It Is Good To Be Back!

It has been a busy few weeks. Between going home for Thanksgiving, making two trips to the Nicoya peninsula, and graduation week at the elementary school, I’ve had a full schedule.

Thanksgiving was incredible. Just being with my family and friends was comfort enough, but the festivities were over the top. The first weekend was occupied by a two day party with my college friends with whom I celebrated the end of the worst season of Michigan football ever. People came from LA, Chicago, Philly and DC, and I was truly touched that people would travel that far for me. We caught up, discussed the Michigan season the way the Germans must now discuss World War II, and stayed up till morning at my friend Derek’s apartment. It was the most fun I’d had in a while.

The rest of the week was spent enjoying intimate time with my family, and eating. I got to eat Indian food, bagels, and my mother’s world famous chili. Regretfully, I did not get to eat Thai or Chinese food. This is something I will get to if I go back next Thanksgiving.

When I got back from New York, I was surprisingly at peace. Before the trip, I feared that I would get back to Costa Rica and want to go back home or become depressed. But in New York, I saw that I wasn’t really missing too much. People are getting laid off, fed up with the jobs they are lucky to have, or being pounded by graduate school work. While my job is hard in the fact that it can be unorganized, lonely, and stressful, it is no worse than what I would be doing in the US.

I also found perspective. I had glorified New York in my mind during the lonely times here in Costa Rica. I fantasized about everything that I loved about it. But in going back, I saw that the city is still just the city, and that eighty degrees and sunny is better than freezing and cloudy. I realized that New York will be there when I get back, and this is where I need to be right now.

It felt great to be home. My family seemed to have genuinely missed me and was glad to have me back. I felt the same way. In a place that has consistently made me uncomfortable, I felt comfortable. That night, I doused my rice and beans in hot sauce, and ate them with a smile. It wasn’t my mom’s chili, but it did the trick.

The next week, my friend Meagan asked me if I would help her with a nature camp she was putting on with a park ranger in her site on the Nicoya Peninsula. Since the trip is only a ferry ride away, I agreed, and packed my bags. However, in the great Tico tradition, the camp was postponed.

“Do you still want to come?” Meagan asked. I looked at my bags.

“Why not!”

So I headed across the Nicoya gulf and went to pay Meagan a visit. I disembarked in the small town of Paquera where I got on a bus to the small beach town of Montezuma. Meagan met me on the bus where we chatted about America until we pulled into town.

We found a backpackers’ lodge a bit outside of town and decided to stay there. The place had two cabins built into the jungle, with large porches. After Meagan and I put our stuff in our room, we lay in hammocks on the porch and enjoyed the late afternoon sun. Not five minutes had passed before we heard a racket in the trees. We got up, looked around, and found about a dozen Cappuchin monkeys on the branches of the trees, and even sitting on the deck. They seemed pretty comfortable with humans, and got close enough for people to hand feed them bananas. We hung out with the monkeys for a while, then headed into town for dinner.

That night as we lay in bed, we could hear the crashing of the waves, and the sounds of the jungle. It felt good to be back in Costa Rica.

The next day was hot and sunny. We decided to hike up the river to the town’s famed waterfall. We hiked with two Swiss girls from our lodge; one could speak English, and one could speak Spanish. So while climbing through the cool river, I made myself dizzy going back and forth between English and Spanish. By the time we got to the waterfall, I didn’t know what language I was speaking.

But I didn’t have to speak. The sight of this five-story high waterfall was captivating, and we all stood and watched for a while. In the middle of the jungle, the waterfall crashed its way into a deep pool where we swam. Around the pool were outcroppings of rock from which we jumped into the pool. We even got to climb behind the waterfall and stand in the loudest place in the world. Jumping into the waterfall was, more than anything, a comical experience. After a second in mid air, the water pounded me into the water with great force, and before I knew it, I was ashore. While climbing rocks to do some diving, a European man turned around, looked at me and said, “It’s fucking paradise man!” It really was.

The next week, I went out to the peninsula again, this time to do actual work. Meagan did eventually get the camp together, and I did a nature themed art project with the kids. It was fun, and the kids really liked it.

Now, I am attending graduation events at the elementary school and planning my schedule for the next school year which starts in February. I have also started a new photography workshop with the Albergue kids, in addition to the poetry workshop we started a few months ago. And in a few days, my parents will be here to visit!

As the holidays and vacation approaches, I hope that everyone back in the states is well. To all my Jewish brethren, Happy Chanukah! To my goy friends, Merry Christmas!

