Thursday, February 8, 2007
Musings
One month musings:
Always shake your laundry before you put it in the wash and then again before you bring it in from the line. You never know what kind of creatures might end up going for a spin in the washing machine, or--if they make it through that---what might end up in bed with you
Dust. There is so much of it. The roads aren’t paved so every time a car goes past, it kicks up a big billow of dust. The worst is if you’re on the quad and a car is ahead of you. The kids refuse to wear the ski goggles, even though most people here do. I worry about how much dust we’re inhaling too. The protection options aren’t pretty. Some people wear bandana’s AND goggles and helmets, an odd Raiders of the Lost Ark outlaw look. Others opt for the more stylish middle eastern look with beautiful scarves wrapped around their heads and faces. There’s the hospital mask as well, so familiar to the Toronto girl in me from our days as Sars Central. Riley has chosen opted for this.
The Dust II- Sounds like a bad muffin recipe I know, but they spread molasses on the roads to keep the dust down. (at least those who can afford it). It comes in big huge barrels that they roll onto the roads and then open up with something akin to a large can opener. Teams of people set to work raking it around. It is very sticky at first, but eventually just gets covered in dust again. It’s a somewhat futile process. The other option, which many little businesses do, is to hose down the dust with water. Which is even MORE futile and also reckless since there are huge water shortages in Santa Teresa, which is essentially the business district (!) of Mal Pais.
Molasses II- Who knew someone could be allergic to Molasses? i didn’t until our first night here when Paul started projectile vomiting on our walk to the beach. First though it was the insanely gut jarring 6 hour ride from San Jose. But the next morning when it happened again, and again and again we started to figure it out. It is a curse to have a molasses-sensitive puke button here. But, like all children, Paul is adaptable. By day three he knew to hold his nose whenever he saw dark patches on the road. try to visualise this for a moment: Paul, wearing ski goggles and a helmet, sitting on the front of the quad, one elbow up in the air, with fingers firmly gripped on his snout! Thank god he’s not allergic to dust. He’d have to turn into the boy in the bubble.
Houses here do not have closets. Anywhere. Kitchens have open shelves. so do bathrooms and bedrooms. Even though I don’t have nearly as many clothes as i used to, i still miss my walk in closet. There’s something so NAKED about having people come in your house and see all your food and clothes. Am I going snaky? (they don’t have closets, by the way, because everything moulds unless it is fully aired out)
Sand in the crack of your bum is hard to get out. Even harder to get out of someone ELSE'S bum.
Trying to buy bulk here defeats the purpose. It’s actually cheaper to buy two small jars of peanut butter than one big one. Speaking of peanut butter, a staple in our diet, it is extremely expensive here. 7 dollars US for a regular size jar. Please help me find a way to reconcile that cost with the fact that most people working here make, at most, 2 dollars an hour.
I now get dogs. I am in love with one. Eva named him lucky, but really WE are the lucky ones. He is white with blue eyes and big and strong and so funny and sweet. But it is an unrequited love because he has an owner. Every time I start to question whether he’s just using us for food, he does something to prove he loves us too. He is at our door every morning when we wake up (6 am). He gets some love (and food). He comes for a five mile run with me and stays with us most of the day and past dinner. Every night though, like a cheating husband, he skulks away home for bed. Today Riley, Eva, Paul and I went on the quad to a beach about 3 miles away. He ran beside us the entire way. What unbelievable beauty to see that dog run, his mouth foaming near the end from sheer exhaustion and thirst. Never too tired though to come to a skidding halt to mark some bush or bark at some dog. And then at the beach, the funniest sight. He went tearing into the water...right up to a huge wave...quickly turned his body around and then BODY SURFED right back to shore. Honest to god, it happened....we couldn’t believe it. And he protects me too. One one run together he ran a dog through barbed wire, getting himself all caught up in it as well and then fought like a wild animal for a good 10 minutes before continuing on. And he sings and throws his paws in the air like he’s dancing when you play the harmonica. He stinks and is covered ini ticks but we’re working on that.
Chickens are small here. So small that a crow was on the road and Paul said: Look mum, a chicken! So too are racoons and cats. And most of the dogs have normal sized bodies and very small legs. (except Lucky who is perfect) I think there must have been one very prolific small legged stud who had his way with a lot of female dogs.
