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
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