Peace be with you. And also with you.

Well, my work week started with quite a scare.  On Sunday afternoon I went to the bus terminal in San Jose and got my ticket to Puerto Viejo.  From there I take the rickety bus into El Jardin - a 30 minute drive made 2 hours by the resistance of the gravel and detours down side roads that I don't even think Louis and Clark could navigate.  It was only a week or two ago that I almost missed my stop because of the power outage, so I the last couple bus rides I had paid extra attention as not to get stranded in the middle of a banana plantation.  About an hour and a half down the road, the bus comes to a screeching halt.  The bus driver, an extra-large man with dark skin and glasses, turns his head back and yells "I need water!  Somebody get me some water!  Hurry!"  Everyone kind of looks around at each other - a little bewildered at the outburst and unsure if he meant THEIR water.  When his cries didn't stir any commotion, he yelled again "Come on, peopl!  HELP ME!  I NEED WATER!!"  At this point, people startled scrambling around their seats, grasping for bags, hands searching inside purses and backpacks until finally half-empty water bottles are being transferred up to the front of the bus in an assembly line formation by all the passengers standing in the aisle who had got on the bus too late to get a seat.  People began sitting up in their seats, trying to peer over their neighbor's shoulder to figure out what's going on.  Now, I know nothing about cars or engines or buses or mechanical logic of any kind mostly because of my refusal to give time to something I find so unbearably boring, but I initially thought that maybe the bus was overheating or some fluid level was low and the bus driver needed water to cool it down or... something.  But after people had time to sufficiently eavesdrop conversations with the driver at the front of the bus, the news came trickling back through the seats like a rain drop playing connect the dots with the others while it sporadically slides down the window pane.  I looked expectantly at the man riding beside me after he had stuck his head over the seat in front of us to get the low-down and he, undoubtedly considering my blue eyes, pale skin and freckles as a irreversible language barrier, finally told me that the driver had had an "attack."  An attack?  "What kind of attack?" I asked.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "An attack," he said.  There were three women at the front of the bus with pieces of paper and cardboard fanning the bus driver as he lay spread out in his seat with his head thrown back.  There was a steady stream of murmurs as we waited to see what would happen next.  After a while, it seemed the bus driver was able to explain that he had low blood sugar and that was the cause of it.  One of the ladies called out for anyone with candy so I sent up the three suckers I had in my bag left over from San Martin lessons as well as my bottled water.  The driver kept saying that he felt like he was dying.  People began taking out their phones to try an call an ambulance.  Since we were already 1 1/2 hours into the ride, getting signal was pretty difficult.  Some got off the bus to walk while others stuck their cell phones out the window looking for any bars.  Someone finally got in touch with an emergency operator and it was on its way.  While we waited, the bus driver called into the bus terminal in Puerto Viejo and explained what had happened.  He said he couldn't go any further, he couldn't drive the bus, and he thought he was going to die.  He told them they needed to send another driver to take us the rest of the way as we were 30-40 minutes (and 12 side roads, twists, and turns) away from San Julian, the end of the route.  Now, around this time, when people began to realize that we were to wait in the middle of the road for another driver to come, many passengers got off the bus and decided to walk to their home.  Some 10 minutes away, others 2 hours away.  I'm not sure if this decision had to do with impatience or distrust in the actual execution of sending another driver in a timely manner... or at all.  Now, this is the part of the story where I got a little nervous.  My stop was about a 3 hour walk away (I think); however, I was pretty unsure of anything more than the general direction of El Jardin.  So, as half the passengers began to file off the bus to walk home, I just sat there, wondering if the banana plantation we were parked next to had any deadly pesticides that would negatively impact the night's rest I would get under a banana tree.  The bus driver had caught his breath enough to begin apologizing for the inconvenience, assuring us that another driver was coming, and apologizing some more.  It didn't take much for the rest of the passengers on the bus to assure him that he had nothing to worry about, that he needed to focus on his health, that everything would be okay.  They told him to not think anything of it and that it was no problem - these people, stuck three hours from their homes.  I was moved by their concern for the driver and the ease with which they took this inconvenient turn of events.  And that's how they handled it, as an inconvenience.  They were not mad at the driver, upset at their late arrival, or even anxious for the arrival of the next driver.  Now, since I've been here, I have constantly had to try and shed my American concern for punctuality.  It was in this moment, as I watched the passengers standing at the windows of the bus being rhythmically outlined by the flashing lights of the ambulance, that I saw for the first time one of the blessings of this cultural disregard for time.  It allowed the people on this bus to prioritize, without question or hesitation, the health of the bus driver as the number one concern and encouraged them to look at this situation as a one that was simply uncontrollable and, therefore, not worth worrying about.  They refuse to worry about that which is uncontrollable.  After the driver was taken away by the ambulance, the rest of the passengers and I were left sitting on the lifeless bus, in the middle of the road, as the sun was setting behind the oversized banana leafs.  Then I began to laugh, because, really, what else do you do in a situation like that but cast your concerns up to the sky to someone MUCH smarter than you and live in that moment with Him and those around you.  Thirty minutes later, another driver came and took us 15 minutes down the road where we waited there for another 30 minutes for a different driver to take us to El Jardin.  I arrived to Hazel's house that night a couple hours late but was glad to see their faces.

