Like many Costa Ricans, I’m a bit of a clean freak. This extends from the constant showering and brushing of teeth to the curious sleep disorder I experience when I know that there are dirty dishes on the sink. I was concerned that this might pose a challenge in having a roommate. I was concerned that others might not understand my strong and healthy relationship with Lysol.
The gala’s title, “De Verde a Gris,” reflects the idea that Costa Ricans who move to New York must leave the green of their homeland for the gray of their new surroundings. For one evening at least, the music, food and art of Costa Rica lit up a small corner of a big city.
Smith spends so much time developing the Costa Rican context that it’s hard to tell where her story is going. But just wait: The intrigue thickens rapidly, accumulating characters and subplots with each chapter, and the denouement is a scene of horrifying violence.
My first winter here implied a very steep learning curve. If there are any readers out there who have not lived through January or February beyond, say, the 35th parallel, please beware: Winter is kind of evil.
The first thing I felt upon arriving in New Jersey was loneliness. Of course, that’s a common feature of the expat experience anywhere, but being Costa Rican is a particularly gregarious phenomenon.
Costa Rica has failed to address the migration of its highly skilled workers and “lacks strategies to take advantage of Costa Rican talent outside the country,” a recent survey noted.
