Redefining Family
On home stays and speaking without words
BEGINNING
There’s something hesitant in the way Doña Lita opens her gate for me. This may be because it sticks on the peach-painted wall it’s attached to, or it might be the natural discomfort of allowing strangers, especially strangers from a foreign country, into your home. Part of me is relieved that I’m not the only one feeling timid, but the rest of me is wishing that someone would feel confident in my place. After all, this is my first time participating in a home stay; Doña Lita has welcomed many Americans into her home before me.
But for better or worse, I have arrived. After much anticipation and a few questions about whether or not the showers will have hot water (lukewarm, as it later turns out), I am here. I arrive in the afternoon, but dew still coats the grass of the front yard. Tied to a tree near the road is a cow, and my approach in a van seems to have scared her, as she tugs at her harness in an apparent attempt to put more distance between herself and the car.
Thick greenery hides the house from my immediate view. After a few careful steps through the dusty tire tracks that make up the driveway, I am at the front door. Doña Lita is there with a quiet “Hola” and a small smile. Inside the walls are the same peach hue at outside, the ceiling silver tin where the roof is rusted red. Jorge, Lita’s husband, is sitting in a worn maroon armchair, one leg slung casually over the armrest, and it looks like the two of them were watching TV while waiting for me to arrive.
I am given a cursory tour of the house after setting my bags down. At the kitchen, Lita gives me a somewhat apologetic smile as she explains the kitchen sink is also used for teeth brushing and face-washing. The guilty way she delivers this explanation makes me hope she hasn’t had to deal with someone in the past for whom such a detail would be unpleasant.
For lack of other things to talk about, I share some pictures of my family after the tour. Lita and Jorge ask questions and I try to answer, but nerves get in the way of me being entirely intelligible. There are some pictures on the wall above the kitchen table in an eclectic variety of frames. Smaller pictures are stuck to them, giving each the appearance of a scrapbook page. I ask Lita about them, and her previously face solemn face lights up. Moving more quickly than I’ve seen her do since my arrival, she gets up to show me the photos.
There is one of her son as a child, next to one less faded of him grown up leaning on a dirt bike. There are many of her nietos, children in various stages of life and similar outfits that seem saved for the few times they’re in front of a camera. Lita explains the circumstances of each picture, and though I know I won’t retain much of this intimate information, I nod and smile anyway. I want her to feel comfortable with me in her home, and this is the best way that I can do that. So I continue to smile and nod (and get in a word or two of broken Spanish where I can, of course).
MIDDLE
In my half-conscious state, I’m convinced that Regalito’s barking is actually an airplane taking off. The first human voice I hear, however, is much more pleasant. A soft “buenos días” from Lita takes the edge off any Chihuahua-induced irritation I was feeling, and the sound of tortillas frying in the pan doesn’t hurt either.
I break my fast with Jorge and Lita, wishing I could find the right words to express how grateful I am for the fresh pineapple and steaming coffee. Our meal is a somewhat solemn affair, and I feel a little awkward sitting at the table while, for a lack of extra chairs, they use the couches.
While chewing on my gallo pinto I notice a plaque on the sparsely decorated wall. It isn’t remarkable as plaques go, but it stands out among the rest of the decorations, almost all of which are family portraits. As I see Jorge’s name engraved in gold, I ask him what the plaque was given for.
At first he thinks I’m asking how to say “wall”, as I’m pointing at it. Lita, bemused and beginning to clean up the breakfast dishes, clarifies for me. Seeming somewhat embarrassed, Jorge tells me he earned the award for a lifetime as a dedicated lechero. He walks outside quickly after telling me this, and Lita, mulling her words over coffee for a few minutes first, tells me she worked with him as a dairy farmer for 15 years.
“Estoy cansada,” she says with a chuckle. And who wouldn’t be tired after raising two children while working on a farm? Things are better now, as she has been retired for a year. I can see still, in both Jorge and Lita, the marks of a life of hard work: weathered skin, strong hands, and that certain taciturnity common to those who spend their days among animals instead of humans.
~
In the short time I’ve stayed with Jorge and Lita, I’ve come to expect tranquility in the house. The two are retired, and the only things that regularly make noise are the temperamental shower head and Regalito. But tonight, as we have visitors, the house is a whirlwind of noise.
Jorge and Lita’s son arrives on dirt bike, and his wife and two sons come on foot shortly after. In the living room Jorge and Lita are watching a game show, and the boys are running between the TV and the porch, where their parents are working on some project that involves power tools.
Lita becomes a different person in this environment, and I can see the maternal side of her she has yet kept hidden. She seems herself with her grandchildren, in control of her home and comfortable with the power she holds as head of the house. Jorge still sits calmly, and it’s apparent from the way he ignores the chaos that this situation is normal.
This noise is familial, it is comfortable, and it makes me feel, for the first time since my arrival, like I am at home.
END
This morning the mist seems melancholic. We eat our daily gallo pinto and drink our coffee while waiting for the bus that will bring me back to campus. The silence is interrupted periodically by the chickens outside or the wind catching in the halfway-open door. This is a much more comfortable silence than that of the first afternoon; we’ve accepted the language barrier, I’ve improved my ability to speak through gestures, and we know now that the moment calls for thought rather than words.
The crunch of gravel under rubber sounds from the other side of the yard, and Lita’s coffee mug (pink ceramic, Te amo mamá in purple letters) is set down with a clatter. Our final breakfast comes to an end this way, and the time has come to return to campus.
Lita gives me a quick hug, and for a fleeting moment I’m enveloped in human warmth. Jorge waves from a few feet away, and in seconds I’ve left the peach walls, my surrogate parents, and rural Costa Rica as I knew it for a few days.
