There are some things that happen to me here that I immediately deem blog worthy, but are not funny enough to devote a whole entry to. Below, you will find a list of things I deem funny, but not whole blog funny.
• The mosquitoes have a little hideout in my shower. Therefore, whenever I go into the bathroom to pee, a swarm attacks my legs. As I stand there, urinating, I can feel them biting my ankles. The first few times this happened, I slapped at the mosquitoes mid-stream, spraying pee all over the shower curtain. Now, I just accept the inevitable. We must never share this with my host mom.
• My host “Dad”, Bairon, is a 29 year old construction worker with grills on his teeth, yet loves old black and white ranchero and mariachi movies on TV.
• Necio is afraid of mice.
• One day, I walked home from the local pulperia and walked up to a group of family and neighbors sitting on my porch. My host mom asked me if I had a banana in my pocket. I, in fact, did have a banana in my pocket, and started laughing hysterically. None of my family or neighbors understood why.
• A story about gay marriage came onto the evening news which prompted the following from my host family:
Ania: “No, no, no! It is the end of the world! The end of the world, these gays! Against the will of God!”
Memo: “It is a disgrace. Disgusting.”
Bairon: “Terrible. Just terrible.”
Memo: “But with two women, it’s cool, right?
Bairon: “Oh, totally.”
Memo: “Totally.”
Me: (beating my head against the wall).
• My butcher gave me a ride into town the other day. He told me that he had lived in South Carolina for a few years. When I asked him how he’d liked it, he told me that it was nice, “but there was quite a bit of prejudice there. I really disliked how some people would call me a spick or other bad names there”. I responded by telling him that I was sorry that he had experienced that.
“Also, there were a lot of Blacks there, and I don’t like those people at all”.
“Oh”.
• Costa Rica is a Catholic country but most children are born out of wedlock, and prostitution is legal.
• I am no longer afraid of, yet even welcome, cockroaches. This is because I know that they will not give me dengue or malaria or lay eggs in me or anything like that. The worst they will do is eat the crumbs off my floor or scare the shit out of Necio.
When you live in the tropics, you learn to put things in perspective.
• Children’s games are locked in the 1950s. Marbles is the big game, and now tops are the rage. I’m just waiting to see if jacks make it to the streets. We should expect pogs in about 40 years.
• I asked my host mom what her favorite food was. She said that it was rice and beans. I almost smacked her.
• I am yet to see a spice rack in this country.
• It finally happened. My host mom managed to get every single starch onto one plate. Chicken broth with potatoes, noodles, rice, corn, and yucca. People ask me how I’ve lost weight living in this country. “I try not to eat the food” is my usual reply.
• I saw a crackhead steal a half eaten sandwich, not because he was hungry, but because he thought he’d be able to sell it for enough money to buy a hit.
• I get cat calls whenever I walk down my street in my gym clothes. These are of course from overweight married women in their forties.
To Be Continued…….
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Ambassador Visit
The US Ambassador to Costa Rica came to visit my site a few weeks ago. I took him to the albergues for a small reception. He is a good man, and got along very well with the children. Below is a link to see pictures of the visit.
http://picasaweb.google.com/mesa805/AmbassadorCianchettePANI?authkey=4Et-M7Vo2EM#
http://picasaweb.google.com/mesa805/AmbassadorCianchettePANI?authkey=4Et-M7Vo2EM#
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Limon
Whenever I’ve been in rural sites, I have consistently failed to notice the hoots and calls of the land’s howler monkeys. “Ooohh! You hear those monkeys?” my friends will ask. I always shake my head in disappointment. It is like I have a primate specific hearing impairment.
So as our bus wound its way east to the Caribbean coast, I told my good friend and fellow PCV, Mario, that I would not leave the area without hearing the monkeys. It was Friday afternoon, and we were beginning our weekend vacation to the Province of Limon. This trip was particularly exciting because the Province of Limon was fabled to be like a separate country entirely; more like Jamaica than Costa Rica. The population is largely Black, of Caribbean descent. The sounds of Bob Marley are ubiquitous, I was told, and the smell of jerk chicken fills the air. So after meeting Mario in San Jose, we hopped on the bus with great anticipation.
