Cicadas

Cicada Season

On the hot afternoons

the locus whirring

is so loud and unending

all across the valley

I think I will go mad.

I begin to rage

toward them with resentment,

but then I remember

all the extravagant, unnecessary,

sanity-unraveling spectacles

I have enacted in my own

search for love.

In Which I Admit Personal Things About Myself

1) I don't know how much I have mentioned this, but I am writing a story. It's taking over my life, is actually the thing. Sometimes it's all I do and think about in my spare time. So far I've written over 40 pages by hand, and it's only about a third done. I think it's the only thing that I can do with myself here, because I don't need any people or possessions in order to do it, just me and a pen. It keeps me from being bored, feeling purposeless, and feeling lonely. Furthermore, it's a second world to live in. I have to say that I worry about finishing it because I think it may be redeeming my time here. Which is to say, I don't know if I could be happy or satisfied here if I wasn't writing this story. I don't think I could write it under any other conditions because if there was more to do, I'd be distracted. But here, if there was less to do than write, I don't think I would be happy. Does that make sense?

2) I have come to understand the most essential quality of myself. I have known it for perhaps 5 years now, but it has ossified into something I understand so well. I wrote to a friend in an email last month, "I always want other people to know everything about me, inside me, so that maybe we can feel as close as I sometimes think I need to feel to everything that is alive so I don't perish of the loneliness of being a separate being." Yes. I find the fact of my discreet identity to be absolutely excruciating. I want to be part of everything. This dissolution is, in many spiritual beliefs, not only a quality of death but also of enlightenment, because all separateness from the great oneness of spirit is a delusion that we humans must overcome. So I guess I've got the great spiritual itch, but I'm a really worldly person. And I'm ok with that. I don't want the detachment of a buddha. I want to get my hands dirty. But in the meanwhile, I have conversations that make people say things like this to me: "Rachel, I'm not getting into a discussion with you about you not being a tree." But every time I remember I'm not a tree, it's sad.

3) Other stuff. Not much happening here. Jill is away so I'm busy, and doing things that I was in no way prepared for. Like, yesterday, for example, when I ran a day spa for the afternoon.

Fucking shoot me.

Also, I've been working in the kitchen, teaching lots of yoga, doing little odd jobs. And hanging out with the sweetest Belgian 6-year-old. She and I made lemon squares this afternoon. It took an hour and a half, but we had a great time. I was really proud of myself for giving her so much trust and responsibility, but I really believe that little kids are careful and do a really good job. They're more earnest than adults.

In Which Christmas Spirit and Alcohol Right All Wrongs

It was Wednesday, and we had no guests at the hotel. It was the day for our Christmas Employee Luncheon and Secret Santa Exchange.

Pablo and Marga made an enormous chop-suey and also passionfruit juice. I arranged flowers. All the employees and their children come, and the children go swimming in the pool while the adults hover around the living room in silence and occasion gossip that I can't understand. After lunch, we exchange presents. It turns out, Kenny has to give me a present, which is funny because I'm sure he resented having anything to do with me, let alone something nice. "This present is for someone who has started working here recently. And even though we have already had lots of problems, I still like you, so this is for you." It is a reversible Roxy brand bag, bright blue, which is my favorite color. I thank him graciously.

From Marga, Kenny gets a huge bottle of aged rum. When I call Cato, our favorite driver, to bring me home, he brings me back to his house because there's a party. Kenny, Pablo, Marjorie, and Jorge, Yolanda's father, are swilling back rum and cokes while Pablo plays the guitar. "It's my anniversary! I have been at Amatierra for one year as of today! Tonight's gonna be a party! We're going to get hammered! Here, Rachel, have a drink!" Oh, Kenny.

Pablo and I bust out some pretty great renditions of "Free Falling" and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door", and then Kenny and I do an a capella of "Mercedes Benz". Then we go next door to Coco Bongo, the bar, and everyone dances and Kenny buys everyone drinks. He apologizes to me for being so nasty and even catches me by my dress when I start to fall off the dancing platform mid-Cumbia. What a gentleman.

I spend the next day organizing Jill's storage cabinet (because throwing things away and organizing things is what I do best) and nursing a hangover. What I have learned is that the hangover is a degenerative condition. Instead of getting better over the course of the day, as I might have expected, the opposite seems to occur: I wake up and think, "wow, thank God I've magically escaped a hangover!" A few hours later, I think, "wow, I do not feel like myself. I am more tired than usual, and everything is difficult and painful." And then by dinner time, the entire world becomes unbearably aggressive to my peace of mind and I want to go to bed so badly I could cry.