All went well in El Jardin the next day on Monday.  The class I really struggled with last time, first grade, behaved much better this round.  I implemented a lot more activities with individual work to avoid arguments between classmates and encourage personal accomplishment versus class competition.  A few days ago, I also talked with a German volunteer stationed in Puerto Viejo.  She will be teaching English classes on Saturday in El Jardin at the church.  When she first told me, I thought having two volunteers in the same community might be a bit of an overkill, but after thinking about it, I didn't think too much education could ever be an overkill.  We spent a few hours talking and I explained to her what I thought was best to teach, etc.  It is kind of exciting that the children in El Jardin now have a triple threat of English education:  the teacher there Weds-Fri, me on Mondays, and the German volunteer on Saturdays.  Since we are all collaborating I really feel like this community might thrive.

Monday was Marilyns' birthday.  I spent the day at school yelling "Happy Birthday" to her across the front lawn strictly for embarassment purposes only.  I made her a card and gave it to her mid-day.  She's turning 11.  That night they had a special dinner for her with chicken soup, rice (of course), and beans (only natural).  She invited a couple girls over from school and their ate as well.  I noticed that here, at least in the poor community of El Jardin, presents were not really a big concern.  Hazel mentioned getting her something at some point, but it was not necessary to get Marilyn anything, nor did she seem upset that he present was dinner.  I don't know if this is more of a money issue or a cultural difference.  However, we spent the evening sitting in chairs and spread out on the floor eating her birthday dinner and talking.

On Tuesday afternoon I began my walk to San Julian.  I asked to borrow Hazel's mom's umbrella because the sun was fiercely radiant that day and I didn't want my skin any redder than it was from the heat.  It wasn't 20 minutes down the road that a truck pulled up and offered me a ride.  I have been walking to and from San Julian for about a month now and there has not been one afternoon that I haven't been offered a ride.  Once in a semi-truck, another on a tractor, once with the principal from San Julian, once with two men contracted to gather rice from fields, etc.  It reminds me of the Southern hospitality of North Carolina, but more like in the early 1900's when horror stories and scary movies didn't give hitch-hiking such a bad name.  This last time I got a ride from three men who go around the countryside collecting scrap metal and other recyclable materials to sell in San Jose.  They weigh the pieces, pay the families, and then sell them for more in the city.  Though I guess it is technically hitch-hiking, the routine has become so familiar and expected now that hitch-hiking has too negative of a connotation to describe how much I enjoy getting to know all these people.  Not to mention, they all drive so slow down these gravel roads infested with potholes and large rocks that I feel confident that if anything were to happen I could easily open to the door and step out of the car.

All is going well at San Julian.  I teach afternoon classes to the seniors and help them with reading comprehension for their English final exams in November.  I usually have the students practice with three articles and answer questions.  Though the work is routine and exhausting, I am trying to have them practice the reading comprehension strategies so frequently that when their exam comes they automatically are able to decipher the article and pull out the answers.  I want them to look at that exam in November and think "This is it? I've worked longer and harder questions for the last two months."  Two girls came up to me after class on Tuesday and told me that they felt much more confident about their exam in November.  They said the strategies we had been working on made reading comprehension so much easier that it kind of seemed silly how they used to go about it before.  This affirmation made me feel really good, like I was doing at least one thing right here if nothing else.

