Lilyyyyy...you got some 'splainin' to do...

I'm going to E.T. So, what does that mean? I'm going to early terminate my service in the Peace Corps. I've had a lot of people ask, ''Are you at peace with your decision?'' The answer is that although I am 100% positive that this is what I have to do, in no way does it sit well with me. So no. There's nothing peaceful about this. After a quick description (hand to God, it is the nutshell version) of why I'm choosing to come home early, I'll expand on exactly why it's so difficult.

Community members, particularly the community members that should be most interested in working with me given the position they have in town, simply aren't all that interested. I've exhausted my creativity in trying to capture their attention. When I can get a moment to propose, suggest and offer, it usually devolves into a discussion of why it's not possible and trash talking other community members. It started off as discouraging and has changed into being debilitating. And now they have begun to trash talk me, claiming that I'm never around and I'm not sociable.

The time that I do have the attention of the VIPs that I should be working with is when they want me to make it rain infrastructural development and grant money. And that's not the role that I imagined for myself nor one that I should be playing. I have no doubt that Peace Corps adequately prepared my site. But the expectations such as those previously mentioned are just the tip of the iceberg. I feel like I'm being pulled in a million directions and all of these paths end at the creation of some monster project. I have a work plan that fits well into the goals of my program and although I'm giving it 100%, that seems not to be enough for most people.

And while we're on the subject of expectations, the ones that I have mentioned are the clearly expressed expectations. There's also a whole host of tacit expectations that I don't know I haven't met until people-tell-people-to-tell-me that I haven't met them. Or until something goes wrong and I'm asked why I didn't make the photocopies or Didn't you look into that yet? or Why weren't you there? or...well...etc.

I would like to take a second to say that my position is defensible, but that I don't particularly feel beholden to go into the nitty gritty of it on my blog. It typed it out and it sounds whiny, however true it may be. So I deleted it.

Finally, and perhaps the most overwhelming of this whole thing...no one in my community is nice to each other. Whenever I meet with people to sit down and plan something, all I hear is ''So-and-so NEVER helps, she just sits back and waits until the last minute to claim credit.'' Or, ''He never participates.'' Or ''These people don't understand what it is to work hard to achieve something.'' (P.S. that last one is BULLSHIT because if you can live in rural Costa Rica you're working hard in some way or another.) Some of these statements have been directed at host family members of mine which is wearying. But regardless of who they're directed at, I try to play devil's advocate. I've tried personal appeals, ''When you talk about people like that, it makes me sad.'' I've also said, ''Well of course she don't want to help when you talk about her like that.'' I've pleaded to give people second chances, involve them anyway and see what happens! Nothing. And to put it simply, it just gets me down. In a community of 338 people who have nothing nice to say about each other (even in the middle of an activity specifically designed to extract just that) I can't keep being the only person with positive things to say.

Move on and work with other people, you say? Within the community, I've reached out to other organizations and individuals and while I haven't been completely rejected, there is a certain, ''Yeah...I guess...'' that isn't encouraging and of course no firm commitments to work together. Topping it all off, the local branch of the agency that is supposed to be my program's counterpart is not interested in building a working relationship with me. I've called more times than I can count and sat outside the office for days in a row waiting for the rep who works inside to come into work. Nada.

I also had a massive grasshopper land on my hand earlier and just a few second ago on my face. It certainly doesn't help.

Now I can move onto why it's difficult. My host mom, my goddaughter and my boyfriend. The other volunteers. The stigma of early terminating. Giving up totally without trying another site. Not having a clear direction to go in once I get back to the U.S. You, my blog readers. All those high schoolers I just talked to over break. The Peace Corps - all the time and resources they put into training and sustaining me. My dog. My own sense of duty. How angry I am at myself for not meeting my own high standards and expectations. The fear that I will become a total fuck-up. Fear about a lot of other things, too.

My friend today, the first one that I called to tell about my early termination said two things that were perfect. He said, ''Lily, it's not like it's World War II. The Nazis don't win if you go home. You don't have to get your leg blown off and then like, stay with your brothers in battle.'' He also said, ''Only a fool plays the bad hand they've been dealt. Sometimes the smart thing to do is to fold.''

Lily out.

Get my nails did...

I love my salon. Peace Corps peeps, you may think I'm taking about the town hall. Nope, I'm talking about the hair and nail place in Santa Cruz. I stopped in there one day because it was so hot outside and I thought, ''Oh my. They probably have air conditioning, I'll just ask to sit down for a minute.'' I sat down and then was promptly asked, ''What are you here for?'' I looked down at my nails and since then, haven't looked back.

There's two sisters who do nails at this place. They're Colombian and, ergo, complete firecrackers. Zulma and Yamileth don't seem like they'd work well together because they are both such strong personalities. But they have a grand old time from what I've seen. If I say I'm in no rush, it can be three hours of chit chatting, yelling, eating and consulting with other customers before my nails are done and I love every minute of it. Yesterday, for example, I went in and asked for a manicure and a pedicure. Usually, Zulma does my nails while Yamileth works on my feet but yesterday it was all Zulma. She asked about how things were, if I'd seen the other volunteer that sometimes comes in. Another customer commented on my Spanish and so we started talking. Yamileth asked how my boyfriend was and I returned the inquiry. And on and on.

Apart from the social aspect that I enjoy, these ladies are pure artists. I asked for a ''tema navideña'' or a Christmas theme and I got it - I have super ornate poinsettias on my nails right now. I'll post a picture below and please remember to be culturally sensitive when if you choose to comment to me about them.

The only downside is that perhaps these nails are not meant for the countryside. My sister said last night during a Skype conversation about my nails, ''How do those fare when you're digging latrines?'' I said, ''If I find out that I have to dig a latrine tomorrow, I'll be pissed.'' Well, it wasn't latrine digging but I did volunteer to help my host mom shuck her corn crop that came in yesterday. Only enough to make about 50 tamales, but I was halfway through the first ear when I thought, ''This is my latrine.'' Luckily there was no harm done, but I'm also not about to volunteer to shuck any more corn before the Christmas parties die down. I always get mad props from the ladies in town when I show off these gems.

And if you're curious about how hardcore a Peace Corps volunteer with manicured nails can be, please refer to a previous blog from this month.

Blogger be weird and for the last week or so has not uploaded photos correctly.  Oops...I'll post them to my Facebook instead.

Oops...this is from Dec 17

Tonight I went to a posada, an series of events organized by the church for the kids in town to celebrate the advent season. This is the first one that I've been to, but not the first one our town has had. I was missing out, haha. I went over early to help out the mom who was hosting it and hung out with the other parents and kids as they arrived. I held a baby that I've been meaning to hold for awhile. That's a long story, but basically I think his mom doesn't like me too much - UNTIL! I hold her baby for twenty minutes and give her a break while she watches him smile at me like an itty bitty angel. Score.

There were other great things about the posada. Apart from candle lighting (and, um, some hair lighting...sheesh) and gazing upon the creche and the Christmas tree, all the little kids also wrote out on a paper star a wish for their families at Christmas. After hanging them, my host sister asked, ''So after all of these posadas, what do you think the meaning of Christmas is?'' And it was an adult who answered somewhere in the middle of all the answers that said, ''Giving to others who are less fortunate.''

Bam. I made my application to Peace Corps and came to Costa Rica on an invitation to serve in a community that is decidedly struggling with resources. My commitment to serve is fed by several streams of thought. The primary reason to serve is that I grew up not lacking anything and I think that now it's my duty to try and provide similar opportunities for people who do not have them. My cup overfloweth, so where can I direct the excess?