Sometimes I feel a little bit like the mum from Little House on the Prairie. Doing my chores, goin’ into town, hangin’ up the laundry, baking bread (i actually tried to make bagels yesterday, but the yeast here is wonky. Eva brought her lunch home and said: “Mummy, honestly I TRIED to eat it but my teeth wouldn’t go in). Riley tried to be kind as well: “Strange mum, how one little bagel can fill you up so much”. Steve went to San Jose yesterday for supplies!!!! (images of Hoss and what’s his name saddling up the horses and takin’ the convoy into the big smoke to load up on supplies). We need books, bowls and stuff for the new house. He wont be back until tomorrow night or the next, so I’m out here in the wild frontier by myself.
Paul has started school (which means I have my mornings free to learn spanish, do yoga, surf. Haven’t used the time yet for any of that though, hanging out at the coffee shop instead making friends etc). The school is run by a beautiful young Israeli woman. It’s set up on the large outdoor veranda of her beach front house. There are four kids, Sol, Jonathan , Zoey and Paul. They are all Israeli and I think Paul may learn Hebrew before Spanish. He’s already starting to open books backwards! For those of you who have shared in my horror at Paul’s new anger management tactic with his siblings, you’ll be glad to know that the first thing he does when I pick him up is run over and whisper so proudly in my ear: “mummy, i DIDN’T say shut up you loser!!!) And, he’s toilet trained. All that outdoor shitting and peeing has finally paid off. He’s so proud to flush.
Speaking of pee and poo, and what conversation would be complete without a little scatological discussion: No one throws their toilet paper in the toilets. (so do you think they even call it TOILET paper? Maybe it’s just garbage paper or bum paper) The septic system can’t handle it but man it’s weird to go poo and put it i n the garbage. Try it and think of me.
And speaking of weird, so much for Costa Rica as an environmental haven. They burn everything here, including plastic!!!! You have to pay a buck a bag for garbage pick up (you leave the garbage out front of your house, someone comes and gets it and then throws it in the back of a pick up and you hand over your $1000 colones) So all day long people burn their trash to save the cash. There’s no recycling either. I’ve talked to some people who are working on alternatives, but so far there’s nothing.
Two pages of musings and I haven’t even scratched the surface.....
Always shake your laundry before you put it in the wash and then again before you bring it in from the line. You never know what kind of creatures might end up going for a spin in the washing machine, or--if they make it through that---what might end up in bed with you
Dust. There is so much of it. The roads aren’t paved so every time a car goes past, it kicks up a big billow of dust. The worst is if you’re on the quad and a car is ahead of you. The kids refuse to wear the ski goggles, even though most people here do. I worry about how much dust we’re inhaling too. The protection options aren’t pretty. Some people wear bandana’s AND goggles and helmets, an odd Raiders of the Lost Ark outlaw look. Others opt for the more stylish middle eastern look with beautiful scarves wrapped around their heads and faces. There’s the hospital mask as well, so familiar to the Toronto girl in me from our days as Sars Central. Riley has chosen opted for this.
The Dust II- Sounds like a bad muffin recipe I know, but they spread molasses on the roads to keep the dust down. (at least those who can afford it). It comes in big huge barrels that they roll onto the roads and then open up with something akin to a large can opener. Teams of people set to work raking it around. It is very sticky at first, but eventually just gets covered in dust again. It’s a somewhat futile process. The other option, which many little businesses do, is to hose down the dust with water. Which is even MORE futile and also reckless since there are huge water shortages in Santa Teresa, which is essentially the business district (!) of Mal Pais.
Molasses II- Who knew someone could be allergic to Molasses? i didn’t until our first night here when Paul started projectile vomiting on our walk to the beach. First though it was the insanely gut jarring 6 hour ride from San Jose. But the next morning when it happened again, and again and again we started to figure it out. It is a curse to have a molasses-sensitive puke button here. But, like all children, Paul is adaptable. By day three he knew to hold his nose whenever he saw dark patches on the road. try to visualise this for a moment: Paul, wearing ski goggles and a helmet, sitting on the front of the quad, one elbow up in the air, with fingers firmly gripped on his snout! Thank god he’s not allergic to dust. He’d have to turn into the boy in the bubble.