On Tuesday at 5 I planned to go to the Catholic service down the road with Hazel and her boyfriend.  A few kids from El Jardin who had seen me there the last time asked if I was going this week.  When I said yes one boy said that if I was going, he would go.  When I was about to leave, Jahayda asked if she could come with me.  I told her yes but to hurry as she was in her pajamas already.  She ran back to get changed and we left when Hazel and her fiance came to look for us at the church.  We all walked together down the road.  Before the service started, Carlos, Hazel's fiance, Jahayda, and I walked around the front yard of the church and picked flowers to fill the vases with.  When we came back in we took our seats in the second pew.  Juan Luis, a boy from school came and wiggled himself into a seat between Carlos and me.  The best part of the service was when we shared the peace.  There were many students from El Jardin there.  I hugged and kissed both Jahayda and Juan Luis.  I did the same with Carlos and Hazel.  And when I looked up, there was a line of kids in the aisle ready to share the peace with me.  The boys flushed with embarassment at a hug and the girls anxious to kiss my cheek.  There were probably 15 of them.  It's funny how at school some of them act up; they scream in my class when I ask them not to, they interrupt while I'm talking, or they take 5 minutes to get their English notebooks out because they don't feel like writing.  I get frustrated with them and I get upset that they don't listen.  I get angry when they disobey me.  But as we share the peace, I forget all of it.  I can't remember one misdeed they've done and I have trouble remembering why I was frustrated with them yesterday.  They are perfect in my eyes all over again.  They are beautiful and their eyes are so shiny and hopeful for affection.  Their smiles are heartbreakingly precious and I am in awe of how full I feel when I hold them in my arms.  All I want to do is love them.  I want them to know how much I care for them.  And I want to tell them that nothing could change how I feel.

I think that is what sharing the peace is supposed to be about.  Everything washed clean.  Every transgression between you and that person before is gone, because, if you mean it, you are sharing God's peace with them and God's peace leaves no room for grudges or stubborness.  If we are to live in peace with God, we must live in peace with each other.  This is the chance to put action to our words, because though we pray for peace in foreign countries plagued by war and we pray for peace in cities rampant with violence, if we cannot put action to peace in our own lives, we are then too at fault for perpetuating hate in this world.  When you kiss someone's cheek or shake someone's hand and share peace with them, you are throwing up your white flag and laying any resentment or discordance between you two to rest.  This is your chance, as well as theirs, to start over.  To take peace literally and forgive.  To be forgiven.  To do it all over again better.  Kinder.  Wiser.  With more understanding.  With a softer heart.  And after you have shared that peace, after you have allowed your heart to be transformed by that peace, you begin to get a hint of what God must feel for us.  Forgiveness without justification.  Love so blinding it's hard to focus attention on anything other than how beautiful and loved this person is before your eyes.  I imagine that's how God feels.  Watching us down here on earth, aching all over with the desire to hold us.  To love us.  Like this great abyss of love that anyone could get swallowed up into if they would just come close enough.  But I am not God and it isn't two hours later that Hector, Jahayda's brother, has ripped one of my playing cards for fun and I want to snatch it out of his hands and not let him play anymore.  Or Jahayda has asked me 8 more questions after we've already said goodnight and I want to tape her mouth shut.  I'm not going to romanticize that moment in the church out of context of the rest of my life because I am human.  I won't pretend that it's easy to look at others in God's eyes or that it's easy to forgive.  It's not.  But isn't it those moments when we do, however short, when we are able to see life through God's eyes, that we live for?  That make everything else worth it?  That make everything a little easier to swallow?  That make getting stranded on a bus in the middle of a banana plantation funny?  That make you recognize that a child asks you questions because they love you and not because they want to get on your nerves?  That make you a little bit better the next time around?