The bus left San Jose and took a windy mountain pass that carved its way east trough the rainforest. Mario and I rode silently in amazement as we observed waterfalls, cliffs and green mountain peaks as they passed. Giant single leafed plants popped out of the mountains like beach umbrellas and palm trees dotted the landscape like fireworks. It was my first look at unadulterated canopy jungle; I was taken aback by its beauty.
After about three and a half hours on the road, we arrived in the port city of Limon and immediately noticed the difference between Limon and the rest of the country. The colors of red, yellow and green were painted everywhere, and people spoke a Spanish-English hybrid called Padua. This mixture was perfect for me, as I find myself constantly speaking Spanglish. The language is almost melodic in the way it hits the ear, like a reggae song. I could understand it, but didn’t attempt to speak it.
A quick cab ride took us outside of the city center to Playa Bonita where we met our friend Jen and her friend Owen. Jen is a PCV in the Limon region, and her college friend, Owen, was visiting for a few days before starting a two month long Outward Bound training. The two are both Georgia grads and have thick southern accents, and great senses of humor. After a quick beer in our hotel room, we walked to a nearby beachfront restaurant. It was there that I experienced the wonder that is Caribbean food.
A while ago, I overheard someone asking my friend Daniel (who’s site is in Limon) if he eats rice and beans in his site. I looked at the person, baffled, and asked her repeatedly if she was joking, for rice and beans are (to my dismay) a prerequisite for any Tico meal. Daniel laughed and explained to me that the specialty dish of Limon is called “rice and beans,” and is, in fact, very different from the arroz y frijoles Ticos eat. The “rice and beans” that the Carribeans eat is cooked in coconut milk and spices. So when the four of us sat down to our table, just feet from the crashing waves, I didn’t hesitate to order the rice and beans and chicken.
It was bliss. The chicken had been slow-cooked in coconut milk, Caribbean spices, and a thick, rich gravy. The meat fell off the bone. The rice and beans had a robust smoky flavor. For a guy used to eating food with no flavor at all, this was a real treat. We savored the different flavors, and spoke about the plan for the weekend. We would go to a short meeting of PCVs in the region the next day, and then make our way south to the laid back beach town of Cauhita in the afternoon. Happy with our plans, we finished our dinners and listened to the surf. Afterward, we drank tequila and watched the stars and moon glitter across the sea.
The next day was one of the best days of my life. We left the hotel for the center of Limon in the late morning and spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting with the owner of the café. Then we made our way to the most famous restaurant in Limon: the Black Star Line. It was here that we met a dozen Limon PCVs. I was very happy to see them all; most of them were friends from my training group. Among them were my close friends Daniel, Marcus, Katherine, Jonus and Nicole. After an enthusiastic reunion, we took our seats, ordered lunch and began our meeting. I ordered the rice and beans with chicken. It was even better than the previous night’s.
After our meeting, we walked out of the restaurant full and happy. The administrative stuff took up about ten percent of the agenda. The rest was catching up and joking around. Marcus said that he knew a guy who owned a microbus who could take us the fifty kilometers south to Cauhita on the cheap. He took off, only to reappear in the passenger side of a microbus, rowdily honking the horn. We packed in and hit the road.
As we pulled into town, I immediately fell in love with Cauhita. Modest houses, shops and inns lined the dirt roads, leaking sounds of reggae and barbeque smoke. The smell of salt filled the air, for the town flanks the beach. And at the far end of town is Cauhita National Park. After finding cheap cabinas, we dropped off our bags, put on swimsuits and sunscreen and headed to the park.
