From strangers to familia in five nights.
How to make homemade empanadas, dance, and appreciate what you have.
Monday. May 22, 2017. 10:21 PM.
I can hear the crickets and cicadas chirping outside my window. The persistent bark of a far away dog. The buzz of a tiny yet obnoxious bug flying in circles around the single light bulb that is smack dab in the middle of the paneled ceiling. The clatter of my fingers clicking away with ease. I sit criss-cross atop a pink floral comforter and across from Abbigayle who occupies the other bed, my roommate in our quaint home of five nights.
6:15 AM
I wake up to the familiar sound of my alarm tone. As I reach down to turn it off, the sound of a rumbling engine seeps through my window… outside, Cristel is climbing aboard her papa’s red four-wheeler in her school uniform, her long and curly hair a cascade of dark brown. Soon, they take off. Mario is driving her to the bus stop for her school in Santa Elena and before I know it, they have disappeared. I rub my eyes and force my tired body to stand up and make my way to the bathroom across the hall. In the kitchen is Anna offering a friendly “Buenos días”; I mumble a greeting and shut the bathroom door.
It’s just cold water. Cold water is harmless.
This is what I tell myself as I put one foot into the shower, and then the other. I lean over and try to get my hair wet without standing directly under the showerhead that cruelly spews freezing water my direction. Looking down at my arms, I see my hair stand on end. I lather shampoo, and it seems to take hours just to rinse out, cold droplets slyly slithering down my back. Breathing a sigh of relief, I finally turn off the faucet.
Anna is waiting for me as I walk into the kitchen with wet hair. “Durmió bien?” she asks — “Did you sleep well?” I respond “Sí, muy bien,” and we begin the cooking lesson.
She shows me all of the ingredients she has already mixed together and teaches me how to grab a handful of the wet flour mixture and pound it into a circular shape. Then, sprinkle a bit of shredded cheese and fold it over. As I work, she grabs them with metal tongs and places them into a skillet with bubbling oil. One by one, they turn golden brown and are transported to their new home: a ceramic plate. Anna hands me one to try and I smile at the crunch. “¡Qué rico!”
Abbigayle enters and we sit down to eat a hearty breakfast with Anna and Mario, our “Costa Rican parents”. We devour empanadas, gallo pinto, and fresh fruit… pineapple and cantaloupe. The pineapple here makes my mouth water. It is fresh from the ground and sweeter than candy.
“Si quiere más, hay más,” Anna says between mouthfuls.
Anna’s generosity is endless and she reminds me of my own mother, who is also a remarkable cook. Back home, my brother, dad and I often joke that she is a “food pusher”, always asking if we want more, more, more. No more! “Estoy llena,” — I’m full.
When I first met Abbigayle at the Liberian airport, she told me she only knew the Spanish words “hola” and “adios”. By the time our first night is over however, “estoy llena” has been added to that last.
The walk to campus is a scenic one. My classmates and I make the trek surrounded by a friendly mountainous scene, with cows poking their heads around tree trunks to look at us. A small pup named Kira chases us with stumbling legs and a wagging tail, despite our telling her “You need to go back home, you precious little pup!” It’s impossible to even pretend to be angry with her. We are infatuated with her floppy ears and exuberant personality.
5:45 PM.
After a long day of classes and homework, Abbigayle and I walk back from campus in the rain, stepping over muddy puddles and watching as the sun gradually travels to its nighttime home behind the mountains of Monteverde. The number of students I walk with gets steadily smaller as they break off from the group in pairs or singles and walk up their respective driveways.
Dinner consists of rice with veggies and chicken, frijoles, homemade papas fritas, and límonada. Anna keeps us company as forks scrape against dishes and soon our plates are practically clean again.