After being here a little over a month, and having so many experiences such as this that make me think about God and talk about the generosity of people or describe the beauty instead of functionality of a garden, I began to think that maybe being here has made me romanticize or exaggerate my experiences.  But now, I don't think it's about making something sound better than it really was or exaggerating or romanticizing people or interactions.  I think it's about being willing to see life through God's perspective.  Letting "the Light of God's presence so fully fill your mind that you view the world through Him" (Sarah Young).  And if that allows me to look at one of my students as I did that night, with nothing but love, then let His Light shine on and in all of us.

That night Jahayda and I walked back to the church alone because Hazel and Carlos stayed to talk to the priest.  We ended the church service with a song called "Demos gracias al Senor" - "Let's give thanks to God."  Jahayda jumped on my back and I put her on my shoulders.  We continued down the lamplit gravel clapping our hands and singing the tagline of the song over and over - let's give thanks to God, let's give thanks, let's give thanks to God *clap clap clap*.  I'm sure that I will remember that moment until I can remember nothing else.

On Wednesday morning I went back to San Jose, worked in the office for a bit that day, and then joined a dance lesson after work.  A man named Roy who's about 50 or 60 was teaching some of the women in the office some steps.  The class turned out to be Roy and 6 other women, including myself.  I don't think he minded the disproportionate ratio.  I first learned the basic salsa steps, then the merengue.  At the end Roy taught me the Costa Rican cumbia.  I learned the cumbia in Chile but Roy assured me that this was much different.  He was so, so right.  The Costa Rican cumbia is composed mostly of jumping up and down as you make your steps.  It is so fun.  Here's people who can do it much better than me: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzUhc-Ua8ns (and I promise I wore more clothes than her)

It turned out these dance moves came in handy because on Friday night Jeff (a Costa Rican friend we have here), Martin (german volunteer), Nadine (Other german volunteer), and I went out dancing.  This bar had a huge dance floor about half the size of a gymnasium and only played dancing music.  No reggateon or rap allowed seemed to be the motto.  There were a bunch of people there, all to dance.  The couples were made of all shapes and sizes and we spent the first 30 minutes just watching the people move across the floor.  We finally got up the courage to dance and had a blast.  I don't know how we managed to move though, because earlier that evening Jeff brought over some spaghetti that his mom made us.  I made homemade chocolate chip cookies and the Germans made a salad.  We had a feast.  Then to our surprise Jeff also brought a dessert called choco-bananos which are frozen bananas dipped in chocolate.  Delicious is inadequate to describe the creaminess of a frozen banana as it melts in your mouth or the pleasure it brings as the chocolate mixes with the combination.  We sat there at the table after eating it all and doubted our ability to get to the bus.  However, we made it to the dance club and worked off at least the cookies as we danced all night.

On Saturday morning I had an information session for the San Sebastian community interested in English classes.  I put up posters on the door, made announcements to the administration in the church, spoke with the congregation of San Sebastian, and all that week.  Based on the low participation numbers in San Martin, I got ready for the morning with little hope of more than 10 people.  I had made little information sheets for those interested to fill out with the names, contact information, age, etc.  I was contemplating what community I would go to next if nobody came, etc.  Around 10, one of the men from the San Sebastian congregation showed up.  He had said he was interested in classes when I announced it last Sunday.  He told me he had made signs himself and put them up in every convenient store in the community.  I thanked him and hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed when noone responded.  After that my neighbors came over with their son and filled out piece of paper for him as well as his father.  They stuck around and chatted with me while we waited.  Before I knew it, the mother was on the phone calling friend after friend to tell her what was going on.  She told me a family with four children was coming in a little bit.  Then Leo, my neighbor came over and wished me luck.  I told him thank you and it wasn't 20 minutes later that I saw him bang on 6 doors on the other side of my street and tell them to go over and sign up for English classes.  He winked at me and went back to work.  Before the clock turned 11am, I had accumulated just under 40 slips of paper of people who were interested in the classes ages ranging from 5 to 57.  Holy blessing.  It had everything to do with the support of the community members and church members who had come to support me and put up posters without me even asking.  Oh, and something about God having a plan for us and this community and everything... haha.  Obviously.