Houses here do not have closets. Anywhere. Kitchens have open shelves. so do bathrooms and bedrooms. Even though I don’t have nearly as many clothes as i used to, i still miss my walk in closet. There’s something so NAKED about having people come in your house and see all your food and clothes. Am I going snaky? (they don’t have closets, by the way, because everything moulds unless it is fully aired out)
Sand in the crack of your bum is hard to get out. Even harder to get out of someone ELSE'S bum.
Trying to buy bulk here defeats the purpose. It’s actually cheaper to buy two small jars of peanut butter than one big one. Speaking of peanut butter, a staple in our diet, it is extremely expensive here. 7 dollars US for a regular size jar. Please help me find a way to reconcile that cost with the fact that most people working here make, at most, 2 dollars an hour.
I now get dogs. I am in love with one. Eva named him lucky, but really WE are the lucky ones. He is white with blue eyes and big and strong and so funny and sweet. But it is an unrequited love because he has an owner. Every time I start to question whether he’s just using us for food, he does something to prove he loves us too. He is at our door every morning when we wake up (6 am). He gets some love (and food). He comes for a five mile run with me and stays with us most of the day and past dinner. Every night though, like a cheating husband, he skulks away home for bed. Today Riley, Eva, Paul and I went on the quad to a beach about 3 miles away. He ran beside us the entire way. What unbelievable beauty to see that dog run, his mouth foaming near the end from sheer exhaustion and thirst. Never too tired though to come to a skidding halt to mark some bush or bark at some dog. And then at the beach, the funniest sight. He went tearing into the water...right up to a huge wave...quickly turned his body around and then BODY SURFED right back to shore. Honest to god, it happened....we couldn’t believe it. And he protects me too. One one run together he ran a dog through barbed wire, getting himself all caught up in it as well and then fought like a wild animal for a good 10 minutes before continuing on. And he sings and throws his paws in the air like he’s dancing when you play the harmonica. He stinks and is covered ini ticks but we’re working on that.
Chickens are small here. So small that a crow was on the road and Paul said: Look mum, a chicken! So too are racoons and cats. And most of the dogs have normal sized bodies and very small legs. (except Lucky who is perfect) I think there must have been one very prolific small legged stud who had his way with a lot of female dogs.
Sometimes I feel a little bit like the mum from Little House on the Prairie. Doing my chores, goin’ into town, hangin’ up the laundry, baking bread (i actually tried to make bagels yesterday, but the yeast here is wonky. Eva brought her lunch home and said: “Mummy, honestly I TRIED to eat it but my teeth wouldn’t go in). Riley tried to be kind as well: “Strange mum, how one little bagel can fill you up so much”. Steve went to San Jose yesterday for supplies!!!! (images of Hoss and what’s his name saddling up the horses and takin’ the convoy into the big smoke to load up on supplies). We need books, bowls and stuff for the new house. He wont be back until tomorrow night or the next, so I’m out here in the wild frontier by myself.
Paul has started school (which means I have my mornings free to learn spanish, do yoga, surf. Haven’t used the time yet for any of that though, hanging out at the coffee shop instead making friends etc). The school is run by a beautiful young Israeli woman. It’s set up on the large outdoor veranda of her beach front house. There are four kids, Sol, Jonathan , Zoey and Paul. They are all Israeli and I think Paul may learn Hebrew before Spanish. He’s already starting to open books backwards! For those of you who have shared in my horror at Paul’s new anger management tactic with his siblings, you’ll be glad to know that the first thing he does when I pick him up is run over and whisper so proudly in my ear: “mummy, i DIDN’T say shut up you loser!!!) And, he’s toilet trained. All that outdoor shitting and peeing has finally paid off. He’s so proud to flush.
Speaking of pee and poo, and what conversation would be complete without a little scatological discussion: No one throws their toilet paper in the toilets. (so do you think they even call it TOILET paper? Maybe it’s just garbage paper or bum paper) The septic system can’t handle it but man it’s weird to go poo and put it i n the garbage. Try it and think of me.