9:20 PM
It’s just me and Mario sitting on the floral patterned couch, watching the History channel. Anna and Abbigayle have gone to bed, and Cristel is staying the night at her aunt’s house. When I hear a word I don’t know in Spanish— which is often — I turn to Mario and ask “¿Qué es (insert Spanish word)?” In a patient voice, he explains each one with simple adjectives, giving examples and gesturing with his hands until I understand. When the realization hits, I let out an “Ohhhhh,” and we both grin. I appreciate his patience more than he can understand.
Mario works is a crucial member of the maintenance crew at the UGA Costa Rica campus as well as Finca La Bella, the family farm. When I ask him what he did at work that day, he says he spent hours hacking away at stubborn plants with a machete. I inquire if he has ever left the country and he says no. I wonder what it must be like to have stayed in one place all his life. He explains that his whole family lives in Costa Rica, but they are several hours away and he isn’t able to visit them very often.
On the television screen, a show about two men who search for and buy antiques is playing. The men are at someone’s house, in a room full of trinkets and other useless items, and a dusty old banjo is suddenly pulled out. Mario tells me that his brother used to play the mandolin and guitar with ease; he was extremely talented. Pointing to a portrait on the wall, he tells me that his brother passed away when he was only twenty-six years old. “Lo siento,” I say.
I’m so sorry.
I note the resemblance between them.
After a while, I yawn and express that I am tired. “And I still have some homework to do! But thank you so much for talking.”
He responds that he has enjoyed it, and that if I ever have any more questions, he would be more than happy to answer them “con gusto”.
I am momentarily taken aback by his kindness, but quickly remind myself to say thank you, and I return to my bedroom, saying “¡Buenas noches!” on my way.
Wednesday. May 24, 2017. 7:07 PM.
I have just devoured a plate full of lentils and rice for dinner and am stretching in the kitchen, while Abbigayle, Cristel and I chatter away. I want to take a walk, but a drumming sound that echoes off the roof reminds me that it’s raining. I jokingly ask Cristel to teach me to dance. Cristel is a little sassy and a lot of sweet, and she speaks English better than some people I know. A few nights ago, the fourteen year old had shown us a video on her phone of one of her dance performances, and she is always bobbing her head to a song. She walks into the living room, where Anna and Mario sit on the couch and watch the news. Reaching up, she presses a silver button and Latin music plays, bouncing off the walls with syncopated rhythms.
Anna and Mario shift their gaze from the TV to us as Cristel first demonstrates the footwork, and then grabs my hands and we spin around. My inexperienced feet stumble, but I am told I am a quick learner. With each new song, Anna declares, “This is Merengue,” or “Salsa,” or “Bolero.” At one point, Anna and Cristel dance together, mother and daughter, and I find myself wishing that everyone back home knew how to dance like they do here.
Thursday, May 25, 2017. 6:32 AM.
Abbigayle and I consume breakfast fresh off the stove one final time. Cristel left for school half an hour before, so we hugged and said our heartfelt goodbyes then. I don’t realized that I’ve been zoning out until Anna asks us how many more days we’ll be in their home country. Abbigayle and I do the math: “Four more nights here, two in Playa Samara, and our flight is the next day. The thirty-first.”
Anna wishes us the best of luck for the future, safe travels as we return to the U.S., and tells us that we are always welcome into her home if we ever find ourselves back in Costa Rica. Smiling with gratitude, I ask if I can take a picture with Anna and Mario, silently regretting that I hadn’t remembered to ask before Cristel left for school. They happily oblige.
Mario straps Abbigayle’s green, bulky suitcase onto the back of his four-wheeler and Anna hops on. She drives down the road to drop it off at the house where a van will pick us and our luggage up. “What a woman,” says Abbigayle as we watch her with admiration travel down the road. She is seemingly at ease on the bulky bike.
As we hike up the mountainous road, struggling for breath, I feel a huge sense of gratitude for Annabelli, Mario, and Cristel. Our time together has been short, but they have taught me so much: hospitality and patience, how to dance, make homemade empanadas, appreciate what I have... and all I’ve left them with is a thank you note and a box of hot chocolate. I wish I could give them the world.