I don't think I have to say it, but I will - I was so profoundly touched by what this woman said that I have to tell other people about it now. This isn't some kid who was thoughtlessly repeating what s/he's heard on TV. It wasn't even a community member who has a lot to give compared to her neighbors. I think that's why it impacted me so much. Someone who has a reason to be jaded and feel like opportunity has passed her by instead feels grateful for what she has and further, wants to reach out to those with less. Combined with her demeanor and her actions, I know that this isn't some sudden only-because-it's-Christmas sentiment, too.

I dunno. You read about people like this, usually in a chain email or someone's blog or in a book of saints. It was impressive.

TOPETOPETOPE

Oh jeez - to even BEGIN to talk about today makes me far more exhausted than I already am. Luckily, I really like talking and writing stuff down. I'm tempted to leave this for tomorrow and maybe I'll still refine this before I post, but I have to get all this good stuff down.

Today, I rode in a tope. Right, which in past blogs I've mistakenly called a ''horse parade''. It was so much more than just tromping along a dirt road to get to some random place for a dance. My first clue that this was something far more serious was the discussion about my wardrobe in the last two days. I was perfectly content to wear a nice tee shirt, skinny jeans, hiking boots and my Stetson. That wasn't going to fly. I was told that I absolutely had to wear a long sleeve (or at least 3/4 length) plaid shirt. Also, I wasn't allowed to wear hiking boots, we'd find someone my size who could lend me riding boots. That ended up being my uncle and as worried as he was that they were old and ugly, I said, ''No worries, I need all the help I can get to look legitimate. I'll leave no doubt that I'm not from 'round here when I demonstrate my horsemanship.'' My host mom lent me a size small Talbot´s petite, plaid, red button up. Which is why, if you've checked my Facebook, you see that I wore a shirt underneath and tied the plaid shirt up under my boobs. To top it all off, the thing that I could not leave the house without was my Stetson. I did gain some vaquera (cowgirl) points for owning my own hat, even if it is a different style than is used locally. I walked out of my house and met whistles and shouts from near all my family members. Once I was on the horse, it was over, I won the medal for crowd pleasing today. I didn't know so many people in my family had cameras and cell phones until they were all taking pictures of me.

Only, I ruined it - a neighbor asked, ''What's in the bag?'' because indeed, I did carry a rather large tote bag. I replied, ''It's the change of clothes for the dance tonight in case I don't make it back in time to change here.'' Laughter. ''Ay, Lily...''

Right. So. It was also no secret that my host cousin procured me the slowest moving mare within 20 miles of town. That was on purpose because I asked him pretty please to get me a horse that wouldn't kill me. What I didn't count on was that this horse would like...refuse to move. I found out later that it was partially my fault (when handled correctly it will actually move a lot faster. A lot faster). But to get it out the family yard and into the street I and the other riders had to do some coaxing. Eventually we got on our way and after stopping for awhile in a neighbor's farm to pick up more riders, I left Las Pozas for the San Lázaro tope with six gen-yoo-ine cowboys. Lord help me.

We followed a pretty wide path from the side of this farm all the way to the corral where the social part of the tope was being held - this is what I didn't account for in my ponderings of what the day would be like. I figured there'd be a horse parade that would roll through my town and we'd just join it until we arrived in San Lázaro. No sir. We got to the corral and I paid $20 bucks (jue...!) to get a fabric plaque with a number on it pinned to my back. I also got one meal card and four drink cards to redeem at my choosing. I started to get nervous - my friends who just ran the marathon in Panama had numbers on their bodies. Professional sports players wear numbers. Bull riders wear numbers. Lily does not wear numbers. I panicked silently for two minutes before I asked my cousin, ''So...um, what do these numbers mean? They're not expecting me to compete in anything, right?'' But nope - thank God that the numbers were just a part of a raffle that would be held later on. It's an odd use of number pinning, but whatevs. I was safe.

We got to the corral around 1:00 pm. Starting at 1:30, the organizers (the Cemetery Committee of San Lázaro...funny, because I'm pretty sure in a town named Saint Lazarus there'd be decreased demand for such a committee) handed out plates of food to all the riders every half hour. I was also getting my drink on. Unfortunately, because of the drink, I soon had to find a bathroom. I thought my options would be slim, but I was not expecting a corrugated tin shed with a slightly elevated cement ring in the middle.  And, because I know y'all love it when I talk about bathrooms, I can tell you I would prefer it any day to some bathrooms I have seen in Ecuador.  Just as a comparison.

But also in my big bag of fresh clothes, I had hand sanitizer. After that I hung around with the riders for a bit more and then all of a sudden it was time to go - the big truck with speakers on it was announcing our departure and playing some typical folk music and so everybody mounted up and got going in a big group. I'd say there were no less than 50 people on horses.

We didn't just keep going until San Lázaro - there was a stop at a bar that was like, open bar for the riders...I had blanched at paying $20 to enter this thing but I made out like a bandit in that deal. Twenty minutes there and we continued as a group to give a turn around the main plaza in town and end up at the town hall. This was the tope's reception and there was still more drink (although to my disappointment, no more fried/grilled meat and tortillas like there was in the corral). There they did the raffle and two of the people in my group won some prizes. They were prizes that were fitting to the occasion - a new line of rope to one and a bottle of Old Parr to the other. After that there was some music and dancing. But mostly I just sat around for two hours while men my father's age told me, ''Your eyes are so pretty in the sunlight! But don't worry, I'm a happy married man! Come on, let's dance.'' After two hours, that gets as old as they are. I was kind of missing girl-company this whole day, too. It's okay when you're on the horse and you've got all these daydreams about how bad ass you look to distract you. When you're sitting in a bar just hanging out and trying to follow a conversation about furniture building in Spanish...meh. I was a little tired of that.

I said to one of my friends, ''I think I'm heading home...I can just go the way we came, right?'' And he said, ''Noooo, you can't go alone, it's way too dangerous, two of us will go with you now.'' So that was okay and we started heading back. Like every other event that takes place ''now'', it was more than forty five minutes before we got past the bar we had previously stopped at during the tope. In their defense, there were some finals being played today between two national teams in soccer. And to my everlasting delight, when we stopped at this bar there were people lined up outside the windows to see the game on the T.V. inside. They were shoulder to shoulder and moving all around each other, drinking beer and yelling at the players. And they were still on their horses. Not just a line of people packed tightly together, but their horses as well. That was great.

We finally head out - I'm tired because I'd been out dancing the night before and because I'd had some stuff to drink early in the afternoon. I'm also a little bored by the plodding, stolid pace of my mare. I'd been motivating her all day with kind words of praise when she did something well and also occasionally smacking her rear with a tajona, a small leather whip. When we're back on the highway headed back to Las Pozas I told my cousin, ''I don't want you guys to spend all night taking me back and then you have to turn around. You're losing too much time. Tell me what to do to make Rosa run.'' I was instructed to bring the reins up closer to her ears, give it some slack and crack the tajona. So I did.

I wish...hmm...I wish I could encapsulate the absolute terror I felt into one easy punchy sentence. But I can't. It wasn't just being afraid, it was also surprise that the mare could move. I mean, move. She went from racing turtles (and losing) to hauling ass in less than a second. My cousin and his friend started galloping, too and the three of us were bolting down the highway towards my town. Rosa started to slow a little bit so I just made the noises that I'd heard all day and she started moving faster. My hat flew off and when the cord caught my hat ended up somewhere around my shoulder. I'm pretty sure I was laughing maniacally. And, to top it all off, there were still people at the convenience store in my town, sitting outside and chatting. So they saw the three of us blow through and I heard more shouts and whistles as I pulled up the reins and led a trotting Rosa into the family yard. Great bookends for the day.

