Alone Again

November 4, 2009

The morning that Ji-Soo left I came into my house after dropping him off and saw that his shoes were not next to mine in the entryway and cried. Today at three o’clock the bell rang for dismissal and my dad was not in the library waiting to tell me about his day. I found my way back to my classroom and let myself cry a little. I got home tonight and saw the mound of dishes that he had washed for me before heading back to San Jose and my heart dropped. Loving people and missing them is hard, but worth it.

Here are some highlights from my dad’s visit:

-Dad introduced me to the beauty that is boiled cabbage. Try this: toasted freshly made whole wheat bread, spicy Dijon mustard, two slices of cheddar cheese and a few pieces of boiled cabbage leaf. You should try it, and then you should thank my dad for telling you about it.

-Dad and I had a great Sunday. We played in the kitchen trying to get something presentable for potluck, showed up late and then hung around chatting. Really, I sat watching the downpour and let Dad mingle and chat. He was happy and I was happy. We didn’t want to walk in the rain so we planned to sit in the library and read until it let up. Just as we were about to execute our Library Plan, the rain let up and we headed downtown to the Frog Pond. The day before we had gone to the Snake House and had a great time and learned lots of useful things. After about twenty minutes the rain picked up again and we ducked into a shop and chatted with a student who is a senior at the school and listened to the downpour. The rain let up again, we started our journey again, it started to pour again, we ducked out of the rain again. This time we were under the awning of a small craft store that was closed. We waited and played with our cameras and cringed at the workers on the roof of the mall in the downpour. We realized that we could spend all day waiting and decided to just suck it up. We zipped up and headed out into the rain. We arrived at the Frog Pond at 3:30 soaked to the bone. We had left the school at 2:00. It should not have been more than a thirty-minute walk. I have no idea what happened. I guess waiting for the rain to stop during the rainy season in the cloud forest takes up a lot of time.

3:45 – we enter the frog exhibit. It is still pouring. The exhibit is in a large warehouse with a tin roof. At times the rain is so loud that our guide has to raise his voice and we have to lean in close. 4:45 – the tour ends. We are cold and sit in the café and drink hot chocolate and watch a Michael Jackson special tribute in Spanish. It is still pouring.
5:30 – we realize that if we sit for just fifteen more minutes it will be dark and we can re-enter the frog exhibit and see the nocturnal frogs. We decide to kill time by reading books in the gift shop. It is still pouring.
6:00 – we re-enter the frog exhibit, this time with no guide. We play with the flashlights and cameras and try to stay out of the way of large guided groups. It is still pouring.
6:45 – we exit the frog exhibit, return our flashlights and stand staring at the pouring rain. We have no choice but to zip up and head out. The road into Santa Elena from the Frog Pond is short, but windy and dark. We get soaked to the bone and do not die.
7:00 – we get to Santa Elena. We find a store where Dad tries on a raincoat since his left him soaking wet. The rain stops. We put the raincoat back on the rack and leave.
7:10 – We find a restaurant that will let us watch the World Series. The man who works there tells us in Spanish, “No one in this country understands this sport. Here we just watch soccer.” About every ten minutes he wanders out from his nest behind the cash register and asks up a question about the game. Dad and I eat even though we are not hungry.
8:55 – we ask for the check because we know the restaurant closes at 9. Our waitress says, “oh, no, we usually close at 9:10 or 9:15”, and does not bring us the check. I think we amuse her.
We returned to the restaurant the following night to watch the game again. As soon as we poked our heads in the door the man behind the register put the game on. I guess this is what happens in a small town. I like it. We left early that night because I felt sick, but the Phillies won. Tonight is the next game in the Series. The Phillies have to win to stay in. I am in my pj’s typing this on my bed because dad is gone and I have no one to go on a wet adventure with.

Returning to my list of highlights:

-My dad spent two days in the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve. He took tons of pictures. He sat at my computer at night renaming the pictures so he wouldn’t forget.

-Every night when Dad and I met up I would ask him, “What did you do today?” and waited to hear his adventures. He always has adventures.

-Periodically during his visit, Dad would have to stop by my classroom for some reason. Maybe this was my favorite part of having him here. I would look up and there he would be, standing in the doorway, wincing a silent apology for dropping in during work and handing me my cabbage and mustard sandwiches or, today, miming “Where is the umbrella?”