So now, I have 40 people, 40 numbers to call, and 40,000 decisions to make about classes and how to divide them, what to teach, teachers to talk to, lesson plans to organize.  There is an obvious desire for English education in this area and please pray that I can provide that.

Well, it's Sunday morning, the church service in our living room/sanctuary is over and I am about to head off to El Jardin to do it all over again. But, you know, without any possibility of routine or monotony because unpredictable seems to be the only predictable thing in this country.

Every Who down in Who-ville, the tall and the small, was singing!

Wednesday, Sep. 14th and Thursday, Sep. 15th, Costa Rica celebrated the independence of their country from Spanish rule.  As I told you before, the schools spend two weeks doing "civic activities" during mid-day in which they sing patriotic songs, learn about their culture, say the pledge of allegiance to their flag, etc.  Many students, especially the older ones, are involuntarily elected to read a snippet about traditional Costa Rican dances or food.  The unwilling students are shoved to the front by their teacher or the rest of the students in their class and read as quickly and incomprehensibly as possible so they can return to the masses of the unidentified.  Most schools also have bands and baton twirlers who prepare to play the national anthem and other patriotic songs during the festivities.  They practice months in advance.  In San Sebastian, where I live in San Jose, bands practiced in parking lots, soccer fields, parks, and any free space available.  Every afternoon there was a steady drumbeat heard through the streets and the tinkling of xylophones.  Their dedication was impressive and compensated for the often times idiosyncratic rhythmic patterns I don't they intended.

On Wednesday night at 6pm, everyone in the entire country sings the national anthem in their home, at their school, or wherever they are.  The country is at a sort of stand still.  Buses stop, cars break, cashiers wait.  For those three minutes or so, the one and only focus of an entire people is their country.  After that, children and families gather at school with homemade lanterns.  They then take to the streets with these candlelit lanterns called "faroles."  Typically, the faroles are made out of cardboard or paper.  They can be made in shapes of typical Costa Rican houses, boats, flowers, etc.  One student at El Jardin made his farol into a giant airplane.  It was spectacular and huge.  When I told him how awesome it was, he looked at me curiously and asked "Do you have these in the United States?"  I said "Airplanes or faroles?"  "Airplanes."  "Yes," I answered.  Hahah.  He wasn't quite old enough to subscribe to the stereotype that all Americans are rich and want for nothing.  After all have gathered, the children and their families walk through the streets with their lanterns lit.

Now, to understand why they do this, you have to know a little history about Costa Rica's independence.  Here's an excerpt from a book I picked up here:  "On September 14th, 1821, news arrived in Guatemala City that a Spanish colony known as Chiapas, (part of today's Mexico City), had declared its independence from Spain.  Knowing this, a meeting was set in Guatemala to discuss the possibilities of becoming indpendent or remaining part of Spain.  The meeting was held on September 15th, 1821.  Many people attended the meeting and most voted in favor of becoming independent.  The news went south, from province to province.  When it arrived in Nicaragua, another document was written there.  News arrived in Costa Rica on October 13th, 1821."  So, Costa Rica celebrates its independence day as independence from Spain, not the day it became a sovereign state, which was in 1838.  Instead, Costa Rica celebrates when all of Central America decided to become independent of Spain after their defeat in the Mexican War of Independence.  Costa Rica and the rest of the central American countries never actually fought against Spain for their freedom.

So, on September 14th, the day before their Independence Day, Costa Ricans carry around faroles, or little paper laterns, to represent the messenger who carried the news on horseback from Guatemala to Costa Rica, lighting his way with a lantern.  Officially, a torch is ran by Costa Ricans from the north to downtown San Jose to represent the messenger as well.  It's kind of like the Olympic torch and is televised all over the country.

On Tuesday night, before I left El Jardin, I asked to take pictures of the students' faroles.  Some of them were really beautiful.

 

Typical Costa Rican house.  The roof opens up and you put a candle inside.  Then the windows light up.  Many faroles are made in the shape of houses.

 

I'm not sure exactly how Alejandro was going to pull this off or what he was specifically going for, but it looked like he tried hard enough.  He's one of my hardest workers in 3rd grade.