And speaking of weird, so much for Costa Rica as an environmental haven. They burn everything here, including plastic!!!! You have to pay a buck a bag for garbage pick up (you leave the garbage out front of your house, someone comes and gets it and then throws it in the back of a pick up and you hand over your $1000 colones) So all day long people burn their trash to save the cash. There’s no recycling either. I’ve talked to some people who are working on alternatives, but so far there’s nothing.
Two pages of musings and I haven’t even scratched the surface.....
Monday, February 5, 2007
Changes
I feel as though I’ve moved away from a picture that was far too close to my face. Before, I only could see blurs and dots of that picture. And now, that I’m away, it’s clear and in focus.
So, here is the revelation about my life:
I was being drained by predictibiltiy. Every single part of my old life, was just that, old. I was happy, content and in absolutely no danger of doing anything that really challenged me. And here, almost every moment has an element of the unknown. Most days I feel exhilerated, terrified, nervous, alive (and hot).
I never know if, when I wake up in the morning, water will come out of the tap. And so I am thankful and appreciative of water in a way I never was before. I conserve.
I don’t know if the car we have, which came with the land we bought and is almost as old as Riley, will start, or if I’ll have to push it down a hill and jump start it (something I never knew how to do before.) And so, in the morning when the engine comes to life, I am thankful.
I don’t know how long the power will stay on. But without fail, my electric alarm clock will be flashing in the morning. The power has never, not once stayed on all night long. So I am thankful for my watch and wind up flashlight.
When I go to the grocery store, there is no guarantee that the produce will be fresh, or if it’ll even be there! And so, when the truck has just come in, filled with mangoes, pineapple, avocado and lettuce (a luxury), I am thankful.
This strange combination of the unknown and gratitude has triggered a burst of creativity in all of us. The sounds are all new and in our minds could come from anything. The creatures that scurry past us could be an iguana or a frog or crab or, a monkey, like the one that ran across the road when Paul and I were driving the quad back from the beach.
Yesterday Riley captured a scorpion and Paul played basketball with a coconut! Steve has learned that clearing land is much easier with a machete than a chainsaw, that one kind of tree, when cut, releases thousands of stinging insects that live inside it’s trunk, and that tarantulas are less scary up close.
I am amazed at how small everything is here from the tiny bags of oatmeal to the gum packages that have only 4 pieces. Walking down the aisles of our tiny grocery store, I am reminded of sometime BEFORE my time, when people did their grocery shopping everyday, as I must now do to keep the fridge stocked. And even then, it’s never overflowing with packaged crap that sat in my cupboards for months in Toronto.
Despite this surge of loving the unknown, there’s a part of my brain that obviously still needs routine and I find myself reverting to Toronto references to life here. The roaring ocean at night reminds me of the DVP.I search for features in the faces of people I meet, noticing similarities to people I love back in Toronto. Wondering who will be my Sam, my Emily, my Laurisa.
The challenges aren’t all thrilling either. Some are downright frustrating. It has taken us weeks to try and get internet set up at this house. There have been a handful of trips to bigger town of Cobano (about 20 mintures away) Each time we go they tell us a different story of which documents we need to bring. We still don’t have it.
Our home, which we thought we were moving into by the end of February, won’t be ready now until (they say) the end of March. It’s painful to even be up there watching the crews work. As lovely as they are...paint dries faster.
And I’ve spent hours and hours trying to get our on-line banking in order. Dozens of emails, constantly changing passwords and still I am unable to transfer money.
Our rental house is rustic. When we went out for dinner the other night, the kids were so excited to sit on wooden chairs (all we have are plastic lawn chairs that could never be elevated to even “patio-set” status).
Riley misses TV and is re-learning how to actually play.
Eva says her friends here don’t like her as much as her friends in Toronto.
And Paul woke up crying in the middle of the night calling for Marivic.
But, every night at dinner when we go around the table doing “the good, the bad and the ugly”, something i tried to do in Toronto to find out what was going on with them at school, , the kids now squabble over who gets to go first to talk about what happened to them during the day. We are all feeling...what? I don’t know, everything. We are all feeling everything and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
So, here is the revelation about my life:
I was being drained by predictibiltiy. Every single part of my old life, was just that, old. I was happy, content and in absolutely no danger of doing anything that really challenged me. And here, almost every moment has an element of the unknown. Most days I feel exhilerated, terrified, nervous, alive (and hot).
