According to the website Franchisetimes.com, my household income in Costa Rica puts me solidly in the middle class. I live comfortably, if simply. Bills are paid on time, there is food in the fridge and a car in the driveway. In-country trips to the beach or the mountains are within the budget.
Economic status is, of course, relative to where you live. One hundred dollars goes a lot further in the Philippines than in Switzerland. And for me, quality of life in Costa Rica is not dependent on spending power. I am happy with my status living a middle-class life in Costa Rica. Yet when I come back to Gringolandia for a visit, I am struck by the difference in what constitutes the middle class between here and there.
I am house and dog sitting here for my daughter and her family. She and her husband both work in supervisory positions at a Target and a Chick-fil-A. These are jobs that provide for a comfortable middle-class life in this part of the States. I just finished running a high-powered upright vacuum cleaner over the tile floor of their townhouse. I do this daily because two of the dogs I am sitting are huskies. And they are in full shedding mode. If there was a market for husky fur, I could score some quick cash.
When I tire of using the vacuum, they also have a disc robot that glides along the floor like an appliance from the Jetsons cartoon, using sensors to suck up dust and fur. As I do these chores, I think of my middle-class life back in Costa Rica, with my 12-kilo zaguate who spends most of her time outdoors, and whose shed hair is collected each day with a broom and dustpan.
Back there, we have a car sitting in the driveway. The car died recently while climbing El Alto and awaits a part to be brought back from the States. Up here, I have use of a VW Atlas, which is so easy to drive it glides through traffic almost on its own. My son-in-law’s double-cab Longhorn Ram pickup is parked and locked, off limits by mutual agreement.
In the house, the AC is set at a comfortable 72 Fahrenheit. I have the World Cup on a giant flat-screen TV in the living room. There are two more of these, one in each bedroom. Back in Ticolandia, the 32-inch flat screen that I bought a dozen years ago is our main TV, though I do watch a lot of sports on the small screen of my second-hand laptop.
The kitchen is sleek, with all-electric chromium appliances. I load the dishwasher, pop in a soap pellet, and hit start. Just to feel at home, I wash the pot and skillet by hand, with some dish soap and a U.S. version of La Negrita, Costa Rica’s own scrub pad.
This modest, middle-class townhouse also features a doorbell camera that allows my daughter and son-in-law to communicate with me from 5,000 miles away when I am in the front yard. The neighborhood is quiet and serene, with a notable absence of barking dogs and unmufflered motorcycles.
So, my middle-class U.S. daughter and her family are in Italy for two weeks while my Costa Rican middle-class self sleeps on the couch, guards the house and cleans up after the huskies. In a week, I will be back home in Costa Rica, where I will walk to town and back, cook my eggs and beans on a two-burner gas stove and watch the rest of the World Cup on my well-used laptop. Pura Vida!