Cauhita National Park is a large strip of protected land that parallels the sea. The park includes miles of white, clean beach, and trails through the jungle. A group of us jumped into the water and enjoyed each other’s company. It was there that Jonus mentioned the howler monkeys.
“All day, all night, I hear them. It’s annoying! I’m trying to relax and all I hear is OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOH!” His wife Nicole agreed that their rural site was full of howlers.
I could have slapped them I was so jealous. The only howls I hear in my site are from the crackheads.
Then suddenly Marcus pointed toward the shore and yelled “look! There is a monkey in that tree!” I turned my head and sure enough, there was a small crowd of people pointing up at a monkey dangling from the branches of a tree. It was a small white-faced Capuchin monkey. I walked out of the water and got a closer look. He jumped from branch to branch until he was out of sight.
I walked over to where a group of my friends were sitting on a palm trunk and talking. I excitedly told them all about the monkey only to get unenthusiastic responses. “I see monkeys every day…it’s no big deal” was the common response. These rural volunteers are spoiled.
I then took a walk through one of the trails with Daniel and his friend Linda. The forest was beautiful in the late afternoon light. I saw trees and plants that I had never seen before. As we walked, I told Daniel how much I loved his province. I told him that I loved the natural environment, the people, and the culture. “And seriously” I said with a smile, “it is great to be around Black people again!” Daniel, being an African American, got a big kick out of this and laughed with me for a minute.
We walked along for a long while, discussing cultural differences, challenges we have been facing, and problems that we both have with the Costa Rican educational structure. I saw more monkeys, but unfortunately no howlers appeared. At one point, we came across a sloth, who was one of the most hilarious animals I’ve ever seen. It was, well, lazy. He was sleeping on a tree branch, looking very content. The Spanish word for sloth is oso perezoso which literally means “lazy bear.” The Spanish hit the nail on the head.
After our walk, Daniel, Linda and I met up with the group and returned to the cabinas to shower and prepare for the night.
Once ready, we walked to a local restaurant called Mutus for what would be one of the best meals of my life. Marcus made sure that we went to this specific restaurant because of a certain two hour long happy hour. So before eating, our group was bombarded with an array of drinks. Piña coladas, tequila sunrises, daiquiris, and every fruity drink you could think of were hurled at us. The drinks were fantastic, made with fruit that was probably on a tree earlier that day.
Now I know what you are thinking…and no, there was nothing gay about a bunch of dudes drinking fruity drinks. In the Caribbean, no red flashing light goes of when a guy orders a strawberry daiquiri. It’s just the way things are done down there.
After two hours worth of rum and fruit, we were all feeling pretty good by the time our dinners arrived. The entire restaurant was hazy from the barbecue smoke, creating an intoxicating aroma and ambiance. A steady stream of Bob Marley albums were played, and vibrations were good all around. Owen and I shared an order of jerk chicken, and Jamaican curried chicken. Both were delicious. By the time we left the restaurant, we were all tipsy on good food and drink: a perfect way to be as you walk toward the salsa club.
Honestly, we tore up the dance floor. I know, you wouldn’t think that a group of gringos would be capable of such a thing. But we have been in country for eight months now, and have had proper training. I spotted a group of beautiful young Ticas dancing in a circle and decided to break the ice. I pulled one of them out of the circle and we salsa danced for a good while. Then, suddenly, she tossed me into the circle of ladies. So I had no choice but to shake my ass, and get down. The ladies loved it, and soon my PCV buddies were doing the same thing. Eventually, all of my buddies and I were making the salsa rounds on these girls, sweating through our shirts as we made our moves. Thankfully, being a sweaty mess is not a turn off for Ticas. On the contrary, it was a turn on.
At one point, I was sitting on the side of the dance floor for a quick beer with Owen, when a strikingly beautiful Tica walked passed us and sat down with a woman who looked like she could be her mother. She was model hot. Movie star hot. I decided that I had to have at least one dance with her, but was a bit discouraged by the consistent rejections she was issuing. So I did what any man with game did: I walked over, and asked her mother to dance.