Speaking of ends - I thought I was being all cool and becoming a vaquera throughout this experience, especially the last ten minutes. My rear has other ideas. I have two cheeks yelling at me in tandem, demanding, ''What was that nonsense about, huh?! Look at me now!'' I was already thinking about the next time that I'd like to ride a horse, but I'm going to have to wait at least a few days to recuperate.

And that's that. Tope over. Althouuuuuughhhh....there's always the tope in Santa Cruz in January. Over 1,000 horses and riders enter. And that's far enough away for Mom to send me my checkered shirt and riding boots from home (erm, yes...the ones I've never used in 10 years will now become my preferred footwear).

Despite the potential for Christmas to suck away from all of you...it's actually okay.

Tonight I went to a posada, a series of events organized by the church for the kids in town to celebrate the advent season. This is the first one that I've been to, but not the first one our town has had. I was missing out, haha. I went over early to help out the mom who was hosting it and hung out with the other parents and kids as they arrived. I held a baby that I've been meaning to hold for awhile. That's a long story, but basically I think his mom doesn't like me too much - UNTIL! I hold her baby for twenty minutes and give her a break while she watches him smile at me like an itty bitty angel. Score.

There were other great things about the posada. Apart from candle lighting (and, um, some hair lighting...sheesh) and gazing upon the creche and the Christmas tree, all the little kids also wrote out on a paper star a wish for their families at Christmas. After hanging them, my host sister asked, ''So after all of these posadas, what do you think the meaning of Christmas is?'' And it was an adult who answered somewhere in the middle of all the answers that said, ''Giving to others who are less fortunate.''

Bam. I made my application to Peace Corps and came to Costa Rica on an invitation to serve in a community that is decidedly struggling with resources. My commitment to serve is fed by several streams of thought. The primary reason to serve is that I grew up not lacking anything and I think that now it's my duty to try and provide similar opportunities for people who do not have them. My cup overfloweth, so where can I direct the excess?

I don't think I have to say it, but I will - I was so profoundly touched by what this woman said that I have to tell other people about it now. This isn't some kid who was thoughtlessly repeating what s/he's heard on TV. It wasn't even a community member who has a lot to give compared to her neighbors. I think that's why it impacted me so much. Someone who has a reason to be jaded and feel like opportunity has passed her by instead feels grateful for what she has and further, wants to reach out to those with less. Combined with her demeanor and her actions, I know that this isn't some sudden only-because-it's-Christmas sentiment, too.

I dunno. You read about people like this, usually in a chain email or someone's blog or in a book of saints. It was impressive.

Quick one today, folks...

This is the picture of a nativity scene that was at a Christmas party I went to...

 

Awwww, that's nice, right?  One of the more elaborate nativity scenes I've seen in Costa Rica, actually.  And my oh my, but people get really into them here.  Well...then I noticed something...

  

Gold, frankincense, myrrh and...wait...

And, if I'm being honest, if I were a hen, I'd want those digs, too.

More corn and more pig fat, please.

I'll do my side note first: I decided to tackle homosexuality in my community diagnostic. The document is almost complete (how long have I been saying that?) but I felt like I needed to include something about the homophobic sentiment in my region. Not to say that I come from a culture that is the model of acceptance. I emailed one of my bosses asking if this was okay. I got the go ahead to approach the subject carefully and now I'm doing my best to skate on thin ice. To blunt, too offensive and I risk turning people off to working with me. Too passive or bland means I'm not accomplishing anything.

In other news, December is the month of celebrations and parties in Costa Rica. And the weather could not be better to find oneself outside at a fairground. Mom and Dad - forget about January 2013. December is THE month to be here. In San José this past weekend there was the Festival of Lights. The name is misleading, it's not about Chanukah. Insteadn the Festival of Lights in Costa Rica is a huuuuge parade with tons of floats, costumes and bands. From what I saw, it's like a cross between the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and the Philadelphia Mummers' New Year's Day Parade. My favorite part was the parade anthem sung by a woman who would have been X-ed out of America's Got Talent with unmatched speed. It went thus: ''Festival de la Luz! Festival de la Luz! Festival de la Luz, Festival de la Luz, Festival de la Luz!'' And so on.

There's also big town parties locally. Just a week ago, I came back from vacation in the United States to catch the tail end of the festival in Santa Bárbara. Got back on a 5:00 pm bus, showered and got changed and was out the house with my host sister by 6:30 walking to where our ride would pick us up to go. I don't know why, but after vacation in the U.S. I feel like I've got a new perspective - enjoy, guilt free, when fun things are happening. And continue to do my best when it comes to work. And not worry if I'm doing enough to merit having a good time. Although that is certainly a difficult attitude to maintain.

Speaking of good times, they continue this next weekend. There's a tope, or a horse parade that'll go to the next town over from mine in the direction of Nicoya. I'm not sure where it starts, but my cousin just told me that he's going to find me a horse to ride and we'll join it from my town. WOOP! My only regret is that I did not pack my cowboy boots when I came back from vacation. What footwear, indeed, is appropriate for a gringa non-horsewoman who wants to appear legit? I'll probably end up wearing my ballet flat Crocs. They're a safe bet and a good deal sexier than my sneakers. Yikes. I just called my Crocs sexy. I have been in the campo a long time. Anyway, expect a ton of photos from that. I'm going to feel like a monster bad ass.

There's also posadas all over my town. The best I can figure, a posada is like caroling, but instead of going house to house in one night, kids and their parents go to one house on a different night during the week. The kids hang ornaments cut from paper (by yours truly) on a tree, everyone sings villancicos (carols) and there's refreshments. I haven't been to one yet for one reason or another, but that's on my list of things to do this week, for sure.

And the fooooooood...oh my GOD the food this time of year is nuts. There's tamales which are okay - when the piece of pork in the middle isn't all fat, I looooove me some tamale. I'm also eating things made of corn that I didn't yet know existed. There's at least two more types of ''juice'' made from corn. And because everything is a celebration, there's a ton of chicheme. Chicheme is like...unfermented chicha. Which doesn't help if you don't know what chicha is...dang. How do I explain? My host mom takes fresh corn and grinds it up. Then, it's collated so that only a certain part remains. Then it's put into a huge pot over a fire and cooked with a lot of water and a LOT of cane sugar. I think there's something else...maybe cinnamon? Whatever it is, it tastes delicious. If it weren't for the texture, I'd drink it all day. But because the texture is close to that of...erm...liquidy chunky silicon, maybe? I just can't do it.

There's also chicharrones. I think they're fried pork rinds. I can't tell you for sure, because I never would have eaten pork rinds in the U.S. So I honestly don't know if they're the same thing. But chicharrones are pig fat fried in more fat and they're the best goddam food on the planet. Again, I never would have chosen to eat these in the U.S. But it's like carte blanche in Costa Rica for food. Yum. The little crispy pieces are served on a bed of shredded cabbage with fresh salsa on the side. A little lime wedge to squeeze on top of the chicharrones makes the plate complete. It's a typical Nicaraguan plate when it's all pulled together like that and it's called viguerón. It's probably the only thing that Costa Ricans will admit they like about Nicaragua.

Hmmm, what else? Not much. Family, good. Boyfriend, good. Dog, slobbery and dumb. I took a really sweet picture of Doky that I'll post below. Also, I swear that sometime I'll get a picture of me and the BF together.

Look at that dumb little face. Oh my, he's so cute.

Oh, also...today I saw a chicken jump up on a shallow metal bowl, but it only landed on the edge and it was empty. So it flipped over on the chicken and the chicken started running around with it on top. But all you could see was this upside down metal bowl moving across the ground. I almost peed myself.

Not this same chicken.

Ooops! The following is something I meant to post before I came back to the United States.

