“Breathe on me, breath of God.
Fill me with life anew
That I might love as thou hast loved
And do what thou wouldst do.”
-- Traditional hymn
Fill me with life anew
That I might love as thou hast loved
And do what thou wouldst do.”
-- Traditional hymn
My first day in Costa Rica was par for course, considering the morning that preceded it.
The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, had me flying out of Greensboro at 7:20am, arriving in Atlanta at 8:47, and departing for San Jose at 10:01. So, assuming that I would have no difficulty getting through the Greensboro airport traffic at 6 in the morning, my mom and I set out for the airport at dawn.
When we arrived at the airport, I was eager to get the luggage (or as we say here “equipaje”) checked because I knew that I had some unusual arrangements to provide for- such as the overweight suitcases, 75-lb personal carry-on that I knew from experience wouldn’t fit in the overhead bins, and the two violins I was expected to carry along with me. Alas, when the vintage 1970’s automatic doors retracted I was faced with a check-in line the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I went to Europe with all 200 Grimsley High School choral students. The line was stagnant, and it seemed as though we were all just standing around and that no one was taking the initiative to get things moving along.
Eventually, in the haze of anger and confusion, the word spread from person to person that our flights had all been delayed by an hour and a half due to the airline policy that flight crews have minimal rest before taking off. I personally am very glad that this policy exists for obvious reasons, however a substantial delay was the difference between making it to my connection and being stranded in Atlanta for a day…alone. After an hour, and only ten feet further ahead in line, an airline official came through and asked each of us about our connecting flights and explaining that through necessity those with earlier connections that had even the smallest chance of making it would have to go on the earliest flight out and others would be transferred to a later flight. With my 10:01 departure, I was guaranteed the earlier flight…but not spared the indecently slow-paced queue.
At 8:15, with my new flight departure of 8:35 looming, I finally made it to the ticket counter, where I was abused verbally for my overweight bags and extra carry-on. Up to this point I had held myself together quite well, but her rough handling got to me. When the attendant refused to let me pay the extra baggage and made me open my bags and throw out whatever I could spare, my mom stepped in to tell them that I was moving away for a year, she brusquely responded that “we’re an airline- not a moving service.” And then threw my halfway-zipped bags on to the conveyor belt carelessly and telling me that I was going to miss my flight and to start running. Angry at her ill-treatment, I broke down and started crying…I was making a tremendous move to another country and it was all on the verge of being ruined because of poor planning on the part of the airline. It was too much.
Saying goodbye to my mom and placing everything I owned on the security screener, I tearfully prepared to run all the way to the last gate, which of course was where my plane was parked. I heard the final boarding call for the flight…and then I heard them call my name. I ran as hard as a plus-sized woman with a violin in one hand and a 75-lb book bag strapped to her back- oh, and flip flopped- can run, yelling at the stewardess to hold the door.
Our flight to Atlanta offered me some hope- we made great time and actually landed on the tarmac at 9:20, giving me plenty of time to take the train to the E terminal and to my gate for passport check. However, as the day would prove, nothing is ever that easy. We sat on the tarmac waiting for a gate opening until 9:50, and then I ran again…only this time through Atlanta’s gigantic airport. I got to the international terminal at 9:58 and thought that I would be spending the night in Atlanta when I heard the final boarding call. I ran again, almost in tears because I was sure that the plane was gone… it was 10:04. HOWEVER, much to my benefit, a young couple of newlyweds were negotiating their seats- the door was still open- and I was officially the last person to board the flight to San Jose.
Descending into San Jose was incredible- I have never seen such tremendous cloud formations, nor have I seen such dramatic scenery. The airport, which seems small but isn’t really, offers stunning views of the mountain ring that surrounds the city and features waterfalls and live music at every turn… not to mention a host of American restaurants like Papa John’s and Quiznos. It almost felt like a mall with planes pulling up to it!
San Jose is a beautiful city, although not in the way we as Americans typically think of something as beautiful. Make no mistake- you know from the moment you land on the tarmac that you’ve entered the third world. You can’t deny the flood of cheap cars emitting their plumes of thick smoke, or the sleeping homeless lounging on every corner, the poor infrastructure, or the feeling that you’ve just stepped into an issue of The Economist with its frequent photos of banana republics galore. No, this city has a color and a spice to it- it’s miles of brightly painted stores and churches adorned with razor wire, framed with tremendous flowering hibiscus plants, lush tropical verdure, and the smell of wood smoke mixed with exhaust. I feel like I can’t do it justice, but suffice it to say that I didn’t want to blink for fear that I’d miss another quaint image of Costa Rican city life.