 

This high roller built her farol into a 2 story house, which I can assure you is not a traditional home in Costa Rica, much less El Jardin.

Many of the students on Monday and Tuesday asked me if I was going to be at the lantern parade on Wednesday night; however, I go back to San Jose on Wednesday morning so I told them I wasn't.  This was a source of great disappointment but I had to get back for tutoring on Friday and spend time preparing for that coming week's classes.

So, on Wednesday night when I was back in San Jose, after I had finished some work at the ILCO office, I went to a local school about two streets up from my house in San Sebastian to listen to the national anthem and see the lantern parade.  The entire school faculty, students, and their parents were gathered around a large torch outside the school.  They all had their faroles ready and lit for the walk.  They sang a couple patriotic songs and then, at 6, they sang the national anthem.  It was beautiful.  It kind of reminded me of Christmas at our church in Grace Lutheran when we used to light candles during the Christmas services and sing carols (before the fire marshal or whatever Grinch Who Stole Christmas made us stop).  It felt like I was standing in a Dr. Seuss book watching all the Whos down in Whoville singing at the top of their lungs not to keep the spirit of Christmas alive, but to honor the country they love and the place they feel blessed to live.  What I really enjoy about this holiday in Costa Rica is the unity of it all.  The fact that at 6pm, most Costa Ricans are singing the national anthem.  That all students are hitting the streets with lanterns they have spent weeks building.  With bands leading the way who have spent months practicing (despite certain rhythmic inadequacies some younger students are plagued with).  It's a romantic idea - to think of a country as a united people all with one common goal of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but if we didn't have romantic notions, we'd be left with reality and no dreams.  So, I closed my eyes and took it all in.  Viva Costa Rica! (Long live Costa Rica!)

 

Everyone at the school gathered around the torch singing.

 

Farol made to look like a flower.

 

Intricate boat farol complete with pirates (very typical of Costa Rica.... or not, hah)

 

The lantern parade begins and the crowd fills the street.

 

Some wear typical dresses and costumes of the 1800s.

 

Farol with Costa Rican man.

 

Drumline.

 

Probably the coolest part of the lantern parade is that when the people process through the streets, there is no yellow tape marking off "parade-friendly areas," no orange road construction barrels to warn cars of  upcoming festivities, or police directing traffic keeping the people in and the cars out.  Now, some could see this as a lack of organization or a failure to take precautionary measures; however, I like to think of it as a message to everyone uninvolved in the festivities:  "Tonight is not your night."  When the people fill the streets with children and lanterns and musical instruments, they walk where they want, when they want, and how they want.  Many times cars were driving down the street and had to turn around.  It is not a question of who has rights to the street on this night.  It is all about the celebration of Costa Rica and if you're not taking part, then you will have to wait.  This facet of the revelry is extra special considering the typical mentality of the city:  pedestrians do not have the right of way under any circumstances.  One of the first pieces of advice Stephen Deal gave me when I got here was "if a car is coming, please, please, please do not assume it will stop for you, because it probably won't."  Here, many people begin running across the street well before the pedestrian light has turned to red to avoid being anywhere close to a car as a light turns green.  There is a mutual understanding of the hierarchy on the streets and people are at the bottom, right above small rodents and unidentified objects.  So, on a night such as this, pedestrians take back the street with cause.

I enjoyed the festivities on Wednesday night, but realized in that moment, singing around the torch, that I should have stayed in El Jardin.  I spent hours Tuesday night and Wednesday morning contemplating whether to stay or go and changing my decisions over and over.  I kept thinking that since there are only 2 buses in and out of the city, I wouldn't get back to San Jose until late Thursday night and I'd only have one day in the office to plan lessons for the next week.  I'd be rushed and crunched for time.  Then I'd see my students faces and reconsider.  But, when the 5am bus came roaring up the gravel road, I made a split second decision to get on the bus.  I am so used to having my own car and the freedom to go where I want and when I want that sometimes the bus at 5am and 1pm seem like the last boat to the New World.  Relying on public transportation in itself is a big enough change from my life in the States, but only having two times a day in which I can take advantage of it originally created in me a sort of claustrophobia that is hard to describe.   However, the more time I spend in that community, the less confined I feel, and the more called.  The less I worry about catching the bus, the more I enjoy everyone's company, and, in all honesty, the more I recognize the gift of sharing company in an isolated countryside.  But I hadn't appreciated it enough yet, so in that moment, I decided to leave.  And now I know that I had to make the mistake once, I had to miss something fantastic there just once to know that I will never do it again.  That seeing my kids' faces lit up by lanterns and their cheeks turn bright red as they sing the national anthem with such gusto that they forget to breathe, is much more important than the so-called "freedom" I feel in San Jose.  The more time I spend there, the more privileged I feel, and the less the bus schedule matters.

