From Bichos to Bracelets
My time with the Ticans has come full circle
May 24, 2017, 6:39 pm.
Alfredo offers to me, for the third meal in a row, avocados with my dinner. He tells me that while he likes to eat them with every meal, I don’t have to. I try not to seem too eager when I say that I too could eat these avocados with every meal. I struggle slightly to tell him in Spanish that the avocados found here in Costa Rica are mucho better than the ones found in the US. Alfredo explains to me that his uncle grows them just up the road, but there’s a more immediate supply on the tree right outside. It’s almost redundant when he says that the crops around here are grown organically and free of chemicals.
I find myself thinking back to just four nights ago, when I sat in my bed, bug spray in hand, wondering how on Earth I would make it through five whole nights in that house. I shook at the idea of sharing a bedroom with the bichos. This couldn’t get any worse, I thought as I still shivered from the cold shower. I didn’t even have wi-fi to text my mom my complaints. These annoyances filled my head no matter how hard I tried to shake them out.
7:24 pm.
I drop my plate off by the sink and stop by my room before making my way to the couch. I grab my thick red UGACR Spanish 3020 book and plop down next to Mariana. “Que linda el color,” she notes as she points to the cover. “Sí,” I respond, paying more attention to the sixteen pages of subjunctive practice ahead of me. She’s almost shocked at the amount of work I have due in the morning, except by now the family knows that I have work todos los días. Santiago asks his dad if he ever sees “la muchacha” — my alternate name — on campus while he’s working, and Alfredo tells him that he does sometimes see me, but I am busy siempre. Mariana scans my many pages of fill-in-the-blank exercises and offers her help.“Es el subjuntivo,” I attempt to explain to her, but she doesn’t know what I mean. I don’t have the heart to tell her that most of her answers are wrong, so I star them and promise to look over them again in the morning. I give up less than half way through. Why should I spend my last night here doing homework? “Quieren jugar La Memoria?” — In an attempt to rescue my mind from the endless sea of Spanish verbs, I ask Santi and Mariana if they want to play our routine game of Memory. Santi races to Mariana’s room to retrieve the cards.
One-year-old Ariel maneuvers aimlessly around the floor using the pink plastic kitchen chairs for balance, as Alfredo springs off the couch and into the kitchen. The slight disappointment that they are out of chocolate soon evaporates as the smell of agua dulce fills the air. He urges me to try it, but assures me that if I don’t like it I don’t have to pretend otherwise. I take a sip from the steaming mug of what seems to be milk. Within seconds my tastebuds are dancing with hints of raw sugar cane, and I question why I ever thought that anything made in this house would not taste like a little bit of heaven. With Costa Rican Oreos to dunk in my sweet water, I dare to consider that the American tradition of cookies and milk has met its match.
8:47 pm.
A narrow, bright light beams through the window and reflects off the tiny television mounted on a small shelf in the corner. “¡Mamá, mamá!” Ariel imminently loses the race to the door to Santi, who turns the key far before Elvia makes her way up the driveway. Though tired from a long shift in the campus kitchen, Elvia greets her family and promptly asks me, “¿Cómo está?” I answer bien, and almost forget to use Usted as I return the question. Once out of her work uniform, she joins the rest of us on the couch to watch tv before bed. I’ve noticed that everyone stays up much later when Elvia works. No one goes to sleep until they’ve had the chance to say goodnight. Only a few minutes pass and Alfredo mumbles a tired buenas noches before disappearing behind the curtain hiding the humble master bedroom that will later be filled with all but Mariana and myself. Santi and Ariel snuggle up to Elvia and I feel a twinge a homesickness for the first time since I arrived in Monteverde.
It’s not until Mariana appears timidly from around the corner that I notice she had been missing. Without saying much, she reveals two beaded bracelets. “Esta es su nombre, y esta es mi nombre,” she proudly declares. My smile is contagious as she sees my look of approval. Beaming, she offers to help me tie on the brightly colored pulsera reading “Mari,” and I extend a hand to secure the “Maura” around her wrist.
9:53 pm.