Poetry, ¡Obamanos!, All Volunteer Conference and What Have You

The month of November has been one of the busiest and best yet.

About a month ago, I started a poetry workshop for the children at the albergues. I was nervous about it when I designed it; who knows many kids who would give up a sunny Sunday afternoon to write poetry? Regardless, the program has exceeded my expectations. The children are enthusiastic about it, and have created some impressive work.

I start every session with a song (in Spanish). The children listen to the song played on my computer, and read along with the lyrics I print out for them. This gets the children excited, and also shows them the different structures of poetry. Once we have listened to the song, we read a poem together. I have been using Pablo Neruda poems because they are so simple and beautiful. If anyone has any suggestions for appropriate Spanish poetry, I’m all ears.

After the poem, we get our creative juices flowing by actually creating poetry. During the first lesson, we wrote group poems, but now they are writing some on their own in writer’s notebooks that I have given them. The plan is to have them peer edit their work and continue writing. Hopefully after a few months, we will have enough polished work to publish in a book to sell as a fundraiser. Once the book is published, we will have a celebratory poetry slam.

High off a good start with the workshop, I headed into San Jose on the fourth for an election night party with other volunteers. Upon seeing my PVC friends at the bar, I was inundated with hope and anticipation. I’m sure that it comes as no surprise that one hundred percent of the PCVs and staff are Obama supporters. People were wearing custom made Obama t-shirts, and chattering about exit poll numbers all night. A group of about fifteen PCVs had made shirts that read ¡Obamanos! I found this hilarious (for those of you who do not speak Spanish, it is a creative way of writing “lets go Obama!”).

When the networks projected Obama to win, the place went wild. Some people started screaming, some people started crying. I ordered a double Patron and sat with a shit-eating grin on my face. I felt more calm and relieved than anything. I just watched the celebration around me as I sipped my tequila. American and Tico alike, everyone was thrilled.

The next day, every volunteer in country was bussed to a camp ground in Cartago for the annual “All Volunteer Conference” (AVC). Everyone was pretty de goma, but in good spirits about the previous night’s election. As we signed in and spread our sleeping bags out in our tents, tranquility fell over everyone. The air was cool and clean; we were up in the piney mountains northwest of the city. Many of us are trapped in hot, urban sites. For us, the place was paradise.

AVC was three days for all volunteers to get to know each other, and share stories, projects and ideas. During the day, we had workshops and bonding activities. At night, we had a poker tournament (in which I was quickly and soundly beat), a movie night, a Halloween party, a talent show, and a bonfire.

It was what everyone needed. In a sweater for the first time in a while, I got to know my fellow volunteers, and was reminded how interesting and unique each one is. Each PCV had a different lesson to give, a different experience to share. Although I knew most of them already, the conference allowed us to become even closer; so close that we all had a fun time at an alcohol-free costume/dance Halloween party.

The second day, the U.S. Ambassador came to meet us. So I spoke with the Ambassador…again. A few weeks ago, he invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with his family. I thanked him for his invitation when I saw him after he addressed us.

He did a good job of charming the crowd, and had a Q&A. One PCV asked if he, as a Bush appointee, was worried that Obama would replace him. He responded that he didn’t feel too worried about it, and would respect whatever decision Obama makes. I personally hope that he stays. He seems like a genuinely good person, who would honor the Obama agenda when it arrives.

The last night of AVC, we had a big bonfire. As we all huddled around the fire and made s’mores, people played popular songs on their guitars and we all sang along. As the smoke drifted into my eyes, and I sang the ones I knew, I couldn’t help but think about how “Peace Corps” the moment was. At that moment, we could have been Peace Corps, Costa Rica, 1969.

It has been a good couple of weeks. And with Thanksgiving coming up, I can’t help but get giddy. I will be coming home to NYC next Thursday, Nov 20 until Friday Nov 28. If you will be in town, drop me a line. Happy Thanksgiving!

Toilet Bowl Confessions and Other Stories

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…….

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#

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.

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.

Ticos: 1 Flavor: 0

I made penne in a vodka sauce from scratch for my host mom the other day. She took a bite, smiled, and told me that she liked it.

"But wait" she said walking to the fridge.

"Oh no," I thought. "No way, she wouldn´t."

Oh, but she did. She opened the door to the fridge, pulled out the bottle of ketchup, and doused the plate with it. I bit my lip. She took a bite.

"Much better!" she said with a smile and walked out of the kitchen to the living room.

I am convinced that Ticos have no tastebuds.