Laissez les bons temps roulez.

I remember that from a tee shirt that my sister had from Mardi Gras or one of the other numerous holidays that she spent festivitying in Nawlins. It always struck me as sounding so exotic. I used to repeat it over and over again, hoping I sounded authentic and not knowing what it meant.

Well, let the good times roll. I'm en route to the United States and having a pretty good time relaxing. It's different than relaxing in site or having a day where I don't do anything but still stay in Las Pozas. In site, I'm still technically ''on call'' whenever a situation may arise. Out of site and on a legitimate, official vacation there's literally nothin' I can do if it's 9:00 pm and someone needs me to type a letter for the mayor that they need to turn in tomorrow. For example.

So! Really enjoying the time that I'm spending right now in San José. I got here yesterday and I am staying with my boyfriend's sister's family. My boyfriend has begun work in a call center in San José and is living with his sister (be reeeeally nice to the person on the other end of the line when your AT&T network coverage stops working on your iPhone 4). His sister is awesome and so is her husband and their kids. I usually feel like I can't relax in other people's homes when I'm spending the night and I thought I would be more like that with the family of someone really important to me. But since I got here I've only felt like...totally and completely part of the family. Except at meal times when I'm told to relax and not do anything but hey. That's not so bad.

Where am I going from here? Well this afternoon there's cafecito with a Spanish teacher that I had during training. After that we'll probably mosey on back to the house. Tomorrow at midday I go to Liberia and that's where my flight leaves from on Monday afternoon. Liberia's a big town to be in alone, but mom-in-the-states has agreed to call to keep my mind of my travel anxieties. Although...she might not be the best person for that. Upon finding out that I was going to be staying alone in a hotel in Liberia she blurted out, ''Well, do you know how to get out in case of a fire?!''

...What? I mean, yeah, I guess, you...it involves opening doors and running, right? Anyway, then a conversation ensued which was longer than it needed to be (more than 5 seconds) about how the plane could crash and there's only so many things I have control over - hotel fires and falling from the sky being two things that I cannot, indeed, control.

That was Thursday night, before I came to San José. Around 6 pm. And after I hung up the phone I looked around my house and thought, ''Okay. I'm packed.'' I was mistaken. A stream of family members came by in pairs and threes to bring me small ceramic turtles, other ceramic pieces that they had in their homes, carved artisan guacales (huuuuge tree seeds), bags of coffee and even homemade bread. All of these are ''for your mother'' or ''for your aunt because she sent that dress for the baby.''

These are the same people that for the past two weeks I've been thinking, ''I just don't know what to do. I am exhausted, tired of trying to be creative and I don't want to see people anymore unless they're ready to actually DO SOMETHING for their community.'' The past two weeks I've found myself questioning my commitment, becoming frustrated easily with the smallest tasks and generally writing off my community as a town that doesn't care about me or what I have to say - so why should I care about the people in it? Crying a lot, calling home and wondering if going home on vacation is a good idea or not...would I come back? And if I'm wondering if I am coming back, then isn't that a sign that I shouldn't? I was absolutely destroying my mood and my mind with this line of thoughts.

And then, people showed up at my house with stuff for my mom. Like, Las Pozas isn't nearly as poor as some regions in Africa. That's a given. But there's still not a whole lot to spare. And the readiness to part with something that's belonged to their family for a long time to send it, with love, to the United States, or to grab a bag of coffee off their shelf...that makes all of my self-centered pushy work oriented crap disappear. Like a puff of smoke. I felt like I exhaled and let all of it go in the moment that people stopped by to say goodbye and to give me a blessing for my trip. ''Que Dios me la guarde y que me la protege.'' That God should guard her and keep her safe for me.

And now I just think...oh my God, there is not a thing I wouldn't do to show how much I love them in return.

With determined singularity, I seek open doors.

The last few minutes were kind of interesting. For me at least.

My host mom had a new bed frame made and it was delivered today to my porch because my porch is bigger. The day passes, I'm blogging and getting worked up over things that I should really let go, attn: the previous blog post (''Never attribute to malice that which can be attributed to ignorance'' - Dad). I eat dinner around 10pm and after saying goodnight I meander back to my house and realize the bed frame is still on my porch. So I pulled it into the house and went over to tell my host mom not to freak when she sees it's not there in the morning.

I didn't understand at first why no one was noticing my knock on the door, my ''ULPEEEEE!'' and my eye where the keyhole used to be. I went around to the back door and knocked and the door opened. The bathroom is right there and the first thing I see when I walk in is my youngest host sister banging on the doorknob with her fist...twisting, pounding and muttering. She turned to me and said, ''Se le trancó a la Amarilis.'' Which means the door knob is stuck and my older, pregnant host sister is locked inside the baño.

Never fear! This is why God invented the multi-tool! Erm...yeah. I run over to my house to get my multi-tool, delighted to be able to offer some sort of assistance and prove that I'm prepared to live in rural Costa Rica (I've heard that in rural Honduras people walk in and out of bathrooms all the time...scoff). I run back over to the house, I even have my mini maglite and oh man...we just start figuring things out.

But pretty soon, the maglite stops working - dangit! I knew those batteries weren't fresh!  Also, I realize that the holes I was seeing in the knob are not fit for a philips-head or a flathead scredriver. That, combined with the realization that I don't want to risk hurting the knife part of my favorite Christmas present ever meant that the multi-tool was now decommissioned. I got permission to try and bang down the door after Amarilis had positioned herself as far away from the door as possible. I'm no Schwarzenegger, but I'm the biggest lady in this house for sure. But alas, to no avail.  All that body building for nothing.

At this point I thought it was appropriate to say, ''Maybe we just pass her a pillow and call it a night?'' They're very nice people, so they laughed.

So then we get a hammer and the name of the game is to beat the living daylights out of the door knob, trying to make it fall off the door. Somewhere in here I ask, ''What about the hinges on the other side? If I passed you my multi-tool, could you take the screws out?''  

''Ay, Lily...no.''

What other tools do we have in the kitchen to accomplish this task? Shirley, my younger host sister, decided to break out the butcher's knife. So now she's hacking away at the door frame near the bolt, trying to make a hole for the...tah dah! Screwdrivers that we found! My host mom hands me a screwdriver and so I shoved it in the hole and started to work it up and down (oh snap!  Anyone?!  Anyone?!) for a good five minutes. I'm seeing more and more daylight and feeling worse and worse for the damage that has been wreaked on my host mom's house this evening. But finally...click...I push the door open inwards and there's my very pregnant sister chilling out. I told her I wasn't serious about the pillow thing and then started to go back to my house.

Smacked my forehead, turned around and told mamá about where her bed was. That was what I came to do, after all. Then said goodnight and walked to my house. But you know, my puppy is a tricky one. I didn't feed him until late tonight, I buffeted him a few times when he was chewing on my jeans today.  And he was just waiting for a little revenge, I suppose.

Doky closed the door behind me when I left with my multi-tool and flashlight. My keys were inside the house. So for the second time in an evening I thought, ''Hmmm...how can I break into here?'' And always desperate to prove that I can do something ''A lo tico'' or, ''In Costa Rican style'' I decided to use the broom on the porch to unlock my door from the window. Normally, I would have just taken out the glass panes and climbed in - but I do this a lot and my host mom always manages to put the panes back in before I remember to.  I really hate making extra work for her. So I tried the broom technique that my sister does.

There's a ton of broken glass on my front porch now. I used the same broom that broke it to sweep it into one pile that I'll deal with when there's sunlight. And everyone heard it crash. And my multi-tool can't do a damn thing to fix it.

Would you like some corn with your corn?