-Last Friday I went for a run after work. On the way back to the school I ran into Dad on his way from my house to the school. I stopped running and walked the last little bit with him.

-The first Monday he was here Dad helped the library committee organize, file and shelve books. I popped into the library after school and there he was, happily stamping away and chatting it up with the library ladies.

-Last night Ben called and I talked with him while Dad made dinner. This is the amazing thing about dads (and moms). They make dinner for you. And then the next day, when they have left, you find a little Tupperware container with leftovers in it in your fridge. It tastes delicious.

-One day, I don’t remember which, I came home from work to find my father in the hammock, reading. He had been at the reserve for hours that day and had gotten drenched on the way home, which he thought was delightful. He had changed his clothes and stretched out in the hammock, reading and listening to the rain.

Something about the book I’m reading:
I’ve finished The Motorcycle Diaries by Ernesto Guevara and still plugging along with The Happy Isles of Oceana by Paul Theroux. I decided it was time to read something by a woman, so I picked up Nothing to Declare by Mary Morris (I’m on a travel kick). On the inside cover of this book someone has written, “The author truly has nothing to declare. Read at your own peril.” On the title page, in different handwriting: “Book club selection read 2/14 – 2/17. Well written, interesting, but the author whines a lot.” I am on page thirty-eight and I have found no whining. I have found that it can be refreshing to read something by a woman. On page thirty-five, where the author describes living in Mexico and having two other Americans and a Canadian over for dinner:

…Jerry kept putting his hands on me and finally I asked him not to. He said, “You’re so uptight, baby. This is Mexico. Cool out,” and he raised his glass. “Peace, happiness.”
He put his arm around me again and I said, “I can’t eat with your arm around me.”
Then Jerry announced, “I’m a good judge of people and Mary is a real New Yorker.”
“I come from Illinois,” I said.
“Well,” he said smugly, “you’re sure different from the down-home folks here.”
I said, “I just don’t like to be touched by people I don’t know.”
And he said, “Look, I’m simple, I’m not complicated. I just put my arms on you to comfort you. You need comforting.”
He was going to drive me nuts. “If I need comforting,” I said, “I’ll ask for it.”

This is not whining. This is, unfortunately, what happens to a lot of woman and I was glad to read someone who actually talks about it. This makes me think of an AniDiFranco song. I don’t know the name of it but it’s track seven on a live album. I think it’s worth putting all of the lyrics here:

Me and all the kids from the neighborhood
We’d play out in the street all summer long
The rule was we had to go home at night
When the street lights came on

We were oblivious to the rest of the world
We’d hold up the cars in the street
We’d always play boys against girls
And both sides would cheat
Strange men would stop their cars at the curb
Say, “hey sweetheart come here”
And I’d go up to the window and they’d have their dick out in their hands
and a sick little sneer
I’d say, “here we go again. Yeah ok this time you win.”
And I would feel dirty and I’d feel ashamed but I wouldn’t let it stop my game
We would play hide and go seek
Territory would be the whole block
Sometimes the older boys when they’d find you
they wouldn’t want to tag you they’d just want to talk

They’d say, “what would you do for a quarter?
Come on we don’t have that much time.”
And I’d think a minute and I’d say “ok.
Give me the quarter first.” “Fine.”
This time you win. Here we go again.
And I would feel dirty and I would feel ashamed but I wouldn’t let it stop my game
And I remember my first trip alone on the greyhound bus
A man put his hands on me as soon as night fell
I remember when I was leaving how excited I was
And I remember when I arrived I didn’t feel so well

I remember the teachers at school got me so sick
Yeah I went into the broom and I threw up in my hair
And I could go on but you know it just gets worse
And I’d probably just stop there
Girl next time he wants to know what your problem is
Girl next time he wants to know where the anger comes from
Just tell him this time the problem’s his
Tell him the anger just comes, it just comes

For the record, this last tidbit was not inspired by something that happened. The men I’ve met here in Costa Rica have been respectful and non-assuming. Maybe it is the culture; maybe I’m learning to choose my path carefully. I’ve just found it super refreshing to read something by a woman and thought I’d share. Heck, I put everything else on this blog, right?