I never know if, when I wake up in the morning, water will come out of the tap. And so I am thankful and appreciative of water in a way I never was before. I conserve.
I don’t know if the car we have, which came with the land we bought and is almost as old as Riley, will start, or if I’ll have to push it down a hill and jump start it (something I never knew how to do before.) And so, in the morning when the engine comes to life, I am thankful.
I don’t know how long the power will stay on. But without fail, my electric alarm clock will be flashing in the morning. The power has never, not once stayed on all night long. So I am thankful for my watch and wind up flashlight.
When I go to the grocery store, there is no guarantee that the produce will be fresh, or if it’ll even be there! And so, when the truck has just come in, filled with mangoes, pineapple, avocado and lettuce (a luxury), I am thankful.
This strange combination of the unknown and gratitude has triggered a burst of creativity in all of us. The sounds are all new and in our minds could come from anything. The creatures that scurry past us could be an iguana or a frog or crab or, a monkey, like the one that ran across the road when Paul and I were driving the quad back from the beach.
Yesterday Riley captured a scorpion and Paul played basketball with a coconut! Steve has learned that clearing land is much easier with a machete than a chainsaw, that one kind of tree, when cut, releases thousands of stinging insects that live inside it’s trunk, and that tarantulas are less scary up close.
I am amazed at how small everything is here from the tiny bags of oatmeal to the gum packages that have only 4 pieces. Walking down the aisles of our tiny grocery store, I am reminded of sometime BEFORE my time, when people did their grocery shopping everyday, as I must now do to keep the fridge stocked. And even then, it’s never overflowing with packaged crap that sat in my cupboards for months in Toronto.
Despite this surge of loving the unknown, there’s a part of my brain that obviously still needs routine and I find myself reverting to Toronto references to life here. The roaring ocean at night reminds me of the DVP.I search for features in the faces of people I meet, noticing similarities to people I love back in Toronto. Wondering who will be my Sam, my Emily, my Laurisa.
The challenges aren’t all thrilling either. Some are downright frustrating. It has taken us weeks to try and get internet set up at this house. There have been a handful of trips to bigger town of Cobano (about 20 mintures away) Each time we go they tell us a different story of which documents we need to bring. We still don’t have it.
Our home, which we thought we were moving into by the end of February, won’t be ready now until (they say) the end of March. It’s painful to even be up there watching the crews work. As lovely as they are...paint dries faster.
And I’ve spent hours and hours trying to get our on-line banking in order. Dozens of emails, constantly changing passwords and still I am unable to transfer money.
Our rental house is rustic. When we went out for dinner the other night, the kids were so excited to sit on wooden chairs (all we have are plastic lawn chairs that could never be elevated to even “patio-set” status).
Riley misses TV and is re-learning how to actually play.
Eva says her friends here don’t like her as much as her friends in Toronto.
And Paul woke up crying in the middle of the night calling for Marivic.
But, every night at dinner when we go around the table doing “the good, the bad and the ugly”, something i tried to do in Toronto to find out what was going on with them at school, , the kids now squabble over who gets to go first to talk about what happened to them during the day. We are all feeling...what? I don’t know, everything. We are all feeling everything and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
January 21 2007
The most searing memory in the haze of grief around dad’s death isn’t the gutteral noises that came straight out of Tim’s heart, when I told him, finally just blurting it out after a strange volley of names back and forth Me not wanting to say, and him not wanting to hear. “Tim. Avery? Tim. Avery?? Tim. Avery?????!!”
It isn’t even hearing it from mum, while driving from Toronto--halfway to the hospital in Peterborough.
And strangely it’s not the feeling of dad’s hands at the hospital. Flesh but not.
What I remember most about that day is the view through my rear view mirror as I made the rest of the drive to the hospital. With eyes so filled with tears I felt under water, i looked back into a beautiful winter sunset. Behind me. Where I had come from. And where I was going? Ahead of me? And ahead FOR me? Just cold black sky. I’ve felt that way ever since. That the truely vibrant colours were back there, before the phone call from mum, before I knew I didn’t have a dad anymore. And ahead was just darkness.