This post has nothing to do with the corn upon corn upon corn that is currently my diet. The harvest is in. But that's not what I want to talk about right now.

Many volunteers have confirmed my suspicions that I was right to feel injured when some people at home (thank God no one I'm close to) insinuated that Peace Corps in Costa Rica is less hardcore than Peace Corps in other, lesser developed nations. To this I have many things to say that have been stewing in my mind for much longer than the last two weeks. Below, I shall set that opinion straight and will end up paraphrasing many a good volunteer and friend.

Do I have running water? Yes. Okaaaay, you got meeee, I can stay clean in Costa Rica. Of course, cold water from a tube - that cuts out now and again with no warning, but usually once I'm shampooed - doesn't jive with the imagery that ''Posh Corps'' brings to mind, does it? Potable water is icing on the cake and y'all already know what I say to that - less time suffering from some horrible tropical intestinal disease means more time for community integration and project planning.

Peace Corps Goal Two and Three right there, baby.  Cultural exchange.

Infrastructure...well where do we begin with this one? I totally have a highway that runs through my town. There's a bus that passes every morning for San José and except for Sundays I can go to Santa Cruz or Nicoya any time I want. Both are cities with plenty of resources and both about an hour away. The highway isn't paved, but who cares? I have access. Wayyyy more access than most other volunteers in Costa Rica. But you know what access brings - expectations. I live in a community of 300 people, 90% of whom are not employed gainfully and they see every time they go into town a life with resources that they want. I'm not saying that everyone's ready to move to the city just to have a supermarket on the corner. But my community members are aware of what's ''wrong'' with our community in light of other communities that are nearby. They feel far behind a standard that's been set. There is ONE person that they lay this all on - me. I'm the development worker, after all. Can't you just get us computers for the school and a grant to finish building the town hall? You can get money for these projects from Peace Corps, why haven't you done that yet? Building human capacity and human resources within my town is extremely difficult when physical resources and development are visibly and notably absent compared to other, accessible towns. Mucho. Pressure. All the time.

And language. Yeah, Spanish is probably easier than learning a non-romantic language. And Costa Rica only has one national language. Compare this to, say, South Africa with eleven national languages (Afrikaans, English, Ndebele, Northern Sotho, Sotho, Swazi, Tswana, Tsonga, Venda, Xhosa and Zulu...thank you Wikipedia). But it's still taken me 7+ years of speaking and study before I got to Costa Rica to not struggle with every interaction I have in Spanish. And there are volunteers who didn't speak a lick of Spanish before arrival who are expected to do the same job that I am. So if the assessment of Costa Rica's push over-ness as a Peace Corps country is based on that, then shove it.

I don't eat crocs or goats or insects. Just inoffensive rice and beans. Three times a day. For two years. And you know what? I learned to love it. Which makes me more hardcore than any of the the people who eat weird shit and hate it.

And - as one of my friends put it so brilliantly - I picked Costa Rica just about the same that other volunteers picked South Africa (to be consistent). Which is to say, not at all. I was ready to go anywhere, told Peace Corps that I'd do any work they thought I'd be suited for. For awhile, it was looking like Kazakhstan. Then I heard I'd be a rural community development volunteer and wouldn't you know that The Gambia has that program. But nope, I opened my invitation to serve and it said Costa Rica. Who in the hell was I to argue? ''Hi, sorry, but can you please place me in a country that friends and family can never visit because travel is cost prohibitive or the political climate is a little too hot?'' Not a phone call I was going to make.

I don't have a photo of myself performing the First Goal of transferring technical skills, 

because my camera was stolen from me in an armed assault in San José.

But believe me that these are people who, like me, get their First Goal ON.

I, too, thought I was not having an ''authentic'' Peace Corps experience in the beginning. But then after a while I said, ''Eff that noise. I am fulfilling goals one, two and three of Peace Corps just fine in Costa Rica.'' If Peace Corps was about taking a crap in a hole outside and bucket baths then I'd be ashamed to call myself a Peace Corps volunteer. But it's not. It's teaching people how to act for themselves in a positive way that achieves sustainable change. And earning their respect by caring about them while you do it. I'm sure volunteers in South Africa are volunteers by that standard.

As am I.

If I want to ask ''Where to begin?'' I must first answer ''Where am I?''

I hope my title is an original...I think I sound quite clever.

I don't really look into things like I should before I commit to them. I may have explained this before in my blog, but it bears repeating before a discussion of my vacation in the United States. I hope I can avoid sounding like a complete dope but I'll tell anybody that what I knew about Peace Corps before coming to Costa Rica was GROSSLY inadequate. I had performed far below the average amount of research that my fellow volunteers had done before getting on the plane. I read the pre-departure information and I was interested, but you know...I figured there'd be more time to read later and it would probably be more pertinent once I had started training. I knew enough to answer people's questions but not much apart from that.

And I do stuff like this on purpose. The seemingly nonchalant commitment that I made to Peace Corps is far from casual, but also one example of many that appear this way. Because whenever I'm about to experience a drastic change or go somewhere new or what have you, I really don't like to be all that informed. It makes me anxious to have all these bunny trails in my brain spiraling off into more and more specific situations, circumstances and problems that may occur. Nope - I like a straight path and a map that I can consult when there's an obstacle. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Upon my return, my goddaughter Genesis looks like a spaz.  But hey, I look good!

Well. That's pretty much what I did with my vacation, too. I know that volunteers love to share about what it was like going home. All things weird and wonderful about being home. I'm about to do it myself. But I really was not interested in anybody's previous experience. I don't know how typical my vacation was in comparison to other volunteers. All this to say, of course, that I'm just going to blurt out a lot of stuff in the following paragraphs and then wonder, in retrospect, if all the other volunteers go through this.  If I go home again, I'd say this could function as my map.

First - I did not have time to do anything because I did everything. I wish I'd spent so much more time with the individuals that I saw. But I guess if I spent the amount of time that I wanted to with each person, I'd never be on a plane back to Costa Rica. Conflicting interests.

Second - How weird is it that in a large shopping mall they don't expect you to walk from the Staples to the Wegmans? When did a quarter mile become too long of a distance to walk? Why did the sidewalks end in strange places? Why did I have to cross behind a store and through the dock area to get where I was going?

Third - Of all the foods I planned to eat, two weeks was only good to get 10% of them in my belly. I did not have one peanut butter and jelly, no cheese curls, zero bagels and cream cheese, zip vegetable beef stew...and pickles only on the last night. No barbeque.  But I don't want to sound ungrateful for Thanksgiving, y'all.  I did get sweet potatoes and all sorts of crazy cheeses and red beet eggs.

Fourth - I did drink about 110% of what I thought I would. Yuengling, wine, Jack, Malibu, long islands, peach long islands, Magner's, flavored vodkas, etc...infrequent and unpredictable shots of Costa Rican moonshine offered by men who think I'll get drunk on just the one was getting old.

Fifth - I knew where everything was in my house. Mom said get a plastic bag out for the bread. I went right to the drawer. I asked Dad where the stapler was. He said Mom moved it over a drawer. Boom.  Papers stapled.

Sixth - I left Costa Rica on a bad note. Long story short, the honeymoon's over and I'm confronting real problems in my community that I'm not sure I can solve. So of course, I left the United States on a bad note because I didn't want to come back. Sobbing to my mom on my parent's bed about how toxic community relations are is not the way I'd like to remember my last night in the States.  But it's what went down.

Photo: courtesy Joe O'Brien who does not know I am using it here.  Erm.  Oops.

