Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
san josé, costa rica.
After an unnecessarily thorough interrogation at Immigration—I didn’t see what my relationship status had to do with anything—I waited in a Xanax daze for the green light to signal me through Customs. I was grateful I had ignored Uncle Ralph’s advice to bring some Oxycontin “just in case.” I was worried enough about making it through with Sudafed; the last thing I needed to carry was time-release heroin.
The light flashed green and I stepped into the lobby area, which was enclosed by glass walls, creating a greenhouse effect.
Sweat trickled from my forehead into my eyes.
I was surrounded by anxious tour operators, reunited lovers, and vending machines selling fifteen varieties of peanuts.
It was total chaos, and I wondered if I would faint right here from heatstroke, because that would be a very anonymous way to die.
I also wondered if my host parents would show up.
Suzanne had arranged a homestay for me when I had gone by the Justice Alliance office to pick up my training packet last week.
I had asked for an apartment, because really, I had enough problems with my own parents.
I certainly didn’t need another set. But Suzanne had been adamant in her silky-smooth way.
“This will make things much easier for you,” she had said, standing and sitting and standing and sitting, because she seemed to have a problem not doing ten things at once.
“They’ll show you the ropes, teach you how to get around. Trust me, you’ll be thankful.”
And I was, at least right now, because my host parents, Eva and Luis Marín, were carrying an enormous sign that said, “Welcome Dee Blum.” In all that strangeness, at least something was familiar.
I lugged my bags toward the sign and put them down.
My host mother, Marilyn Monroe fabulous with bouncy hair, magenta lipstick, and an hourglass figure, stretched her arms toward me.
“ Bienvenida ,” she said in breathy Spanish, her mouth near my ear.
“I hope you will be like a real daughter to me.” Her breath was minty. Her teeth were whitened.
“I’ll take those,” said Luis, picking up my bags. He was short and sturdy, with the build of a boxer. I guessed they were both in their forties. As we walked toward an exit, Eva pointed to a small food kiosk.
“Here’s the concession area,” she said. “They have great coffee, and the empanadas are adequate. I’d stay away from the bizcochos though, they’re very oily. Would you like anything?”
“No, thanks.” We stepped out of the airport and walked across the road to the garage. Independent vendors were selling fresh-cut fruit and chili-lime peanuts. “Oo—maybe we can get some mango.”
“No!” said Eva, surprisingly severely. “ Never eat street food.” She considered. “Unless you want to lose a few kilos.” She sounded like my real mom.
After paying the parking fee, Eva and Luis deposited me and my bags in the back of their sedan. I was squished between stacks of glossy pamphlets and pharmaceutical samples. Apparently one of them was a drug rep. What luck! Now I wouldn’t need to worry about running out of Xanax.
“So you just graduated from college?” asked Eva, as Luis got onto the highway. I smiled noncommittally. Why get ticky-tacky about details? “What kind of work are you doing here?”
“I’m organizing tours of organic, sustainable, fair trade coffee farms.”
“Oh.” Eva paused with the nail of her pinky finger at the corner of her mouth, looking at me through the rearview mirror.
Then she looked back at herself and scraped away some excess lipstick.
I imagined how strange my job would sound to two people who had grown up surrounded by coffee farms. For them, that would be like vacationing in Iowa to learn about corn.
“Who goes on those tours?” she asked, gamely taking a second stab.
“People with a social conscience who want to use their money and time to educate themselves.” That did it. It was the last question Eva asked about my work in Costa Rica, and that was just as well with me.
“You’re going to love Costa Rica,” she said, changing tack. “It’s the most beautiful country in the world. And we’re the Switzerland of Central America.”
I’d read this propaganda in my guidebook, but as we left the airport environs, I could see why Costa Rica inspired such exaggerated praise.
The clouds were bigger, the colors were brighter, and everything was more immediate.
And there was life everywhere. Palms, ferns, fruit trees.
I grasped my grandfather’s gold snakes, overcome with gratitude.
I had asked to be delivered from my sterility, and here I was, smack in the middle of a flowering nation.
Eva turned to face me. Apparently, she was not a big fan of silence.
“I love your carry-on bag. I got some great luggage in Miami.” She went on to list the comparative advantages of shopping in different countries.
I didn’t tell her that all Americans don’t go to Europe to buy their wardrobe, because I figured we had so little in common to begin with, why start digging a greater divide?