Now, four years later the grief isn’t so raw. But my axis is still tilted . All happiness is tainted by the fact it can’t be shared with him.
And so I want to tell you how I spent the anniversary of his death.
I woke up early, to the sounds of the most amazing creatures. Some coming from insects with voices much bigger than their bodies. Others were birds with sounds that matched their beauty. It was about 5:30 and everyone else was still sleeping. I snuck out, put on my running shoes and ran down to the beach. The sun wasn’t up yet, there was a warm soft breeze and I started running along the water. The sounds of the crashing waves and the rousing howler monkey’s kept me going even though I wasn’t really falling into any sort of a rythmn. it felt labourious and silly to be out so early. At the half way point, I turned around and started running back. And I ran right nto the most beautiful sunrise i’ve ever seen. I ran as it crawledl out of the ocean, surging up from the sea, shooting out a rainbow of colours that washed everything with pinks and reds and oranges and yellows.
I hate the word closure. It’s used by people who only have time for neat endings. (As though any tragedy could possibly be closed, like a door or a gate. Compartmentalized trauma . Grief in a box)
But I did feel a shift in that moment--basking in the rising sun. Seeing,vibrancy and life and possibility . And from the cliff of our land, when we sit and watch the sun go down back into the ocean, I am mesmorized not by grief but beauty. I feel like now, finally, I have rewritten the sorrow of sunsets and sunrises.
It isn’t even hearing it from mum, while driving from Toronto--halfway to the hospital in Peterborough.
And strangely it’s not the feeling of dad’s hands at the hospital. Flesh but not.
What I remember most about that day is the view through my rear view mirror as I made the rest of the drive to the hospital. With eyes so filled with tears I felt under water, i looked back into a beautiful winter sunset. Behind me. Where I had come from. And where I was going? Ahead of me? And ahead FOR me? Just cold black sky. I’ve felt that way ever since. That the truely vibrant colours were back there, before the phone call from mum, before I knew I didn’t have a dad anymore. And ahead was just darkness.
Now, four years later the grief isn’t so raw. But my axis is still tilted . All happiness is tainted by the fact it can’t be shared with him.
And so I want to tell you how I spent the anniversary of his death.
I woke up early, to the sounds of the most amazing creatures. Some coming from insects with voices much bigger than their bodies. Others were birds with sounds that matched their beauty. It was about 5:30 and everyone else was still sleeping. I snuck out, put on my running shoes and ran down to the beach. The sun wasn’t up yet, there was a warm soft breeze and I started running along the water. The sounds of the crashing waves and the rousing howler monkey’s kept me going even though I wasn’t really falling into any sort of a rythmn. it felt labourious and silly to be out so early. At the half way point, I turned around and started running back. And I ran right nto the most beautiful sunrise i’ve ever seen. I ran as it crawledl out of the ocean, surging up from the sea, shooting out a rainbow of colours that washed everything with pinks and reds and oranges and yellows.
I hate the word closure. It’s used by people who only have time for neat endings. (As though any tragedy could possibly be closed, like a door or a gate. Compartmentalized trauma . Grief in a box)
But I did feel a shift in that moment--basking in the rising sun. Seeing,vibrancy and life and possibility . And from the cliff of our land, when we sit and watch the sun go down back into the ocean, I am mesmorized not by grief but beauty. I feel like now, finally, I have rewritten the sorrow of sunsets and sunrises.
We're here! January 2007
My sister says the last 10 minutes of the party is always the best. Just as you’re saying goodbye you make real connections and wonder why you’re leaving. This past month in Toronto has been the last 10 minutes of my party. We were out every night, catching up with people we wanted to see before we left, doing what seemed so difficult to squeeze in when we were all consumed with the minutia of day to day living. And I am amazed at the number of people who care about us. Why is it so much easier to open our emotions on departures?