I do my best to say “Buenas noches” without stressing the s’s too much, which I’ve picked up from my time spent in a home with native speakers. I lay silently in my cocoon of blankets. My ears are sore from four nights of sleeping in bulky headphones. Blaring my Summer 2017 playlist helps to drown out the mostly tiny wings flapping violently in competition with the sound of rain against the tin roof. I’ve gotten used to texting my mom goodnight before my trek from campus at 5:00, so I set my alarm, close my eyes, and drift off into the night.
6:01 am.
I somehow manage to sleep through both my alarm and the deep moans of the cows outside. Just two mornings prior, the unfamiliar sound scared me as I rose in company with the sun. I hear a foreign voice call to Mariana to get up or else she’ll be late for school. “Okay Abuela, I’m coming!” carries slightly more attitude when shouted in Spanish. I now remember that Alfredo and Elvia have both left for work, as Elvia mentioned to me they would last night. I slowly emerge from my room with a groggy but respectful introduction. The familiar sizzle and smell of homemade empanadas and café encompass the room and my nostrils. Elvia must have gotten her incredible talent from the woman standing at the stove, who I now know as Maggie, or Abuela. Natural light floods through the open door and Gata, the precisely named family cat, lounges on the tile just outside the house. I have just over thirty minutes until the van arrives to carry me away from my tiny Tican home. As my teeth crunch into a black bean-filled empanada, I go over what my day will consist of; transfer to campus, English class, lunch, Spanish class, dinner, homework, shower, bedtime. My heart lurches momentarily when I realize I won’t come home to card games, Spanish reality shows, and strangely delicious drink combinations. My coffee cools enough to chug it, as Santiago demonstrated is the best method of consumption. With my bags now on the porch, I ask the kids if they’ll take a picture with me. Mariana knows me well enough by now to know that I prefer talking to the her and Santi, so she asks her abuela to take the photo.
Soon after, Santi, Mariana, and I are pushing through the gate to start a long day of classes. Abuela walks us to the end up the driveway with pajama clad Ariel on one hip. Mariana, recalling the photos I shared with her last night, asks me if I have a pool at my house back home. “Sí” I reply. She asks me if she can come swimming if she ever visits the United States. “Me lo encantaría,” I tell her — I would love that. We reach the much fretted end of our journey to the road and bid one another “Ciao,” with solemn smiles. I stand awkwardly with Abuela, but Ariel’s jovial smile breaks the unintended tension. I watch as his tiny, sock-covered toes dig aggressively into the gravel beneath him, and Abuela points out that he loves the feeling of the ground against his feet. Nearly fifteen minutes after my 7:00 scheduled pickup time, Abuela tells Ariel to blow me a kiss, tira un beso, before she has to force him to travel back inside. Adios.
11:36 pm.
After fighting through tired eyes all day and an exciting live stream of the Pittsburgh Penguins hockey game, I somehow find myself wide awake in my bed. Tara and Grace are across the room sound asleep, and Sam snores lightly in the bunk above mine. I swipe quickly through the pictures I took over the past five days and regret not taking more. I pause when I see the faces of three little niños crowded around me. I feel a familiar twinge of homesickness, only this time for the small orange home that sits tucked into the mountains of Monteverde. I relive the moment I thought I couldn’t possibly go back to the house of bugs and cold water, and I am ashamed. I somehow let my arrogant attitude blind me from the opportunity that was presented before me. Not only was a fantastic family giving up a bed, their time, and their food for me, but also was doing so with genuine smiles and interest in my well-being. It’s almost impossible to figure out why I let a few beetles and an inevitably harmless spider determine my initial mindset. While expecting only to learn some conversational Spanish with native speakers, I undeniably learned that my idea of being well-off was quite warped. Though they don’t have much, Alfredo and Elvia come home from every shift with a smile and a kiss for their little ones. Mariana helps prepare dinner each night as Ariel laughs at the soccer ball gliding back and forth between Santi’s feet. They contentedly sit down together each night for dinner and ask one another, “¿Cómo fue su día? — How was your day? — with a complaint never expressed. I finally realize why so many students speak so incredibly of their homestay experiences. Something inside of me has shifted since my first night sleeping in the foreign home. As I close my eyes, I silently pray that I can express even part of the appreciation for life that the special family of five has shown me in only five short days.
