This past weekend, I went to San Jose to celebrate my second Rosh Hashana in country. At this point, I have become close enough to the synagogue’s director, Guita, for her to invite me and my fellow PCV, Emily, to her home for a traditional Rosh Hashana dinner. I didn’t realize how much it would mean to me until I arrived.
Before the dinner, Emily and I went to the beautiful synagogue for Erev Rosh Hashana services. It felt so good to be in a synagogue again. I laughed to myself as I walked in; it had been almost a year since I had worn a blazer and slacks. I put on my yarmulke, and found my seat in the sanctuary. I felt normal, like I was home again. In many ways, I was.
The cantor wailed out the traditional prayers which brought me great comfort. As I chanted along with the rest of the congregation, I did what all Jews are meant to do on Rosh Hashana: reflect. I thought back to the previous Rosh Hashana and was alarmed by how quickly the time had passed. It was at this point last year that I was able to get passed any issues that I was having with my Peace Corps experience. Last September was a turning point in my service; after the Jewish holidays, I fell into a rhythm and consistently turned out successful projects.
I took a brief trip into the past as the minor Hebrew harmonies of the prayers passed into my ears. Month by month, I thought about what had happened in my life. What had been good? What had been bad? The main question was what I needed to atone for. I plucked sins from these memories, and examined them as one would examine blotches on one’s skin. After filtering these memories, I was surprised to find that there was not a plethora of sins to atone for like most years. It could be that my Peace Corps life is too boring to do much in the way of sinning. Personally, I think that it is God trying to even the scales before I enter the field of law.
Once the service was over, I reunited with my friend Emily in the lobby (men and women are separated in Orthodox synagogues). We then met Ricardo, Guita’s husband. A gentle man of about sixty, he led us to his car. As we drove to his house, I got to know him. Born in Chile, Ricardo moved to Costa Rica about twenty-five years ago. When asked why he moved here, he smiled and said “Guita.”
The house was big and impressive. After parking in a two-car garage, we entered their traditional Jewish home. Familiar smells of roasting chicken and gevilte fish wafted into my face as I was greeted at the door by Guita. It was like Ricardo’s car somehow drove me all the way back to New York City.
Guita’s family was genial and welcoming. Guita and Ricardo have three teen-aged children who were outgoing and mature. Her sister was there, along with two other families. Everyone was friendly, interesting and urbane. Ricardo’s Argentinean architect friend was there with his wife, and I sat at the giant dinner table next to an affable man who owned a chain of children’s boutiques. His wife was Colombian; we were like a miniature United Nations. The young people were seated at a kids’ table…it was the first time I had seen one since coming to Costa Rica. It was the little things that made me so happy to be around my people.
Before we started the meal, Ricardo said the brucha over the wine and bread. Then, Guita directed our attention to a plate in the center of each table. The plate contained several odd foods including, ehem, a raw fish head. Each food was symbolic, and had a story to go with it. The fish head symbolized the beginning of the new year (Rosh Hashana literally means head of the year). The rings found in the steamed leeks on the plate symbolized the cycle of the year, as did the round challah. We ate apples with honey which represents the coming of a sweet new year. After we ate the foods on the plate, we began the meal.
Between forkfuls of gevilte fish, I spoke with the families about Peace Corps and what we do. They were interested in Peace Corps, it seemed to make sense to them. It was very interesting because most Ticos I know can’t wrap their minds around the concept (“you came here to work…for free???). By the time the matzoh ball soup came, I was learning about Argentinean food and wine from the architect.
The main course was unbelievable. It was a complete one-eighty from the traditional Tico meal. There was a green salad with strawberries and vinaigrette. An entire spread of roasted vegetables was presented to us, along with a giant platter of honey baked chicken. There was no rice to be found. Beans? I don’t think so. I was in heaven.
The entire evening was home to me. The Jewish families treated me as if I was a member of their own family. What makes me so happy about being with Jews so far from home is that I am a member of their family. In the middle of Central America, the Rosh Hashana dinner is the same as it is in New York, Paris or Jerusalem. We are so few and the bond of the tradition is so strong that it is in our instincts to welcome other Jews.
As Ricardo drove Emily and I home, I felt extremely proud to be a Jew, to be part of such a tight network. Having experienced such generosity from the families that night, I vowed that one day, I would open my home the way Guita and Ricardo did for me.