Saying goodbye was torture. I can’t wrap my head around why I was so emotional. This was our CHOICE. Unlike the thousands, the millions of people who have to flee their homeland, often without their families, we were embarking on a once in a lifetime adventure. And yet, I realize, I suck at saying goodbye. There were tears with the caregiver who works next door, who feared Eva, the girl she has known from birth, would never see her again. Tears with my Yoga friends, our neighbours and of course my closest friends.Saying goodbye to my mom and brother at the airport was the hardest. The drama of that goodbye was softened though, by the panic of actually making it on to the plane. My mum and Tim came to the house at 5:45 in the morning and we packed up the car. They followed us in the limo and suprisingly there were no tears closing the door of our house behind us for the last time. I honestly believe my tear ducts have dried up!
Thank god they insisted on seeing us off. When we got to the airport there was already a huge line. And, by the time we snaked up to the front and started plunking our suitcases on the scale we knew we were in trouble.
We had 10 huge dufffle bags, loaded with sheets and towels and cutlery. Espresso machine, frying pans, plates. Books, toys and of course clothes. Maximum weight allowed per bag? 50 pounds. Most of ours were double that. With time ticking Riley andI ran to the nearby luggage store and bought extra. What a sight we were...unpacking and repacking. Shfiting weight around...putting it on the scale, taking it off and trying again. All the while, the bored passengers stuck in line were engrossed in the commotion and secretly praying that we weren’t on their flight. And if we were, that we weren’t seated anywhere near them.
After forking over hundreds of dollars for extra bags were were happy to see them rumble away on the conveyer belt. I secretly wished a couple of them would get lost enroute so we wouldn’t have to deal with the same mayhem in San Jose. (but NOt the one with my espresso machine, of course!)
We caught up with my mum, who had taken the kids to the airport coffee shop to keep them occupied while we dealt with the luggage fiasco. . And our plan for a quick breakfast together fell through when we realized that our plane was leaving from a satellite terminal. They walked us to the security gate and my heart felt so heavy saying goodbye. Turning around and saying goodbye is NOT a good thing either, especially if you’re bad at saying it just once. Another round of tears. And then panic. We had to wait a good 15 mintues for the bus. It took another 15 minutes to get to the terminal and just as we got there, they started boarding the plane. At least we didn’t have to deal with airport boredom.
The flight was uneventful. The arrival was a carbon copy of the departure. I was in charge of the kids. Steve loaded our bags onto two carts and poor Riley had to navigate one of them. In the crush between immigration and the outside we lost track of Riley. I raced back into the airport and couldn’t see him--but did see the cart barelling towards me...the suitcases so high the poor kid couldn’t even see where he was going.
Stepping out into the San Jose heat and hustle and bustle, the kids knew instantly that they were in for a new life. Hundreds of people are crammed around outside, yelling for taxis, picking up family, or tourists looking for their shuttle buses. We hailed a van, loaded our stuff in and plopped into the seats. Despite exhaustion, the kids were wide-eyed, checking out the pick up truck loaded with stoic horses who managed to stay dignified while being bumped and jostled on the Costa Rican roads. Paulie revelled in the fact that he didn’t have a car seat OR a seatbelt.
Our hotel was perfect. Beautiful COLD swimming pool, a bar that sold great burgers and fries and wireless internet in the Denny’s (!) next door!
Riley’s first night was tough. He watched a DVD that his best friend Carolyn made for him. I haven’t had the heart to watch it yet, but it reduced Riley to tears. And that first night he let out a years worth of anxiety and fear that he had been storing inside. We went for a walk, just the two of us and figured out some ways to make the initial transition easier. (Pretending that we’re on a long vacation, remembering that she’s coming in two months to visit, splashing cold water on your face). I thought it would be easiest for Riley because he is so independent. And while it was painful to see him so sad I ‘m glad that we worked through it together. I’m sure there will be more moments like this along the way, but at least now we know we can make eachother feel better.
The next morning we packed up and endured the 6 hour drive/ferry ride, pulling into our new home in Mal Pais in late afternoon. We did a quick unpacking of the essentials and then walked to the beach where we swam, collected stones and watched the sun set over the ocean, then later, lying on the ground, we looked up at the “diamonds in the sky”, amazed at the beauty of it all.