It’s pretty easy to see why most of the country resides in San Jose. The temperature when I arrived was a cool 69 degrees, and I almost regretted not bringing a sweater…in fact still regret it a little as I write this on the bed in the Central Moravian parsonage where my windows are proving far more efficient than any air conditioning unit I’ve ever experienced. The city boasts everything you could ever want- casinos (attached to the Burger King, no less), fine dining, dance clubs, cinemas, upscale shopping and markets, and even the local street corner market vendors we unconsciously equate with Central American living. It is perfectly situated within the country, with the deserts and beaches of the west coast 2 hours away, and the rainforest and swampy Carribean coast that we usually picture when Costa Rica is mentioned (think Jurassic Park) within 3 hours to the east.
Of course, there is a seedy underbelly. There are myriad options for hourly hotel stays, and a high crime rate; every car has an alarm, every house as well, and the razor wire isn’t for decoration. They are also fond of fences. And not picket fences, but huge 10 ft high metal fences that make every shanty and mansion into tremendous compounds. Even as I write this, my host for the night- Benjamin- has just come by my bedroom to let me know that while our house alarm my go off during the night, the house itself is very safe. Good to know.
I haven’t had time to explore here as much as I’d like- although I think I’d be terrified to go out alone here- but I did get to have the most delicious Italian food EVER in a restaurant that had wooden slats for walls and floors…and you can see through the inch-wide gaps! Straight to the ground! All the way to the dirt and grass! I’ve also had the siesta of a lifetime in my wooden bed, which tells you a lot about how I spent my afternoon and evening…
Tomorrow Br. Leo Pixley (President of the Provincial Elders Conference here in Costa Rica) and I will leave San Jose at 5:30am and catch the bus to Limon, where I am told- frequently- it is unbearably hot and humid and smells like dead fish. I hope I can make it in a truly tropical setting- the natives don’t think I can. I also pray that I won’t get Malaria, as the pharmacy back in Greensboro couldn’t fill my whole prescription.
At any rate- tomorrow is a new experience. My first view of the Rainforest, and my first time seeing the faces of those I hope to teach. I hope it will be the blessing of a lifetime. And I hope there are lots of sloths.
The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, had me flying out of Greensboro at 7:20am, arriving in Atlanta at 8:47, and departing for San Jose at 10:01. So, assuming that I would have no difficulty getting through the Greensboro airport traffic at 6 in the morning, my mom and I set out for the airport at dawn.
When we arrived at the airport, I was eager to get the luggage (or as we say here “equipaje”) checked because I knew that I had some unusual arrangements to provide for- such as the overweight suitcases, 75-lb personal carry-on that I knew from experience wouldn’t fit in the overhead bins, and the two violins I was expected to carry along with me. Alas, when the vintage 1970’s automatic doors retracted I was faced with a check-in line the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I went to Europe with all 200 Grimsley High School choral students. The line was stagnant, and it seemed as though we were all just standing around and that no one was taking the initiative to get things moving along.
Eventually, in the haze of anger and confusion, the word spread from person to person that our flights had all been delayed by an hour and a half due to the airline policy that flight crews have minimal rest before taking off. I personally am very glad that this policy exists for obvious reasons, however a substantial delay was the difference between making it to my connection and being stranded in Atlanta for a day…alone. After an hour, and only ten feet further ahead in line, an airline official came through and asked each of us about our connecting flights and explaining that through necessity those with earlier connections that had even the smallest chance of making it would have to go on the earliest flight out and others would be transferred to a later flight. With my 10:01 departure, I was guaranteed the earlier flight…but not spared the indecently slow-paced queue.
At 8:15, with my new flight departure of 8:35 looming, I finally made it to the ticket counter, where I was abused verbally for my overweight bags and extra carry-on. Up to this point I had held myself together quite well, but her rough handling got to me. When the attendant refused to let me pay the extra baggage and made me open my bags and throw out whatever I could spare, my mom stepped in to tell them that I was moving away for a year, she brusquely responded that “we’re an airline- not a moving service.” And then threw my halfway-zipped bags on to the conveyor belt carelessly and telling me that I was going to miss my flight and to start running. Angry at her ill-treatment, I broke down and started crying…I was making a tremendous move to another country and it was all on the verge of being ruined because of poor planning on the part of the airline. It was too much.