Seventh - Getting back to my community didn't dismiss the concerns that I have, but it made me realize how at home I am in Costa Rica. And so I was happy to be back. I had felt kind of out of place in Costa Rica. I felt really out of place in the United States (with some exceptions, all of them friends and family). So coming back to Costa Rica I've definitely thought to myself, ''Well. You're no Latina. And you're definitely not from anywhere rural. But being a fake rural Latina comes more naturally now than navigating the outlet mall. So welcome home.''

Seven's lucky, right? I'll leave it at that for now.  Let me just say, though...I had so much fun at home and I got back to my community totally exhausted from seeing great people and I really loved seeing every person from the U.S. who is reading this blog now.  Thank you so much for your support and your well wishing and your promises to come visit.  ALSO check out Nervous Nikki and the Chill Pills.

Ahhh...la playa and good company.

Well, I don't think it's any surprise that for the last two weeks my work load has been lighter.  It's been nice, although I'm still doing stuff here and there, not having English class or PDM has just been a huuuuuuge relief.  I feel like my vacation to the U.S. is going to be a bit whirlwind, and so it's nice to take a few days here to recuperate.  For instance, I read a whole book in like, two days.  Also, I blow-dried and straightened my hair and painted my nails.  I went to go see some friends at two seperate sites.  The overwhelming feeling that I have is profound gratitude to my subconscious for not making me feel stressed or guilty for being out of site.

I know it may sound silly, but for a few months every time that I wasn't doing something specifically Peace Corps related, every time that I wasn't out and about and being social, every time that I wasn't planning or preparing for something a few months down the line...I felt like a bum.  But the past two weeks have really shown me that it's okay.  I feel happier and more willing to do my job when I take some time out for me, too.  That's an easy conclusion to come to when you work regular hours, when you can leave an office or a workplace behind and sit on your couch and eat at your table.  But for the past 9 months I've been eating at table that was arranged for me by Peace Corps and sitting on a couch that belongs to a community member.  All that and more made me feel terribly guilty for relaxing at all.  But now I know better and I feel like I have a healthier approach to my work and, separately, my own private life.  Hopefully I can keep thinking of some part of my life as apart from my work.

So that's me, and thank you Steph for taking such a lovely photo.  Junquillal beach is not that great for swimminng (many people drown in the rip currents) but it's really great for this rock formation that we walked out on.  I was kind of anxious about the incoming tide, but all the little fish and shelled creatures were absolutely fascinating.  Loking at this photo I realize I should never take my eyes off the ocean when I'm in it, just like Dad says.

It was overcast yesterday, but I'm returning to my community a good deal more pink than I left it.  Classic - I never learn.

Things are better...

Woooo...so things are now beginning to look up from my last post.  Actually, I cooled down and deleted the last one because I would rather never be reminded of last Friday night ever again.  Needless to say I found a way to handle my frustration (I started running in an ungainly fashion) and things started looking up.

So what's next on the agenda?  Well.  My trip home is awfully real right now.  In t-ten days I'll leave site to go stay with my boyfriend's sister's family in San José for the night.  I was thinking I'd get my flue shot then, but the office as it turns out won't be open so it's just turning into a social visit.  Then I'll go to Liberia the next day, spend the night, and fly home the following afternoon.  Ain't vacation grand?


In the meantime, tomorrow I'm going to visit friends Chris and Steph in their community.  From there we will depart to a somewhat abandoned beach to spend the day.  I'll spend the night, come home and Friday night is movie night in my town!  I suggested that the dance group do a fundraiser with a movie night and wouldn't you know...people thought it was a good idea.  Saturday is, again, dance practice with the little kids.  Next Wednesday I'm going to a meeting with some members of my PTA (more or less) to San José where we will be attending a meeting with the Omar Dengo Foundation to see if we can get some computers for the school.  My strategy is to chat up the PTA the whooooole time about building a new school.  Ours is literally falling apart as a result of having been built in the early 1940s.  We'll probably need better facilities anyway as a requisite for receiving free computers from the foundation.  So hopefully the abstract, ''Can I come to a PTA meeting sometime?'' will turn into, ''So when are we meeting to discuss building a new school?''  Those questions seem similar.  The latter definitely means that I'm getting some sort of returned interest on behalf of the PTA.

I've been trying to teach Genesis, my goddaughter, words in English.  The first word I chose is part of her favorite TV jingle for laundry detergent.  Unfortunately, ''bubble'' when spoken by Genesis sounds a lot like, ''papú'' which my family says means whore (''puta'') in Costa Rica.  So then after a lot of laughing which Genesis probably takes to mean encouragement to say papú more, I tried teaching her the word ''cookie''.  Well.  Every time I say cookie, she just looks around for Doky, my dog.  They sound a lot alike to me, too.  I did not give up, though, and I've started introducing the word, ''Bye-bye!'' whenever I walk away from her.  But she thinks I'm saying ''bubble'' and says ''papú'' with the absolute conviction that only an innocent one year-old can evince.

Speaking of Doky (what I really wanted to write was, ''Speaking of whores...''), the puppy is doing okay.  His head reaches a little bit higher than my mid-calf and I don't think he's going to get much bigger.  He's already way bigger than his mom, but I've told him that if he does decide to grow more that he's not coming back with me to the U.S.  I have no idea how to carry two suitcases and a dog his size, much less if he does get bigger.  We'll see.  He's a sweetie.  Just now getting into the stage where I can see him decide, ''Whoa!  This petting and scratching thing is GREAT!  I'm going to stop chewing people who are obviously trying to do this to me.''  So hands are now safe to put near my dog.  Still, I'd watch your flip flops.

The weather has turned and there's very little rain now.  I think this is the trend until next May.  It's super hot during the day but it cools off by nighttime.  4:30pm is perfect running weather - I'm not a runner in the classic athletic sense, but there is something about 80 degrees with a breeze that makes me want to be outside.  I got some other girls in town to ''run'' with me.  They walk.  I run.  When I can't run anymore, I double back walking and meet up with them until I feel like running again.  It turns the two kilometers between Las Pozas and San Vicente into a little bit more distance that way (not really, but you get it).

In other news, I'm watching Rango for the first time and...well...the only real merit is hearing Johnny Depp play a lizard.  But they even type-casted him for this one, too.  I will say this, though...my favorite quote is when our lizard hero is down-and-out, nearly dead, talking to a mirage of the iconic Hollywood cowboy hero.
''Is this Heaven?''
''No.  If it were, we'd be eating PopTarts with Kim Novak.''

Ladies and Gentlemen...the one...the only...Aaron get Luce

I have the distinct pleasure today of posting another guest blogger here!  Aaron's a good friend, so pay attention to what he says, hehe...

Greetings from Fila Pinar de Coto Brus! I am excited to share with my good friend Lily’s blog readers! It is interesting to think about what I should write to a group of people who I have never met. So let me briefly introduce myself. My name is Aaron Luce and I am originally from Maryland and have been living in DC for the past few years. I live in a very small community called Fila Pinar which is in the deep South of Costa Rica, within 20 kilometers of the Panamanian border. In my town coffee is king, the bus only passes through two days a week, and two kinds of toucans circle the tall trees around soccer field in search of fruit after heavy afternoon rains.

One of the reasons I joined the Peace Corps was the allure to travel to an unknown place and meet people I would have otherwise never met. Prior to joining, I was blessed with many opportunities to travel and had enjoyed them.

Throughout my travels, one thing that has always come crashing into me, like a refreshing tidal wave, is how no matter where I go, I always find many similarities between myself and the people I meet. From Egypt to Chile, Argentina to Morocco, my belief that we share more in common than we have different, has been upheld. And that is refreshing because many times we focus on our apparent differences, which distance us from others, possibly causing isolation or at least social discomfort.