Saying goodbye was torture. I can’t wrap my head around why I was so emotional. This was our CHOICE. Unlike the thousands, the millions of people who have to flee their homeland, often without their families, we were embarking on a once in a lifetime adventure. And yet, I realize, I suck at saying goodbye. There were tears with the caregiver who works next door, who feared Eva, the girl she has known from birth, would never see her again. Tears with my Yoga friends, our neighbours and of course my closest friends.Saying goodbye to my mom and brother at the airport was the hardest. The drama of that goodbye was softened though, by the panic of actually making it on to the plane. My mum and Tim came to the house at 5:45 in the morning and we packed up the car. They followed us in the limo and suprisingly there were no tears closing the door of our house behind us for the last time. I honestly believe my tear ducts have dried up!
Thank god they insisted on seeing us off. When we got to the airport there was already a huge line. And, by the time we snaked up to the front and started plunking our suitcases on the scale we knew we were in trouble.
We had 10 huge dufffle bags, loaded with sheets and towels and cutlery. Espresso machine, frying pans, plates. Books, toys and of course clothes. Maximum weight allowed per bag? 50 pounds. Most of ours were double that. With time ticking Riley andI ran to the nearby luggage store and bought extra. What a sight we were...unpacking and repacking. Shfiting weight around...putting it on the scale, taking it off and trying again. All the while, the bored passengers stuck in line were engrossed in the commotion and secretly praying that we weren’t on their flight. And if we were, that we weren’t seated anywhere near them.
After forking over hundreds of dollars for extra bags were were happy to see them rumble away on the conveyer belt. I secretly wished a couple of them would get lost enroute so we wouldn’t have to deal with the same mayhem in San Jose. (but NOt the one with my espresso machine, of course!)
We caught up with my mum, who had taken the kids to the airport coffee shop to keep them occupied while we dealt with the luggage fiasco. . And our plan for a quick breakfast together fell through when we realized that our plane was leaving from a satellite terminal. They walked us to the security gate and my heart felt so heavy saying goodbye. Turning around and saying goodbye is NOT a good thing either, especially if you’re bad at saying it just once. Another round of tears. And then panic. We had to wait a good 15 mintues for the bus. It took another 15 minutes to get to the terminal and just as we got there, they started boarding the plane. At least we didn’t have to deal with airport boredom.
The flight was uneventful. The arrival was a carbon copy of the departure. I was in charge of the kids. Steve loaded our bags onto two carts and poor Riley had to navigate one of them. In the crush between immigration and the outside we lost track of Riley. I raced back into the airport and couldn’t see him--but did see the cart barelling towards me...the suitcases so high the poor kid couldn’t even see where he was going.
Stepping out into the San Jose heat and hustle and bustle, the kids knew instantly that they were in for a new life. Hundreds of people are crammed around outside, yelling for taxis, picking up family, or tourists looking for their shuttle buses. We hailed a van, loaded our stuff in and plopped into the seats. Despite exhaustion, the kids were wide-eyed, checking out the pick up truck loaded with stoic horses who managed to stay dignified while being bumped and jostled on the Costa Rican roads. Paulie revelled in the fact that he didn’t have a car seat OR a seatbelt.
Our hotel was perfect. Beautiful COLD swimming pool, a bar that sold great burgers and fries and wireless internet in the Denny’s (!) next door!
Riley’s first night was tough. He watched a DVD that his best friend Carolyn made for him. I haven’t had the heart to watch it yet, but it reduced Riley to tears. And that first night he let out a years worth of anxiety and fear that he had been storing inside. We went for a walk, just the two of us and figured out some ways to make the initial transition easier. (Pretending that we’re on a long vacation, remembering that she’s coming in two months to visit, splashing cold water on your face). I thought it would be easiest for Riley because he is so independent. And while it was painful to see him so sad I ‘m glad that we worked through it together. I’m sure there will be more moments like this along the way, but at least now we know we can make eachother feel better.
The next morning we packed up and endured the 6 hour drive/ferry ride, pulling into our new home in Mal Pais in late afternoon. We did a quick unpacking of the essentials and then walked to the beach where we swam, collected stones and watched the sun set over the ocean, then later, lying on the ground, we looked up at the “diamonds in the sky”, amazed at the beauty of it all.
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