“Yes, it’s true nothing compares with Italian leather,” I said.
I noticed her posture had become very rigid, and I wondered if I had said something wrong.
But as we started going higher up a hill, passing through nicer and nicer neighborhoods, she seemed to relax.
Corrugated tin and old tires gave way to turquoise houses and banana trees. The road was also smoother.
“We’ll give you a list of approved neighborhoods,” she said, rubbing hand sanitizer between her fingers.
“You really want to stay at the top of the hill,” said Luis.
I looked at him, askance. Did he mean that literally or figuratively?
Were they bougie elitists? But before I could prod further into their class politics, Luis took a turn at full speed and then slammed on the brakes.
Dozens of pamphlets fluttered before my eyes, and little blue pills zipped by my forehead.
When the pamphlets settled and the pills stopped flying, I opened my eyes.
Our car stood not ten feet from a smoking taxi and a man crumpled on the ground. Holy shit. Was he alive?
Some pedestrians rushed over to the man. Suddenly, he sat up and started cursing the taxi driver in colorful slang. The crowd burst into applause. Dogs and roosters howled in concert.
“What luck,” said Eva. Some men helped the injured guy to the side of the road, where he continued to impugn the chastity of the taxi driver’s mother.
“Luck?” I asked.
“He’s standing,” she said. “Most people who have accidents at this intersection leave in a bag.”
I gulped. That was a grim detail. Luis turned off his engine. The taxi was in the middle of the street, along with two dozen gawkers. Trying to pass was futile.
Eva went on to give me a detailed history of the accidents at this corner while we waited for Emergency Services to arrive. I learned ES here was like the Tooth Fairy; you had to lose a body part to get proof it existed.
“You must stay alert when you walk here,” she said. “The water tanks reduce visibility.” I looked at the huge blue cylindrical steel water tanks and wondered why they had been built in the location most likely to cause problems.
Suddenly I heard a groan. Orange-suited emergency workers were attempting to put the man’s knee back in place. This elicited a new round of exciting profanities; I would have to look them up later.
“You have to be careful everywhere,” added Luis.
“Yes,” said Eva. “Walking isn’t safe. Especially not by yourself.”
Wait. Hadn’t she just said we were in the “Switzerland of Central America”?
“I thought this was a very safe country.”
“It used to be,” she said, nodding. “But the murder rate has gone through the roof. Organized crime and drug cartels act with impunity. But our neighborhood is still okay. As long as you don’t walk.”
Cool, cool, just drug cartels and organized crime. Sounded like home! Finally, the road cleared and Luis restarted the car.
When we arrived at their house, I began to suspect that my host mother and I shared a preoccupation with safety first .
An iron gate stood a good ten feet tall, protecting their two-story white fortress from the outside world.
All the doors and windows were covered with iron bars.
But preventive measures didn’t stop at barriers; coming straight at us was a snarling attack dog, carrying a chewed-up doll in his yellowed teeth.
As soon as the dog saw me, he dropped the doll and lunged.
“ ?Rambo! ?Basta! ” Eva waved her acrylic nails in his general direction.
“AAAAAHHHHHH!” I said, throwing elbows and knees. When the dog put his paws on my chest, I lost my balance and fell to the ground, knocking the one-eyed, one-legged baby doll with my foot. The doll must’ve had a machine in her torso, because she began to wail.
“Waaaah!” said the doll.
“Aaaaah!” said I.
“Down boy,” said Luis, in my opinion, way too calmly.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” said Eva, motioning for me to get up, even though Rambo’s paws were pinning me to the ground. Luis jerked the dog’s collar. Drool from his snarling face trickled onto my neck.
“ ?Qué está pasando aquí? ” asked an elderly woman in Spanish, coming out from the house. “Here, doggy.” The old lady held out a handful of shelled peanuts from her apron. The dog stopped snapping at me, took his paws off my chest, and went to the front door.
“Come on, Dee, get up. He was just saying hi. Come in the house.” Eva held out her hand to me. “This is your grandmother, Abuelita Ivelise.”
Abuelita Ivelise was standing in the doorway. Her brow was furrowed and imposing. Her hair was an engineering marvel.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, in hesitant Spanish.
“The pleasure is mine.” She grabbed my arm with surprising strength. “Come sit, you look tired.”