My belief was reaffirmed again last Sunday afternoon when I cooked tacos for a very nice family. After my environmental youth group meeting, I rushed back to my house to pick up some secret ingredients and headed over to Doña Lorena and Don Enrique’s house. They have a daughter, Treicy, who is a teenager and a son, Chadai, who is in kindergarten. Doña Lorena was rushing around frying plantains and grilling hand-made tortillas. Treicy was helping me dice red peppers and onions for the taco mix and Chadai was running around the house, buzzing like a humming bird with the excitement of many visitors. Don Enrique’s cousin and his family were visiting and they have two younger children. The cousin and Don Enrique were having adult male conversation about the local prices of different agricultural products like peppers and different pig raising techniques. Cartoons were on the TV and every 3 minutes my attention was being called to look at a funny face Chadai was making or to answer Doña Lorena’s questions about my recipe or to reaffirm that I was still single and that the Costa Rican girl I was seeing had still broken up with me (long story). The mix of familiar house hold Sunday sounds were like that catchy song on the radio that I have heard a million times.

When we finished cooking, I stuffed my face, drank a cup of coffee, and felt great. Don Enrique pulled out the Connect 4 board game and everyone in the family played (Don Enrique is an evil mastermind at Connect 4). And once again, the refreshing tidal wave of similarity came splashing through the living room. I had a freeze frame moment where I felt like I could see myself through the window, sitting in the living room with my shoes off, joking with Don Enrique and telling stories to Chadai. I felt déjàvu. But I had been there before just with my family in DC on break from college or during Christmas when we visited my Grandma in California. Don Enrique is like my Uncle Allen, a jokester, and Chadai is like my Cousin Annette’s son, Jacob, and daughter, Sofia, who are precious and playful. Instead of cooking patacones (fried plantain chips) and black beans, my Grandma would roast a chicken and serv biscuits with jam. Doña Lorena was like my Grandma asking me if I was seeing anyone and if I wasn’t, why not.

In both places it was Sunday and it was dinner time. For those couple of hours I only needed to be human to fit in and that was really refreshing.

Pura Vida,

Aaron

Sometimes I can't believe it I'm movin' past the feeling....life can always start up anew.

Sometimes it really weirds me out that I speak another language. And (brushing off the haters) that I speak it so well. I'm in the middle of typing a project outline for a community branding campaign that my water committee wants to undertake and I was looking at my notes from the meeting and trying to funnel it into the organized format of the project design and I was like, ''Shit! I know what I'm doing!''

Obviously just in terms of language, the actual project scares the bejeezus out of me because it's monstrous in size. I'm probably going to be the Debbie Downer and go to the next meeting with some pared down goals and a reduced number of objectives. But regardless of the project itself, the element that I can't help but focus on now is the language. I think as much as I want to think of myself as Tica (or, in past lives, as Bolivian and Ecuadorian), I'm still definitely from the United States. My character, my personality, my expressions and my ''way of be'' - while not unaffected by these stints living abroad - are still distinctly from the United States and shaped by the English language. So maybe it's not so weird that the days when I think completely in Spanish, when I laugh at the jokes that people make in another language and when I catch myself being so damn competent at speaking (these are actually quite rare, when I pull off an interaction in Spanish effortlessly, but are increasing in number)...I just feel like sometimes I get out of my own brain and end up asking myself, ''Whoa. Who are you?''

Ok so that sounds like multiple personalities floating around in there - not so, says I. I feel more staid and more even-keeled than I ever have when I've lived in foreign countries. I don't feel like I'm compromising myself for the sake of fitting in or getting along the way I might've done (might've done/definitely did) when I was 16 in Bolivia or with a bunch of friends from college in Ecuador. But it is disturbing every once in awhile to think that I didn't grow up with Spanish as a kid. How then, can it come so naturally now? Because I don't feel really that different, it's an illogical gut reaction to feel like a completely different person, someone who exists outside of all the experiences that I had growing up and living in Collegeville.

C'est la vie, right? We all grow up. We all become different people than we were when we were kids. Duh, and please excuse this banal revelation.  But it's maybe why I relate so much to music from Arcade Fire and MGMT. There's something real there in the music about feeling defined by the place where you grew up and defined by the decision to leave it. It used to be a feeling like, ''I can't wait to get out of here.'' And now it's like, ''It was only ever boring, not bad.'' Finding more in common with my parents and neighbors than I would have thought possible. So I don't know, maybe what I'm getting at is that when I operate in Spanish, I'm more prone to question myself (again...who the heck are you?) and it leads to more reflection not just about where I am now, but where I'm coming from, too.

Gringa pretty and Tica pretty....

Beauty. What a...transitive concept. This was pulled abruptly to the front of my mind by two events that have happened recently. The first is pretty straightforward and begins awhile back. Sometime before In Service Training, in those first three months, I went to Santa Cruz in my pajamas. I had woken up late, it was really hot and honestly, my pjs are gym shorts and a tee shirt. So I put on my flip flops and got on the bus just in time to make it to our nearest city center. If I remember correctly, all I needed was dog food. That is to say, I wasn't going to hit up a grocery store or a restaurant looking like a scrub gringuita. I still may have gotten ice cream, though...not sure.

Well, I didn't realize that this was a big deal until some other volunteers came to visit my site. These are my two best girlfriends here and as usual when talking to my friends, I forget how we broached the subject, but I told them about this day that I went in to town with gym shorts. Their reaction seriously made me reconsider whether I would ever leave my house in gym shorts again, even just to eat breakfast at my host mom's house. Now, in my defense, one of the girls lived in Brasil and the other is Latina. But regardless of what a girl's background is...yeah. It was a mistake for me to go out in public like that. Let me tell you why.

For some reason, even though I am living in the dust or mud capital of the world depending on what day it is, women in rural Costa Rica get done up to go anywhere. This is in stark contrast to the housework mode...I've swept and mopped alongside my host sister, both of us in tee shirts that are falling apart or shorts with holes in them and wearing flip flops that are only holding together after many applications of super glue. Sweating, looking like I'm homeless - this is kind of the norm for me and it doesn't feel out of place on the family compound. But something changes for these ladies when they have to go afuera, out. Or not even out, the best example being my host mom. One morning she was wielding a pick ax because we were moving around some dirt in our front yard in an attempt to make the ground flatter. In the afternoon of the same day, we had a procession for the Virgin in our town and my word. My host mom who I'd never seen out of a skirt, apron and holey spaghetti strap was suddenly in high-waisted jeans with an orange ruffly blouse tucked in and make up and wedges for chrissake. I think I was wearing jean capris and a tee shirt, maybe I'd put a headband on? All I remember feeling is way way way underdressed compared to all the women around me. It's the same when a woman leaves to go to Santa Cruz for errands or - the most fancy she'll get - to go out dancing on a weekend.

I would have given up by now. Clearly, I proved that with the shorts-in-the-city brain fart. It amazes me that even though every person in town will frequently see women at their dirtiest, sweatiest worst that the ladies still try. I just don't have the time or energy for stuff like that!

Or do I? Story the second. I was in Santa Cruz for some errands (thank goodness dressed like a real person this time because like I said, I'm never committing the cardinal sin of leaving town looking less than like a princess - that is to say, skinny jeans, a sleeveless blouse that matched my dress sandals and jewelry that all matched) and I saw a salon. And I thought...gee, it has been awhile since I've even looked at my hands. Maybe I'll see how much a manicure is. It wasn't too bad, so I sat down and started to get my nails done. Small tangent: It was SO wonderful, this manicure was definitely atypical for Costa Rica because they did the whole exfoliating bit and the hand massage. Heaven. Anyway, so we get to the part about what color I want my nails and I say, ''French tip, please.'' Tips are done and the muchacha says, ''What design?''

