questions his bearness, but finally recognizes himself for a bear despite everyone around him telling him he isn't. I think this will be a good first week's lesson. Yeah, I did get some work done today!

Well, I am going to take my divine elephant self, crawl out of my anthole

and go take a nap in my hammock

Love,

Lychee

(P.S. I very sadly finished my last lychee this morning -- they actually had them at Trader Joe's last week. Yummy!)

DEAR ALIZARIN: Lots and lots of questions

This morning my good friend in NYC sent me an email containing the following article from the St. Petersburg Times, written by Rodney Thrash: Real life, storybook ideals collide: One woman's display on gay authors led to Hillsborough County banning support of gay events Bascially a graduate student in library studies created a display at a public library highlighting young adult books around the themes of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender issues or characters, people complained, and an ordinance was proposed that county funds could not support gay events, such as this book display. I find it interesting how libraries and librarians are becoming central figures and locations in a battle that wants to erode our rights to privacy, knowledge, and freedom of speech (if the freedom to read what I want could be part of that). It is censorship, plain and simple, and played out by manipulating the emotional/moral sentiments of people against homosexuals. Hm. I saw this somewhere recently. Oh, yes, I remember: the last election! Am I being too judgemental?

I ask this because this morning the Daily OM (a daily email containing a meditation for the day) was about not judging others and allowing others to lead their own journeys, even when you know it is wrong or think it is not good for the person. It really struck a chord with me because during my discipleship group on Monday the discussion (perhaps appropriately for the 4th of July) became very political. Several people were of the stance of the importance of patriotism even when you do not agree with the leader's decisions. I think such blind patriotism is dangerous and patriotism should not be confused with loyalty to someone who is evil. However, what I said was that I thought Bush did not really intend to do good or promote democracy and that I basically think he is an evil man. (I think the context was the war and post 9/11 actions by the goverment). I admit that said outside the confines of my own head, this can be construed as inflammatory. One person went on to say that she is deeply offended when she hears others calling the President names (though, I think, technically, evil is not a name, just a descriptor) and, well, I was clearly in the far left minority at the table. That is fine. I just cannot have faith that Bush has good intentions. I conceded that, it is true, I cannot know his true intentions in his heart, neither can they. This did not really ease the tension, mostly directed at me (I felt). So, the question emerged, for me in reflecting upon this discussion, which is a more dangerous way of thinking? Is it better to give leaders, very powerful leaders, the benefit of the doubt even though after six years they have done nothing to promote good faith for the welfare of democracy and of the majority of citizens of the United States? Or is it our responsibility to call a spade a spade and point out that public policies which are gnawing through the protective coating around our rights to privacy, freedom of speech, freedom of choice, freedom to pursue happiness and equality, and just general good things like world peace (where is Miss America when we need her?) are just bad? How can I be both non-judgmental yet still be vocal about injustice and try to inform others so they (and in that I include myself) may particpate more fully in shaping the world we desire from inside our homes and families to worldwide concerns?

Despite the fact that at the time I felt really defensive and cornered, I value this converstion as I learned much from it (as well as was confronted with all these new questions). For me, I found that despite the fact that I feel I have become a bit middle of the road, I am still quite left of even other liberals. Also, people who are well-informed and very caring people may still not be willing to create chaos (I include myself in this to some extent, at least not all alone), confirming my despair of real radical change (or at least outraged resistance to anymore regressive social policies) anytime soon. Finally, it reminds me that, in our busy world, we will often trust what we are told because it is hard to uncover the full story (not that I will claim I have, but I think I at least make a effort to find varied points of view as time allows); also, who wants to have to admit that things really could be that bad, that our freedoms really are in that much danger, and that a leader could really be that evil? Do you think evil is too harsh a word?

So, in short (ha!) this Daily Om made me wonder how do we deal with leaders we know are leading or pushing our country/society/community into a detrimental place. What if society is complicit with this leader? Do I have a responsibility to say something or am I supposed to not judge and just let them follow this journey until they learn the lesson this path is meant to show them, even if it means we once again outlaw abortion and access to birth control? We can change it later, right? But why should we fight a battle that has already been fought? We are still a long way from equality and peace, why do we have to go back and do what has been done? Why can't we build on these victories instead having to defend them over and over again?