I tossed that old woman all over the dance floor. We had a blast. And you better believe that I was sending wanton looks at the daughter the whole time…making her giggle. So after a song with momma, I asked the beautiful Tica for a dance. She smiled and obliged. We had a great dance and learned a bit about each other. My buddies gave me several thumbs up behind her back. I would have taken the time to get to know her better after our dance, but my buddies informed me that I was running late for a late night swim session at the beach. So I thanked the model-hot Tica for the dance, and left with my friends for the beach.
At playa negra a small group of us stripped to our underwear and took a dip in the warm water. The moon was bright and illuminated the puffy silver clouds on the horizon. Outcroppings of fluorescent coral glowed in the darkness. It was a beautiful scene. The perfect end to a perfect day.
The next morning, Owen, Mario, Jen and I packed up our things, said our goodbyes, and started out for the bus station. We were sad to be going back to San Jose, and ultimately, our sites. However, we were still on a high from the fun of the night before. And as I approached the station, I heard a strange sound.
“OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”
I stopped and smiled at my friends. It was the howler monkeys doing what they do best. Apparently, I am not primate hearing impaired. I just needed to go to Limon.
So as our bus wound its way east to the Caribbean coast, I told my good friend and fellow PCV, Mario, that I would not leave the area without hearing the monkeys. It was Friday afternoon, and we were beginning our weekend vacation to the Province of Limon. This trip was particularly exciting because the Province of Limon was fabled to be like a separate country entirely; more like Jamaica than Costa Rica. The population is largely Black, of Caribbean descent. The sounds of Bob Marley are ubiquitous, I was told, and the smell of jerk chicken fills the air. So after meeting Mario in San Jose, we hopped on the bus with great anticipation.
The bus left San Jose and took a windy mountain pass that carved its way east trough the rainforest. Mario and I rode silently in amazement as we observed waterfalls, cliffs and green mountain peaks as they passed. Giant single leafed plants popped out of the mountains like beach umbrellas and palm trees dotted the landscape like fireworks. It was my first look at unadulterated canopy jungle; I was taken aback by its beauty.
After about three and a half hours on the road, we arrived in the port city of Limon and immediately noticed the difference between Limon and the rest of the country. The colors of red, yellow and green were painted everywhere, and people spoke a Spanish-English hybrid called Padua. This mixture was perfect for me, as I find myself constantly speaking Spanglish. The language is almost melodic in the way it hits the ear, like a reggae song. I could understand it, but didn’t attempt to speak it.
A quick cab ride took us outside of the city center to Playa Bonita where we met our friend Jen and her friend Owen. Jen is a PCV in the Limon region, and her college friend, Owen, was visiting for a few days before starting a two month long Outward Bound training. The two are both Georgia grads and have thick southern accents, and great senses of humor. After a quick beer in our hotel room, we walked to a nearby beachfront restaurant. It was there that I experienced the wonder that is Caribbean food.
A while ago, I overheard someone asking my friend Daniel (who’s site is in Limon) if he eats rice and beans in his site. I looked at the person, baffled, and asked her repeatedly if she was joking, for rice and beans are (to my dismay) a prerequisite for any Tico meal. Daniel laughed and explained to me that the specialty dish of Limon is called “rice and beans,” and is, in fact, very different from the arroz y frijoles Ticos eat. The “rice and beans” that the Carribeans eat is cooked in coconut milk and spices. So when the four of us sat down to our table, just feet from the crashing waves, I didn’t hesitate to order the rice and beans and chicken.
It was bliss. The chicken had been slow-cooked in coconut milk, Caribbean spices, and a thick, rich gravy. The meat fell off the bone. The rice and beans had a robust smoky flavor. For a guy used to eating food with no flavor at all, this was a real treat. We savored the different flavors, and spoke about the plan for the weekend. We would go to a short meeting of PCVs in the region the next day, and then make our way south to the laid back beach town of Cauhita in the afternoon. Happy with our plans, we finished our dinners and listened to the surf. Afterward, we drank tequila and watched the stars and moon glitter across the sea.