In the olden days (this past January) I was appalled by designs on nails. When I went for a birthday pedicure with my mom and my sister and my sister told the women in the salon that it was my birthday they offered me a free design. And I, wincing, tried to choose the most tasteful thing that I could. Notably incongruous with standards of nail fashion in Costa Rica and, I must say, I have succumbed. Because when the lady asked me, ''What design?'' I got REALLY excited. I asked what colors she had, if she could do flowers, did she have silver for the center of the flowers? Or maybe a series of hearts, all different and bright colors and each outlined in white? I had that on my toes a few months back and it was so much fun to look at every day! Are my nails too small to add in some shimmery green leaves, too?

Watch out, basically. Because I'm going to need a lot of understanding as I transition back into, say, a world that looks down on things that are tacky. In some ways I'm happy that beige and gray are my cultural inheritance - they really do look good. Streamlined, earthy tones...big green light. That is a go, they look nice on me. But I do wonder if I want to completely give up this strange definition of feminine that I am just beginning to explore. Not ready to match my eyeshadow to my shoes, but hmm...I do get a kick out of seeing my floral french tip nails.

Darien, this is for you...but you're hotter than an opossum

The last few nights I've been almost asleep when I hear a frantic clucking from behind my host mom's house. My eyes unwillingly open and yup...my window, which faces the ''big house'', is suddenly and completely illuminated as my host mom wakes up and is on her feet in seconds. ''Hoo-leh! Hoo-leh!'' She yells, dashing out the door and toward the chicken pen.

We have a problem with foxes.

I don't know how this was the settled upon scare tactic for foxes – why it's different than the noise that my host mom uses to round up chickens, get the pig to move along or caution the baby that something's hot. But I heard a lot of hoo-leh tonight especially. We're all awake because of my niece's baptism although the party ended awhile ago. We hear the telltale panicking of the hens and I hear the telltale call of a woman who wants to get rid of a fox. Tonight though, my host mom is fed up. She's had it. Sick of this shit. This normally very caring, nature conscious and animal loving individual (um, well into her 50s, btw) calls me out of my house and says, ''Matamos a ese bandido.'' Let's kill this bandit.

So, I asked her like...how? How do you catch a fox, isn't that notoriously difficult? I asked, ''Lo da golpes, como con palo?'' Do you hit it, like...with a stick? No such luck for the fox. My host mom replies that they'll kill it with machetazos, by striking it with a machete. Ok. So I stood for about ten seconds contemplating whether or not I wanted to see this, be a part of it. Run around at 10 o'clock at night with a machete where my greatest problem is probably not the fox, but the snakes and the ants. Ten seconds before I said out loud in English, ''When the hell am I ever going to be invited to this type of party again?''

Cut to me, after running around for fifteen minutes in the dark, machete in hand and listening to my host mom say, ''Be careful.'' I'm standing in the back of my aunt's yard, whistling and calling to all the dogs in our family to come help out. My cousin is up in the lemon tree with his flashlight and he has sights on the fox and finally manages to knock it down. Only one dog came (Doky as it turns out is a big loser and was chilling out watching TV – no joke – the whole time) but as soon as this fox hit the ground, the battle was won. I didn't even have to pretend like I was going to machetazo this animal. A few other family dogs showed up soon and then the show was really over.

Not before my host mom had her fun though. She picked up the fox (which really looks more like a large, agile opossum) and started carrying it for home. Earlier in the night, the food that she had set aside on a plate to eat was stolen by a neighbor's dog and she commented that now she'd get dinner.

Pause.

''¿Cómo? What? You...eat. It?'' She nodded seriously and said, ''Of course, what else would you do with a fox?'' And then she cracked up laughing as she carried it across the street and threw it over the fence into the monte, or tall weedy grass. The most disturbing thing is, before she threw it over the fence, I had mentally prepared myself to give it a good sport tasting. Maybe she seasons it really well. It can't be worse than gator or piranha or guinea pig. At least don't start freaking out right now.

I guess this could go into a journal of some sort about just how many completely normal/totally indescribably insane details there are in my life. And how those two ideas are not mutually exclusive.

i wish i even knew the definition for prodigal outside of this context

I decided that my homecoming in November for Thanksgiving will be like that of the prodigal son (gender discrepancy aside). Think about it - I've used up all my money. I've moved around a little bit the past year. There's a pig in my back yard and I frequently fall asleep and awaken to the stench of this animal. My clothes are in pretty bad shape. I'm going to come home and y'all are going to meet me with a coat. And then we're going to have a big feast. Everyone will rejoice that I'm still alive, even if they secretly wonder what the hell made me want to leave in the first place.

In the meantime, being in site is way more fun than I remembered prior to AVC. Today I had a great conversation with a community member and we started planning a culture, health and environment fair for the kids from our school and three other nearby schools. This is part of a larger project called, ''Las Pozas es Pura Vida'', Las Pozas being the name of my town. The project was not my idea, but I'm definitely throwing my name into the mix and trying to get this thing off the ground. It's a project that our water committee wants to do and it focuses on environmental education, reforestation and solid waste disposal. Part of the education is this day-long fair, and I am SO EXCITED that other people in my community are the ones who thought this up. Motivated people + Peace Corps Volunteers' time and energy = something beautiful.

The coolest part is that ''Las Pozas es Pura Vida'' is almost like a branding campaign that we're trying to do in the community. Like, every time that a government institution comes to our town to have health talks or give a workshop on how to treat recyclables, we can put up posters that say this phrase and people will hopefully begin to identify with it. Pura Vida, b-t-dubs is just to say, ''Hip and with it'' or ''Alright'' and maybe even ''Really cool, man.'' With a lot of hard work and a benevolent higher power, this might work.

It's officially cold here in my beloved, booming metropolis of Las Pozas. 76°F and I'm thinking, ''Maybe I should put on sweatpants.'' Like, legit goosebumps. And with all the rain all the time, it just is a damp kind of chilly, too. No joke – earlier this week it rained for three days straight. With frequent downpours. It stopped today for a few hours. But I'm expecting it to start again at any moment. Which makes the refrigerator an essential element of my daily routine. What? Yeah. You know the fastest way to dry something during rainy season is to drape it over the coils on the back of your fridge? Now you do. Although that actually only applies if you don't have a dryer that tumbles and heats your raiment to a fluffy, luxurious perfection.

Mmmm...remember the days that I relied on the dryer to shrink my clothes. Remember the days when I put on jeans and did a dance of pain because the buttons were still hot. Remember the days that clean laundry smelled clean and underwear took two years to fall apart instead of two months. The only thing that Costa Rica has on the U.S. in terms of laundry is that they've come out with new money, plastic bills that can survive a round or two of washing when mistakenly left in pockets.

I've had this thought several times and I'm too lazy to go back and see if I already blogged about it – but what I'm doing, all the clothes washing and mopping and manual labor and stuff, it's not novel to the Alcock family. You know? Like, several generations ago if I had said to my then mother, ''Mom, mom! I got the clothes in before the rain came and they're dry! They're still dry, I noticed the rain coming and I got them in before they got wet again!'' my mother would have looked at me and might have thought, ''This one won't be such a liability to the family after all.'' Certainly I would not get praise that my host mom offers when she sees my victorious swagger through the front yard with twenty rescued garments hanging off me in various ways as the rain starts to pour down. She is way too nice to me and far too understanding.

Also another reason why my host mom is baller – I had lightly fried ham for dinner. Not like ham cold cuts, not bacon or salchichón. Like, on the bone proper ham. Like it would be at Christmas. Still had rice and beans, no asparagus or cheesy scalloped potatoes. And the pig is still out in the back yard, so that's kind of a bummer. But ham. Ham. Ham. It was so wonderful.