Pura Vida

(Photo: This was us, packed and ready to head to the airport.)

We’ve been in Costa Rica for ten days and just got internet installed last night, so now I can tell you how it’s going. Of course we’re not exactly settled in just yet, but we didn’t expect to be. I can’t tell you what it’s like to live here; it hasn’t been long enough. But I can tell you about our experience so far.

Just before we left, the bank froze our account because, apparently, they didn’t think it was like us to buy appliances in Central America. When we explained that we’re moving to Costa Rica and desperately need access to our money, they gave us the polite banker’s equivalent of “too bad so sad” and told us it would be a while to unlock it all. Thankfully, my husband had the foresight to distribute our money across two accounts in case something like that happened. Whew! At least he had cash and a card in his wallet—until that wallet was stolen somewhere along the route, that is. When we landed and told the baggage handlers at the airport that our money was stolen, we got the Costa Rican equivalent of “too bad so sad” and had to go to the ATM to pull out a bunch of cash in front of a bunch of strangers. Thankfully, my husband had wisely kept a card in his pocket in case something like that happened, and thankfully it had a bit of money on it from his late father’s modest estate. We’ve been in a bit of a financial bind since our arrival, but God has provided everything we’ve needed, and I don’t say that tritely.

Our little Boston Terrier was a major concern. We weren’t at all sure he was going to pass as a service dog all the way through. Did you know that a brachycephalic (short-headed) dog is not allowed to fly under the plane in the cargo bay because of possible breathing problems, and if he is over twenty pounds he cannot fly under your seat? So put simply, your chunky little flat-faced best friend cannot fly with you, period. Unless, of course, he qualifies as a companion under the Americans with Disabilities Act. One unlikely benefit that has come from months of personal trauma is that my therapist was willing to put in writing my need for a service dog because of PTSD. Nobody was allowed to question his presence much at all unless he misbehaved, which he did not. We worked hard to train him and he handled all the checkpoints beautifully—even when that nasty little Westie ran across the airport food court to accost him in front of Panda Express. I took his official little red vest off when we landed in San Jose, and he’s back to being our family pet now. We’re hoping to be able to get our German Shepherds here soon, but that’s not a possibility until the weather along the entire route is cooler since the plan for them is to travel as pets with the other peasant dogs under the plane.

Thanks to some missionary contacts, we’ve made a couple of local friends who’ve been working with us long distance to secure a rental house and get it ready to move into. One of them came with a hired truck to pick us up from the airport and transport all thirty of our bins. We followed him to the house after renting a car, which was a trick since John’s license was in that wallet. We arrived to the end unit of a quiet little, gated row of condos, replete with basic amenities like mattresses, food, and even a coffee maker, thanks to our friends. We had numbered all of our bins and were able to quickly locate the pillows, sheets, towels, and toilet paper. Since you can drink the tap water here, we were set for our first night.

Our house is not in the kind of place you probably think of when you think of Costa Rica. We’re not on the beach. We’re up in the mountains right on the edge of a bustling city. I’m not sure if we’re technically in a cloud forest but we must be close because it’s cool and damp and, when I look out my window, I’m not exactly looking up at the clouds as much as right through them. The temperature is pleasant but the humidity makes everything feel dewy and sometimes downright wet. For someone with dry skin it’s not the worst thing in the world. I’ve used a fraction of the amount of lotion I usually need, but I do keep wanting to turn on the air conditioning—which doesn’t exist—to dry things out. I’m working on being one with nature, but the North American in me is struggling a bit.

The people here are amiable and seem like they appreciate when we try to speak Spanish. We haven’t seen any tourists. Our neighborhood is apparently not a draw for foreigners. My family had given me a hard time about the amount of time I spent on Duolingo before we left the States, but they have been nothing but encouraging since we arrived. Two days ago I actually got applause when I successfully made an appointment over the phone. Everyone is stepping out and trying to communicate when we go in public, and I’m thankful to have a gracious place to make all the mistakes. I’ll save the negatives, including the harrowing driving conditions, we’ve experienced to assess later when I’m well through culture shock. For now, suffice it to say this place gives off a friendly vibe.

For some reason, airport immigration stamped our passports with fifteen-day visas. Tourists generally get 180 days, so we’re down to the wire to figure out what to do. If we cannot get someone to help us change that by Wednesday, we’ll have to make a trek across the border and stay overnight for a few days to satisfy the visa requirements before returning. That means we’ll have to find someone to watch our dog. That’s not easy to do in a place where we don’t really know anyone yet. Yesterday as we were all sulking a bit, I pulled up Phil Collins’ song “Illegal Alien” with my new phone service and we all got a good laugh. It’s either that or cry, which I do pretty regularly.

Thank you all for your prayers and for your patience as we settle in and figure things out here. Our first impression is that Costa Rica seems true to its reputation of being a simple, quiet place to live. Thanks to the recent internet installation, we get to have our first Zoom meeting with Africa today. We will be discussing, among other things, the construction of our fifth grade classroom and teacher evaluations. Who knows? I may be reporting next from Nicaragua since that’s the closest border. God bless you. We’ll do our best to keep you posted. In the meantime, Pura Vida!

(Pura Vida (literally “pure life”) is a common expression that basically means life is good. It’s like an unofficial national slogan.)