The next day was one of the best days of my life. We left the hotel for the center of Limon in the late morning and spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting with the owner of the café. Then we made our way to the most famous restaurant in Limon: the Black Star Line. It was here that we met a dozen Limon PCVs. I was very happy to see them all; most of them were friends from my training group. Among them were my close friends Daniel, Marcus, Katherine, Jonus and Nicole. After an enthusiastic reunion, we took our seats, ordered lunch and began our meeting. I ordered the rice and beans with chicken. It was even better than the previous night’s.
After our meeting, we walked out of the restaurant full and happy. The administrative stuff took up about ten percent of the agenda. The rest was catching up and joking around. Marcus said that he knew a guy who owned a microbus who could take us the fifty kilometers south to Cauhita on the cheap. He took off, only to reappear in the passenger side of a microbus, rowdily honking the horn. We packed in and hit the road.
As we pulled into town, I immediately fell in love with Cauhita. Modest houses, shops and inns lined the dirt roads, leaking sounds of reggae and barbeque smoke. The smell of salt filled the air, for the town flanks the beach. And at the far end of town is Cauhita National Park. After finding cheap cabinas, we dropped off our bags, put on swimsuits and sunscreen and headed to the park.
Cauhita National Park is a large strip of protected land that parallels the sea. The park includes miles of white, clean beach, and trails through the jungle. A group of us jumped into the water and enjoyed each other’s company. It was there that Jonus mentioned the howler monkeys.
“All day, all night, I hear them. It’s annoying! I’m trying to relax and all I hear is OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOH!” His wife Nicole agreed that their rural site was full of howlers.
I could have slapped them I was so jealous. The only howls I hear in my site are from the crackheads.
Then suddenly Marcus pointed toward the shore and yelled “look! There is a monkey in that tree!” I turned my head and sure enough, there was a small crowd of people pointing up at a monkey dangling from the branches of a tree. It was a small white-faced Capuchin monkey. I walked out of the water and got a closer look. He jumped from branch to branch until he was out of sight.
I walked over to where a group of my friends were sitting on a palm trunk and talking. I excitedly told them all about the monkey only to get unenthusiastic responses. “I see monkeys every day…it’s no big deal” was the common response. These rural volunteers are spoiled.
I then took a walk through one of the trails with Daniel and his friend Linda. The forest was beautiful in the late afternoon light. I saw trees and plants that I had never seen before. As we walked, I told Daniel how much I loved his province. I told him that I loved the natural environment, the people, and the culture. “And seriously” I said with a smile, “it is great to be around Black people again!” Daniel, being an African American, got a big kick out of this and laughed with me for a minute.
We walked along for a long while, discussing cultural differences, challenges we have been facing, and problems that we both have with the Costa Rican educational structure. I saw more monkeys, but unfortunately no howlers appeared. At one point, we came across a sloth, who was one of the most hilarious animals I’ve ever seen. It was, well, lazy. He was sleeping on a tree branch, looking very content. The Spanish word for sloth is oso perezoso which literally means “lazy bear.” The Spanish hit the nail on the head.
After our walk, Daniel, Linda and I met up with the group and returned to the cabinas to shower and prepare for the night.
Once ready, we walked to a local restaurant called Mutus for what would be one of the best meals of my life. Marcus made sure that we went to this specific restaurant because of a certain two hour long happy hour. So before eating, our group was bombarded with an array of drinks. Piña coladas, tequila sunrises, daiquiris, and every fruity drink you could think of were hurled at us. The drinks were fantastic, made with fruit that was probably on a tree earlier that day.
Now I know what you are thinking…and no, there was nothing gay about a bunch of dudes drinking fruity drinks. In the Caribbean, no red flashing light goes of when a guy orders a strawberry daiquiri. It’s just the way things are done down there.