Now, we could chalk this one up as a regret; however, forcing myself into the middle of a group of people on Wednesday and Thursday I didn't know to watch their children dance and sing and parade did give me just one more opportunity to witness the hospitality and kindness of the people here.  I say this because...

On September 15th, independence day, all the schools have an assembly.  All the parents are invited and the students dress up in traditional Costa Rican costumes.  The girls wear huge, bountiful skirts of many colors along with a simple white cotton top.  The boys wear white shirts with red or blue bandanas around their neck tucked under their collar and a bucket hat to shade their face from the sun.  Many of the boys also paint beards and mustaches on their faces to look older.  They then gather in the gym and do traditional dances for the parents.  It's precious.  

While I was waiting outside of a local school, one to which I had absolutely no connections, a few women saw me and smiled.  I asked them if I could take pictures of their children in their costumes.  They said yes and then told me that there would be an assembly soon and invited me in to watch it.  They said I was more than welcome to come and take pictures.  As everyone filed in, I hesitated, but one of the women turned around, two children in her hands, and waved me in.  It was then that I was taken aback at their hospitality and inclusiveness.  Now, I guess it doesn't speak much to the security of the school that I could just waltz in, but, as someone who had no intention of bringing a bomb into the place, the unassuming nature of the women and the nature in which they welcomed me without suspicion or judgment was unexpected and refreshing.

Here are some pictures from the assembly:

Traditional costumes.

The gym filled with students in the front and parents lining the bleachers in the back.

Singing the national anthem.... again.

Students doing a traditional Costa Rican dance.

After watching the assembly, I made my way back to my house in San Sebastian.  Later that morning, a local school was parading in the streets playing patriotic songs.  They passed right by the street in front of my house.  I came outside as I heard the drums near and joined the rest of my neighbors on the sidewalk.  Some pictures:

The flag holders.

Precious little drum majors... or something.

Baton twirlers, with sass.

Band:  drumline.

After about 5 songs or so when the band would move on to a new street, the parents who are dutifully following their kids around give them snacks and water during a break.

The band walking to the next street to play.

And with that, ended the Independence day festivities.  Later that day I went to the ILCO offices, even though no one was working that day except the guards, to get some work done.  I made copies of materials for next week and prepared lessons.  Around 5, I decided to begin my walk home.  It had been raining all afternoon, as it always does in San Jose, but it was slowing down to a drizzle.  I decided to pull out my waterproof jacket (thanks Tavia and Nolan!!) and brave the mist.  After about 5 minutes, I turned a corner and found the street before me completely flooded.

Now, not usually a creature of habit (unless we're discussing food in which I could consistently eat tuna sandwiches and cereal for the rest of my life), I still had not ventured to find any alternate routes from work to my home in San Sebastian.  I always took the same route home, give or take a couple streets, and was now standing at the base of a lake placed promptly in the middle of the only road I knew to take home.  I turned around, determined to find another way home.  Stopped.  Looked at my watch.  It was 5:05.  I had about 20 minutes before it started to get dark - less considering the thunderclouds in the sky.  I turned back around to face reservoir of water.  I saw a few cars venture in and watched their tires disappear.  I looked at my watch again.  Wet feet or lost and cornered in a back alley of a dead end street that has no name?  I rolled my jeans up to my knees, strapped my Chacos as tight as they would go, and headed in.  After a few steps, mid-calf deep, I heard giggling behind me.  Two little girls and their mom were on the sidewalk watching me.  The little girls began pulling their pants up and just as they were about to step off the sidewalk into the immeasurable puddle, their mother pulled them both back.  She shook their finger at them and said "Noooo!!"  Then she bent down and whispered, at an audible level, "Girls, she's from another country."  As if this was the only reason I had decided to walk through the monstrous puddle.  I couldn't help but laugh and continued on my way.

