Avoiding Simian Bombardment, or My First Week in Sámara

Indeed, being aware of the trees is more of a necessity in Costa Rica, and for reasons more critical than whether or not they will provide ample shade for your car. (There aren’t that many of those here, and no parking lots - just the occasional unpaved bit to the side of a building.) The importance of three-dimensional awareness comes into play in this country, as humans can easily be put in a hospital by falling coconuts, or they can be informed in no uncertain terms of the opinions of their less-evolved cousins. The local monkeys have also apparently inspired a motorcycle club. 

Pandemonium

It was a treat being present for the zenith of Costa Rica’s performance in the 2014 World Cup, as it was also their best performance in the history of the sport: The Ticos embarrassed some very big names, and surprised many by inspiring the question, “Where’s Costa Rica?” Immediately following the difficult victory over Greece, Sámara erupted into a joyous romp. Flags adorned the hoods of the few vehicles that are here, and kids stacked themselves like cordwood into pickup trucks, all a-shout as they sped about the outskirts of town; the thoroughfare was occluded with the delerious celebrants of their nation’s rite of passage into soccer respectability. Unfortunately, the June 29th game was the high water mark for Costa Rica this go-round. Still, they have much to be proud of, and hopefully this summer’s success will see the current team stay together. I also hope it attracts the importation of both capital and talent into the Costa Rican soccer machine. The Chinese should invest in a couple stadiums. The U.S. sure as hell won’t.

Should I go to the beach? Oh wait... 

Yeah, I’m having a terrible time. Intercultura, my language school, is situated literally right on the beach. I walk through the front gate and I’m literally working sand into the nooks of my Chacos. I’m getting an interesting tan on my feet, sort of a cross-section basket-weave pattern, and I’m hearing ghastly things about something called Chikungunya. I’ll eventually need to blow the equivalent of a week’s lunch money to keep the repellent in stock. That’s a slam dunk business here for Ticos: selling sunscreen and mosquito spray - a testament to the general lack of preparedness of silly Americans. I'm all for exploiting consumer surplus. More on that topic later.

Habla más despacio por favor!

It’s not the Spanish, it’s the general disregard for pronunciation, and the tendency to take shortcuts that really throws me for a loop. My host mother, God bless her, is about sixty, and has purple hair. (I’m going to my first baptism this Sunday, that of her brand new Granddaughter.) ‘Mamá,’ as I call her, is an amazing cook, and speaks Spanish in a torrent of syllables, most of which fly right by me. I can catch the occasional prepositional phrase, vocabulary here and there - but I figure I’ll need to just listen better. Unless paid to do so, no Tico living in this country will speak Spanish slow enough, or with sufficient care, for Gringos learning the language to really be able to stay afloat. (This is not a complaint, just the way it is; and contrary to what it sometimes means in Mexico, ‘Gringo’ is never meant as an insult in Costa Rica.) Ticos of course will repeat themselves if you ask them nicely. I also learned from the customs agent that ‘Que?’ is not an appropriate way of asking someone to repeat something. For what it’s worth, I’m doing a lot better than I did last summer, and for the first time, I’m speaking Spanish more than I’m speaking English. My instructors kick ass, and I might actually have a shot at becoming more international by the end of this trip. ‘Sangre de Cristo!’, as my host mother says.

Note: If you bring Dramamine on a trip, be sure to fucking use it. The dolphins are great, but not at the expense of lunch, or pride.