After two hours worth of rum and fruit, we were all feeling pretty good by the time our dinners arrived. The entire restaurant was hazy from the barbecue smoke, creating an intoxicating aroma and ambiance. A steady stream of Bob Marley albums were played, and vibrations were good all around. Owen and I shared an order of jerk chicken, and Jamaican curried chicken. Both were delicious. By the time we left the restaurant, we were all tipsy on good food and drink: a perfect way to be as you walk toward the salsa club.
Honestly, we tore up the dance floor. I know, you wouldn’t think that a group of gringos would be capable of such a thing. But we have been in country for eight months now, and have had proper training. I spotted a group of beautiful young Ticas dancing in a circle and decided to break the ice. I pulled one of them out of the circle and we salsa danced for a good while. Then, suddenly, she tossed me into the circle of ladies. So I had no choice but to shake my ass, and get down. The ladies loved it, and soon my PCV buddies were doing the same thing. Eventually, all of my buddies and I were making the salsa rounds on these girls, sweating through our shirts as we made our moves. Thankfully, being a sweaty mess is not a turn off for Ticas. On the contrary, it was a turn on.
At one point, I was sitting on the side of the dance floor for a quick beer with Owen, when a strikingly beautiful Tica walked passed us and sat down with a woman who looked like she could be her mother. She was model hot. Movie star hot. I decided that I had to have at least one dance with her, but was a bit discouraged by the consistent rejections she was issuing. So I did what any man with game did: I walked over, and asked her mother to dance.
I tossed that old woman all over the dance floor. We had a blast. And you better believe that I was sending wanton looks at the daughter the whole time…making her giggle. So after a song with momma, I asked the beautiful Tica for a dance. She smiled and obliged. We had a great dance and learned a bit about each other. My buddies gave me several thumbs up behind her back. I would have taken the time to get to know her better after our dance, but my buddies informed me that I was running late for a late night swim session at the beach. So I thanked the model-hot Tica for the dance, and left with my friends for the beach.
At playa negra a small group of us stripped to our underwear and took a dip in the warm water. The moon was bright and illuminated the puffy silver clouds on the horizon. Outcroppings of fluorescent coral glowed in the darkness. It was a beautiful scene. The perfect end to a perfect day.
The next morning, Owen, Mario, Jen and I packed up our things, said our goodbyes, and started out for the bus station. We were sad to be going back to San Jose, and ultimately, our sites. However, we were still on a high from the fun of the night before. And as I approached the station, I heard a strange sound.
“OOOOOOH……OH…OH…OH…OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!”
I stopped and smiled at my friends. It was the howler monkeys doing what they do best. Apparently, I am not primate hearing impaired. I just needed to go to Limon.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur
I went back to the beautiful synagogue in San Jose to observe the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This time, I was accompanied by my friend Alicia, another PCV in the eastern part of the country.
I approached the high holidays with great hesitancy. While it may be a sign of weakness in my Jewish mettle, I find it difficult to worship anywhere other than my beloved Brotherhood Synagogue in New York. I almost always have a spiritually fulfilling experience at Brotherhood. However, I have had mixed experiences experimenting with other venues. I never liked the experience at the Hillel’s shabbat services at Michigan, and found the High Holiday services adequate. I didn’t mind my friend Jason Cooper’s synagogue in Toledo, Ohio. I even had Kabblat Shabbat in a Quiznos once.
The difference is that in other venues, I have been a foreigner rather than a member of a family. The tunes are different. The handshakes aren’t followed by a kiss (or sometimes a good slap on the backside). The gossip is not yours. The rabbi is just another man, and not your role model. There is a sterility to it that makes reflection and atonement more of a challenge.