It couldn't have been 2 minutes after I had reached the sidewalk and rolled my pants back down that the sky tore open with a torrential downpour.  I hastened my steps, but it only seemed to encourage my pants and bag to collect more raindrops.  After 10 minutes my front thighs were soaked, but I was only 5 minutes from home.  On the last stretch of road to my neighborhood I picked up the pace.  Cars continued driving by until one truck came roaring by and hit a large puddle.  Just before the entire contents of the puddle splattered all over me, I looked up and doubled over like a turtle's head in its shell.  When I came back up for air, the truck had passed and I was drenched.  Everywhere.  Front, back, side, bag, pants, jacket, face.  Everywhere.  Two ladies sitting at a bus stop, under the comfort of a tin awning, watched the whole thing happen and gasped, putting their hands over their mouths.  I started laughing, because, really, what else do you do?  I gave them a couple thumbs up, meekly mumbled something about "being okay" and kept walking.  Bewildered, they each gave me a half-grin back, I think more out of fear than assurance, and grabbed their purses tightly as I walked pass them.  I think they thought I was insane. 

And so ended Independence Day.

Finally, to help with some visuals, here is a tour of my house where I stay in San Sebastian:

The two-store house.  To the right, the car port where there is no car but where church services and Sunday school is held.  Directly to the left of it, the front door (the first of three) to our house.  To the left of that, small garden/yard.  Windows upstairs to upstairs bedroom and bathroom.

Our house is to the far right.  Houses down the road.

One end of our street.  The other way leads to a park.

The inside of the carport.

The living room/worship service area.  To the far left in the corner is the front door.  To the left is the carport.

Door leading into the rest of the house from the living room.

To the right of the doorway are the stairs leading to upstairs rooms.

My bathroom/church's bathroom.  First door on left inside hallway.

My/church's kitchen second door on left in hallway.

Straight through leads to my shower, German volunteers' kitchen, hang out room, and back garden/washing machine/clotheslines.

My shower, which is kind of a closet with tile.

Other volunteers' dining room/kitchen.  I eat dinner in here with them.

Their kitchen.

Hang out room.

Hang out room.  The window with the cloth looks into my room.

Back porch clotheslines/washing machine.

Garden/clotheslines.

Door leading to back porch from volunteers' dining room.

Door/windows to garden/back porch.

My room downstairs.  Across from my/church's kitchen in hallway.

My room.  Dirty as usual.

Upstairs to other 4 volunteers' bedrooms, 1 bathroom.

Their rooms.

I live with 4 German volunteers who have signed on to stay for a year.  They volunteer in the day cares in La Carpio and Alajuelita, two mainly immigrant communities with very bad reputations.  There are two boys and two girls:  Martin, Toby, Anja (like Anya), and Nadine.  They are fantastically smart and interesting.  We eat dinner together most nights when I am in town.  We have had a good time discussing history and politics of our countries as well as stereotypes we have of each others.  It's been really enlightening.  We mostly speak in English unless we have a guest, in which we speak Spanish.  They feel most comfortable speaking English because they are just learning Spanish.  I find it a nice reprieve from Spanish.  I started learning German a week ago.  I figured I had 4 teachers I talk with most days of the week, so why not take advantage of my resources.  The language is inexplicably difficult with rules and exceptions and rules of those exceptions.  They constantly change definite articles and find it necessary to have personal pronouns as well as conjugate their verbs; however, language is language and that's that.

I'll leave you with two colloquial sayings Hazel taught me the other day when we were making cookies.  I learned that when you drop food on the floor, there are two things many people say:

"No le doy gusto al diablo" - I don't give pleasure to the devil.

"Lo que no mata, te engorda" - What doesn't kill you makes you fatter.

And with that, they pick the food back up off the ground and eat it.

So, I hope you are not pleasing the devil in any way, especially letting him eat the crumbs and extra pieces of food dropped on your floor.