To all my brethren out there, Shana Tova!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
15 de Septiembre
15 de Septiembre is one of the most important days in the Tico calendar: Independence Day. Ticos are a particularly proud people; they flaunt the selling points of their nation relentlessly. I am constantly being reminded that they do not have an army, and that everyone in the Americas (including the U.S.) longs to immigrate here. Therefore, it was no surprise to me that their independence day was a raucous celebration of Tico culture.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
About a month ago, I entered the school and was greeted by a cacophony of drums and a kind of portable xylophone called the lyra. I was confused, because the year before, I worked hard with the previous director to form a band. After lobbying the Ministry of Education, we were both disappointed by the lack of funds available to us for a band project. With the new drums ringing in my ears, I went into the director’s office and asked her where the school got the new band equipment. She gave me a coy smile, and told me that she wouldn’t tell. She could have some impressive pull at the Ministry of Education; they could have fallen off the back of a truck. I didn’t care. I was glad that the students would finally have the opportunity to participate in the proudest moment for Ticos: the Independence Day Parade.
I was asked to help the lyra class. The school had hired a music teacher to teach the group of girls a few tunes. Since I can read music and had played the piano in the past, I was able to work with Don Alvaro to show the girls the basics. We turned out to be a good team.
For those of you who are not familiar with the lyra, imagine somebody repeatedly hitting the hell out of a flagpole with an aluminum pipe. That is what it sounds like, but with notes. Now imagine teaching this instrument to a group of elementary school girls at seven in the morning. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the migraine!
Hopped up on Excedrin, I was able to survive the brain-piercing sound that the lyra creates. I am now wondering if my childhood piano teacher was popping something more than her hard candies. Once the throbbing in my head subsided, I was able to enjoy teaching the class. The girls learned very quickly, and were thoroughly enjoying themselves. It is very rare for a teacher to actually witness a child learning in front of his or her eyes. I was privileged to see the girls correct their mistakes, and master their songs. Moreover, I was glad that they were acquiring a skill and participating in an extra-curricular activity. The pastime in my community has been watching television. Now all the neighborhood kids are practicing their lyras or drums after school.
This past Tuesday, I woke up to two things that seemed to punch me in the face: the relentless Puerto heat, and the pounding of the drums. It was 15 de Septiembre. I put on light clothes, sunscreen, and headed to the school to prepare the students for the parade.
I was shocked by what I found. The band uniforms had arrived, and looked fantastic. The kids looked crisp, clean and unified. The flag bearers wore their school uniforms and black berets. The baton twirlers donned blue and white cowgirl-themed outfits, complete with big white boots and hats. My lyra girls wore pleated skirts and royal blue polo shirts with our school name embroidered onto their chests. The drummer boys had the same shirts which were complemented by crisp white shorts and Keds. The entire group looked so proud, as were all of the teachers who were helping them get dressed.
Since I have very big muscles, my job was to pack and carry giant coolers of water. I didn’t think too much of the job until we got of the bus on the parade route in downtown Puntarenas. You could fry an egg on the pavement. The sun was strong and there was no shade to be found. I realized that keeping the kids hydrated was a serious concern, as we were to participate in the parade from eight in the morning to two in the afternoon. The second the kids were in place on the route, they began to beg me for water. So I gave some to each child, and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the enormous coolers of water as we walked the parade route. Luckily my compañero Don Luis drove the coolers down in his car, and would take some of the coolers to the end of the parade route.
The parade was both incredible and miserable. It was incredible because the kids performed so well. I was proud of my lyra girls as they chimed away in sync. The drummers were hugely popular with the crowds who danced to the beat. The baton twirlers were fantastic, although I was a bit alarmed by the nauseating comments that came from creepy old men in the crown. The performers were thrilled and bursting with pride. The teachers were as well; this was the first time that my school had ever participated in this tradition.
When I say that it was miserable, I am referring to the fact that the parade route was around the circumference of the sun. It was as if someone put me on a treadmill…in a steam room…and then heaved a fifty pound cooler on my shoulders. I was happy to toss packets of water to the kids as we inched our way down the main thoroughfare of Puntarenas; I wanted that weight off me.
As anyone could have predicted, we ran out of water about a third of the way through the parade. I felt awful as I told the kids that there was no more, but also grew worried that some of the kids wouldn’t make it. It was a very long route, and the midday sun takes no mercy. One of the baton twirlers had to give up a few blocks before the end. My poor lyra girl, Wanda, kept slurring her words as she walked alongside me. Many were stumbling along by the time we reached the end of the route. Thankfully, Luis was there waiting in the shade with water, iced tea, and a lunch of arroz con pollo. As the kids cooled off and regained their strength, I could see an immense happiness wash over them. They had worked hard, and it had paid off. It was a huge victory for the school, and the entire community.
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