Saying goodbye to my mom and placing everything I owned on the security screener, I tearfully prepared to run all the way to the last gate, which of course was where my plane was parked. I heard the final boarding call for the flight…and then I heard them call my name. I ran as hard as a plus-sized woman with a violin in one hand and a 75-lb book bag strapped to her back- oh, and flip flopped- can run, yelling at the stewardess to hold the door.
Our flight to Atlanta offered me some hope- we made great time and actually landed on the tarmac at 9:20, giving me plenty of time to take the train to the E terminal and to my gate for passport check. However, as the day would prove, nothing is ever that easy. We sat on the tarmac waiting for a gate opening until 9:50, and then I ran again…only this time through Atlanta’s gigantic airport. I got to the international terminal at 9:58 and thought that I would be spending the night in Atlanta when I heard the final boarding call. I ran again, almost in tears because I was sure that the plane was gone… it was 10:04. HOWEVER, much to my benefit, a young couple of newlyweds were negotiating their seats- the door was still open- and I was officially the last person to board the flight to San Jose.
Descending into San Jose was incredible- I have never seen such tremendous cloud formations, nor have I seen such dramatic scenery. The airport, which seems small but isn’t really, offers stunning views of the mountain ring that surrounds the city and features waterfalls and live music at every turn… not to mention a host of American restaurants like Papa John’s and Quiznos. It almost felt like a mall with planes pulling up to it!
San Jose is a beautiful city, although not in the way we as Americans typically think of something as beautiful. Make no mistake- you know from the moment you land on the tarmac that you’ve entered the third world. You can’t deny the flood of cheap cars emitting their plumes of thick smoke, or the sleeping homeless lounging on every corner, the poor infrastructure, or the feeling that you’ve just stepped into an issue of The Economist with its frequent photos of banana republics galore. No, this city has a color and a spice to it- it’s miles of brightly painted stores and churches adorned with razor wire, framed with tremendous flowering hibiscus plants, lush tropical verdure, and the smell of wood smoke mixed with exhaust. I feel like I can’t do it justice, but suffice it to say that I didn’t want to blink for fear that I’d miss another quaint image of Costa Rican city life.
It’s pretty easy to see why most of the country resides in San Jose. The temperature when I arrived was a cool 69 degrees, and I almost regretted not bringing a sweater…in fact still regret it a little as I write this on the bed in the Central Moravian parsonage where my windows are proving far more efficient than any air conditioning unit I’ve ever experienced. The city boasts everything you could ever want- casinos (attached to the Burger King, no less), fine dining, dance clubs, cinemas, upscale shopping and markets, and even the local street corner market vendors we unconsciously equate with Central American living. It is perfectly situated within the country, with the deserts and beaches of the west coast 2 hours away, and the rainforest and swampy Carribean coast that we usually picture when Costa Rica is mentioned (think Jurassic Park) within 3 hours to the east.
Of course, there is a seedy underbelly. There are myriad options for hourly hotel stays, and a high crime rate; every car has an alarm, every house as well, and the razor wire isn’t for decoration. They are also fond of fences. And not picket fences, but huge 10 ft high metal fences that make every shanty and mansion into tremendous compounds. Even as I write this, my host for the night- Benjamin- has just come by my bedroom to let me know that while our house alarm my go off during the night, the house itself is very safe. Good to know.
I haven’t had time to explore here as much as I’d like- although I think I’d be terrified to go out alone here- but I did get to have the most delicious Italian food EVER in a restaurant that had wooden slats for walls and floors…and you can see through the inch-wide gaps! Straight to the ground! All the way to the dirt and grass! I’ve also had the siesta of a lifetime in my wooden bed, which tells you a lot about how I spent my afternoon and evening…
Tomorrow Br. Leo Pixley (President of the Provincial Elders Conference here in Costa Rica) and I will leave San Jose at 5:30am and catch the bus to Limon, where I am told- frequently- it is unbearably hot and humid and smells like dead fish. I hope I can make it in a truly tropical setting- the natives don’t think I can. I also pray that I won’t get Malaria, as the pharmacy back in Greensboro couldn’t fill my whole prescription.
At any rate- tomorrow is a new experience. My first view of the Rainforest, and my first time seeing the faces of those I hope to teach. I hope it will be the blessing of a lifetime. And I hope there are lots of sloths.
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