But I was optimistic. The last experience I had at the synagogue for Passover was a positive one. So Alicia and I approached the Synagogue in the pouring rain and I was reminded how serious the congregation was about security. After handing over our passports, we were vigorously interrogated multiple times, frisked, and put through a metal detector. To quote Ace Ventura, “the man with the rubber glove was surprisingly gentle”.
As the two of us walked into the synagogue, I noticed the look of awe on Alicia’s face. It was her first look at the beautiful campus. The paths glittered in the rain, and the stately building’s lit face shone. After finding a kippah, I walked into the sanctuary alone; Alicia had to sit upstairs with the rest of the women.
After settling into a seat, I couldn’t help but laugh at the familiarity of the situation. Jews will be Jews, no matter where you go. I overheard conversations about the American financial crisis, and the presidential election. It was great to hear talk of business and politics; the only topic of discussion in my barrio is over who will win Latin American Idol. I introduced myself to the few people I recognized from Passover, and met a few more people. I was even introduced to the Israeli Ambassador. We chatted for a minute in a mix of Spanish, Hebrew and English. After speaking with him, it was difficult to think, let alone introduce myself to my neighbors. All were warm, welcoming and refined. It was nice to see people dressed so sharply. Having passed Audis and Beamers on the way in, it became clear to me that the Jewish community is the upper crust of Costa Rica. It was interesting to see such a population while living in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the country.
I found the way the congregants socialized to be very similar to the way American Jews I know interact. A man would spot a friend, beam, hug and sometimes kiss him on the cheek. I could imagine looking to my right to find Harvey Markovitz and my father interacting in such a way. There was also an Eastern European bend to the accents that brought their Spanish closer to me. It was like walking through a Tico Essex Street. The Rabbi’s accent was thicker than most. His voice and appearance reminded me of family friend Joe Zacherman; I took great comfort in this.
The service began when six men on the beamah began chanting the prayers. While I happily joined in when they chanted prayers I knew, most of them were in unfamiliar tunes. So I struggled to follow along with the service.
This synagogue was the first orthodox congregation that I had ever worshipped with. This, of course, meant that men and women sat separately. At first, I had no problem with this, as I thought that it would help everyone focus. But like men at a poker game, the congregation did a significant amount of schmoozing. Alicia later told me that it was the same with the women. I thought that the chatter would stop when the cantor began. However, it did not. Throughout the entire service for all of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, all I could hear was chit-chat. To make matters worse, the synagogue does not use microphones or speakers. The familiar prayers that I love came to me as faint static through the talk. I hoped that the men would silence themselves for even the most holy of prayers like the Amidah, Avenu Malkenu, or the confession of sins. They continued as if at a cocktail party. While I felt very grateful to the congregation for having me free of charge, I became quite angry after a while. Because I could not hear the prayers, most of the service was spent praying silently to myself. My crocodile tour operating friend Mr. Levi empathized with me noting that it was a “falta de respecto”. I told him that I agreed with him, feeling disrespected myself.
Overall, the experience of both holy days was good. I did a good amount of reflection on the past year, and decided what was good, and what was bad. I asked God to forgive me for my sins. It was fulfilling.
As Alicia and I broke the fast over Lebanese food (ironic?), I realized just how important it is for me to be around other Jews. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by them. Being isolated among non-Jews in the Puerto has made me appreciate just what I am missing. This is why an Eastern European accent or the site of an old man in a tallis is so pleasant to me. So to all of my Jewish friends and family back home, shana tova. I hope that you have a sweet year to come, and that your name is sealed in the book of life.
I approached the high holidays with great hesitancy. While it may be a sign of weakness in my Jewish mettle, I find it difficult to worship anywhere other than my beloved Brotherhood Synagogue in New York. I almost always have a spiritually fulfilling experience at Brotherhood. However, I have had mixed experiences experimenting with other venues. I never liked the experience at the Hillel’s shabbat services at Michigan, and found the High Holiday services adequate. I didn’t mind my friend Jason Cooper’s synagogue in Toledo, Ohio. I even had Kabblat Shabbat in a Quiznos once.
