I am presently away from Costa Rica. I am in a foreign country. I was born here, but it is now a different place to me. Familiar yet strange. If you are thinking this is going to be a political screed, you are wrong. Life is better when you avoid the ideological rabbit holes.
I have spent the past half of my life in Costa Rica, and every trip north requires an adjustment that never completely sticks before it is time to return to Ticolandia. Things I would take for granted had I never left the states seem alien now.
Exhibit A: I just got back from a seven-day trip that covered over 1,400 miles (2,300 kilometers), roughly the distance from Panama City to the Guatemala–Mexico border. The highways were multi-lane and I drove 80 mph (about 130 kph) just to keep up most of the time. My total drive time was about 21 hours. The same drive through Central America, even not counting time spent at border crossings, would likely be measured in days, not hours.
So good were the roads and so smooth the rental car that I was never stressed. I love this convenience, yet will not miss it for a second once I am gone. mCar doors are slammed here. My Tica daughter, up with me for a week, noted this phenomenon. It is the opposite of what we are used to. You know that sign you see in Tico taxis that demands that you NO TIRE LA PUERTA? Forget about it.
That gentle, loving way of closing a car door that I am used to, one that says I am paying a lot of money for this aging car and need to pamper it as long as I own it, is nonexistent here. Walking through the supermarket parking lot, the chorus of slamming doors goes off like fireworks.
On my neighborhood walks I am the lone pedestrian. I mention this ad nauseum on every visit, but it deserves to be repeated. It’s a beautiful, breezy sunny day, and I walk for hours, through suburban hoods, down country lanes, along the edge of busy commercial strips, looking to the driving passersby like some old guy who must be either crazy, confused, or lost.
Many drivers wave to me, especially in the neighborhoods, and probably wonder why I am not driving. I appreciate their fleeting friendliness. The sun is out longer but less intense, and I walk without perspiring, which is a nice contrast to my post-hike ritual in Costa Rica, where I remove my shirt and wring out the sweat.
An unleashed dog is either escaped from its home or lost. What a contrast from my barrio back home, where the street is shared by cars, cyclists, walkers, and various free-range zaguates, none of whom are lost or escaped.
The differences are everywhere: soccer takes a distant backseat to American football, and I keep tabs on the Sele on Tico websites. The cheap Spanish beers like Turia and Timber are not available here, so I drink Yuengling. Even Mentos, my favorite type of mints, are different, not as sweet and with a harder chewing gum base.
I am not complaining, simply pointing out a few differences between the first world I left and the modernizing but still developing world where I choose to live. Pura Vida.