Alizarin, I am anxious to hear your response. One last thing. Just because I think Bush is evil it does not mean I think he is unreedeemable. He has two years to prove me wrong and I hope he does.

Love,
Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: The Burden of the Powerbar Ministry

"How many times can a Powerbar melt in the LA summer heat and reconstitute itself in the coolness of my refrigerator before it becomes simply inedible or downright dangerous?" I ask myself as I take the mushy foil wrapped bar out of my purse which has been sitting in the trunk of the car during my two hour hike. I glance around the lot and find no one to give it to. Oh, perhaps you are confused about all the fuss over a Powerbar, but, you see, it is a Powerbar that has been taken with great responsibility: to feed the hungry. Not me, hungry (though the other day when I forgot to do my food shopping, I did consider it), the homeless hungry.

It is really a great idea. Don't we all want to do something to help the hungry and homeless? So when one of my fellow church members suggested we all take and pass out Powerbars (labeled with our church's name and phone number) as a new way to minister to the homeless in the area, I thought it was a great idea, but started off with a modest two bars. I figured within a week I would be able to pass them on and pick up more next week or the next Sunday they put them out. Heck, maybe I'd even buy a few of my own. What could be easier than sticking this bar in my bag then going about my business until someone asked me for charity? Apparently, carrying around more change.

This Powerbar is like a curse. The first week I toted it around and waited for someone to be asking for change outside of Ralph’s, Trader Joes, or the library -- all regular stops for me and, I always thought, for those who need some change to eat. However, no such opportunity came along. One day, I notice the bar is melted so pop it in the fridge. Of course, I forget it when I head out to the fabric store in a tiny strip mall teeming with beggars. Damn it! I get home and dutifully put the bar back in my purse. A few more days pass. No homeless outside the library (or none obviously enough that I feel offering a Powerbar would be undoubtedly taken as a kind gesture). Another hot day, another melted bar. It is the end of the school year; I was a bit swamped. I got home late one night and was a bit peckish only to find little else in the fridge but two Powerbars, old bread, and soy milk. I resisted temptation and put a bar into my purse for the next day.

There it sat until today. It did not make it into the backpack I used when I took the subway to a conference downtown. I could have gotten rid of both on that day! Then today, after a lovely hike in the Santa Monica mountains, I find the liquidy bar and asked my friend (who also goes to my church) how I was able to make something so simple so complicated and burdensome. She, too, has yet to get rid of her Powerbars. We admit we are too ashamed to ask how others are doing with theirs. We both get a bit homesick for NYC where we know we could have unloaded a box on one trip into Manhattan. Obviously, what they say about Angelenos living in their own little bubble is true. Since I am on vacation and am more available around dinner time, I think I will just volunteer with a feeding program. In the meantime I will continue to carry around the Powerbars as a reminder to how hungry I am not and to make me more aware of those around me.

Love,

Lychee

DEAR ALIZARIN: Great minds at work

I just wrote you an email about us meeting up in the Alizarin Spa of Avila (that is, your parents beachhouse), followed you your simulteanously written email proposing that same idea. Great minds . . ..

I am truly sorry you have had to cut your Costa Rican adventure (perhaps nightmare, as it turns out) short. However, relax about me and not being there when I arrive. I am going to Costa Rica. It’s not like I was meeting you in some prison camp.

Emmy Lou, one of the ladies from church fell and spent the night on her floor until another member called 911 when she could not get a hold of Emmy Lou this morning. Emmy Lou is the reason many of us are at that church (she remembers your name and is always happy to see you no matter how late you are or how many Sundays you skip church) and, though many have tried, no one seems to have her skills as the Sunday morning greeter. Also, I just went to a conference about “Education, Not Incarceration” and learned how there is a low-intensity genocide happening in our prisons and many young, innocent adolescents of color are labeled criminal before they have a chance to commit crimes (www.ednotinc.org). What does that have to do with you standing me up in Costa Rica? Nothing except for emphasizing how I am so incredibly lucky to go to Costa Rica all alone and learn Spanish in Heredia.

Get home, rest, give me a call. Come to CA in August.