The difference is that in other venues, I have been a foreigner rather than a member of a family. The tunes are different. The handshakes aren’t followed by a kiss (or sometimes a good slap on the backside). The gossip is not yours. The rabbi is just another man, and not your role model. There is a sterility to it that makes reflection and atonement more of a challenge.
But I was optimistic. The last experience I had at the synagogue for Passover was a positive one. So Alicia and I approached the Synagogue in the pouring rain and I was reminded how serious the congregation was about security. After handing over our passports, we were vigorously interrogated multiple times, frisked, and put through a metal detector. To quote Ace Ventura, “the man with the rubber glove was surprisingly gentle”.
As the two of us walked into the synagogue, I noticed the look of awe on Alicia’s face. It was her first look at the beautiful campus. The paths glittered in the rain, and the stately building’s lit face shone. After finding a kippah, I walked into the sanctuary alone; Alicia had to sit upstairs with the rest of the women.
After settling into a seat, I couldn’t help but laugh at the familiarity of the situation. Jews will be Jews, no matter where you go. I overheard conversations about the American financial crisis, and the presidential election. It was great to hear talk of business and politics; the only topic of discussion in my barrio is over who will win Latin American Idol. I introduced myself to the few people I recognized from Passover, and met a few more people. I was even introduced to the Israeli Ambassador. We chatted for a minute in a mix of Spanish, Hebrew and English. After speaking with him, it was difficult to think, let alone introduce myself to my neighbors. All were warm, welcoming and refined. It was nice to see people dressed so sharply. Having passed Audis and Beamers on the way in, it became clear to me that the Jewish community is the upper crust of Costa Rica. It was interesting to see such a population while living in one of the poorest neighborhoods in the country.
I found the way the congregants socialized to be very similar to the way American Jews I know interact. A man would spot a friend, beam, hug and sometimes kiss him on the cheek. I could imagine looking to my right to find Harvey Markovitz and my father interacting in such a way. There was also an Eastern European bend to the accents that brought their Spanish closer to me. It was like walking through a Tico Essex Street. The Rabbi’s accent was thicker than most. His voice and appearance reminded me of family friend Joe Zacherman; I took great comfort in this.
The service began when six men on the beamah began chanting the prayers. While I happily joined in when they chanted prayers I knew, most of them were in unfamiliar tunes. So I struggled to follow along with the service.
This synagogue was the first orthodox congregation that I had ever worshipped with. This, of course, meant that men and women sat separately. At first, I had no problem with this, as I thought that it would help everyone focus. But like men at a poker game, the congregation did a significant amount of schmoozing. Alicia later told me that it was the same with the women. I thought that the chatter would stop when the cantor began. However, it did not. Throughout the entire service for all of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, all I could hear was chit-chat. To make matters worse, the synagogue does not use microphones or speakers. The familiar prayers that I love came to me as faint static through the talk. I hoped that the men would silence themselves for even the most holy of prayers like the Amidah, Avenu Malkenu, or the confession of sins. They continued as if at a cocktail party. While I felt very grateful to the congregation for having me free of charge, I became quite angry after a while. Because I could not hear the prayers, most of the service was spent praying silently to myself. My crocodile tour operating friend Mr. Levi empathized with me noting that it was a “falta de respecto”. I told him that I agreed with him, feeling disrespected myself.
Overall, the experience of both holy days was good. I did a good amount of reflection on the past year, and decided what was good, and what was bad. I asked God to forgive me for my sins. It was fulfilling.
As Alicia and I broke the fast over Lebanese food (ironic?), I realized just how important it is for me to be around other Jews. My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by them. Being isolated among non-Jews in the Puerto has made me appreciate just what I am missing. This is why an Eastern European accent or the site of an old man in a tallis is so pleasant to me. So to all of my Jewish friends and family back home, shana tova. I hope that you have a sweet year to come, and that your name is sealed in the book of life.
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