Today I realized that my hangover has blended seamlessly with my getting sick. Today was like being hung over again, and it also continued to get worse. Then I took a nap and had cold sweats and could barely wake up. So I have spent the rest of the day watching movies and eating Kraft mac and cheese. And updating my blog. I have several bottles of Chinese herbal supplements that Jill muscle tested me for (what's that?). Which is about the coolest thing ever. I will get better soon, I think. I'm good at being sick, because resting is fun, at least at first.

In Which We Go to San Jose

We are going on errands! To the big city! Me, Jill, Marga, Elizabeth and her kid Manuel are all going in the car to the big city to buy things for Christmas!

First we went clothing shopping. It took forever. I bought nothing because everything is of poor quality, trashy, and expensive. My clothing is dowdy by Costa Rican standards- shirts too loose, skirts too long, neckline too high. And also the people here don't really express themselves with style the same way people back home would. You can learn a lot about the person sitting next to you on the subway based on the style of coat and shoes he or she wears. I could probably offer a pretty accurate guess as to what kind of music that person listens to. Here, there seems to be a lot less individuation and a lot less counterculture. And also I live in the most unimaginably small provincial town, and I'm an outsider who isn't privy to the clues that people give about themselves. And I think people here don't read the clues that I give about myself. For example, when I walk around without shoes, they assume I do not know how to dress myself and behave in good company, whereas I believe that I am relaxing and silently protesting for a spirit of anarcho-primitivism. Surprise: I don't know that word in Spanish. So generally while I think I'm being down-to-earth, living simply and non-materialistically, my coworkers think I am slovenly and drabby. These are the cultural differences that are not immediately apparent, but only come out after a while.

After the clothing "boutiques", we went to the Mercado Central, which has lots of little stalls. We bought some presents for the men, for Jill's family back in the states. I bough a pair of earrings and some thread. Also some cajeta, which is a dulce de leche sugar fudge that is out of this world. We bough some big corn and cheese tortillas and fried chicken for lunch, and I even had a coffee! As some of you may know, coffee produces a mild hysteria for me that can last up to 12 hours. The first 15 minutes of this experience are ecstatic. The following 765 minutes are uncomfortably fidgety and talkative.

Next I went off to do my secret santa purchases. My secret santa was for Yolanda, head of housekeeping and probably the person at Amatierra with who I work the absolute least. At least women are culturally easy to generalize about in a materialistic way! So I buy her some matching body lotion, perfume, and exfoliating scrub, all lavender scented. Meanwhile, I also got some personal shopping done: bright yellow, blue, and green nailpolish so that I can do a mani-pedi on myself, which always turns out looking like a three year old tried to do it.

Next we go to... wait for it... Chinatown! Yes, there is a Chinatown in San Jose that consists of a cluster of stores and a dim sum restaurant, and it was the highlight of my trip. And- the Chinese people who work there hablan espanol. That was a total trip for me, like, holy shit we're not in Kansas anymore. I bought some Ramen noodles, a little glazed bowl for Yolanda, and some peach candies to put inside it. Then I spent the rest of the time in the store the exact same way I spend my time in Chinatown in the USA: looking at all the cool stuff and wanting to buy it all, except that I don't know what it is, but it probably tastes like fish. Honestly, SuperSony was probably the most at home I've felt since I've gotten to this country, if that makes any sense. Because it's equally and identically foreign in both places, in the exact same way. And I was brought up going to Chinatown.

And then it was time for Pricemart, which is the Costa Rican equivalent of BJ's or CostCo. It had enormous quantities of American crap for sale, just like in the US, but here everything cost *more* than it does at a normal American grocery store, instead of less, because it had to be brought here. I helped Jill pick out presents for the family gift baskets, goldfish and candies and raisins. For myself, I bought a 5-pack of Kraft mac and cheese, and a $9, 36 oz. bag of Giradelli chocolate chips so that I can make my famous banana bread.

We went to Pequeno Mundo as our last stop. It is a warehouse of cheap crap that you do not want. There is clothing, kitchen ware, hardware, toys, decorations, frames, fake flowers, etc. Sort of like a mixture between Home Depot and Target and A.C. Moore but without any of the good stuff. I bough a rose scented candle and a rose oil diffuser. Diffusers are those little glass jars of essential oils that have the skewer sticks sticking out of them, and they scent your room. I've secretly always wanted one, but at home they're like $30 and you can't even smell them ahead of time to see if you like them. Mine cost $4 and it's sitting on my desk perfuming the ants and my books.

We rode home, into the sunset, with our purchases obscuring the rear-view window, our car was so full.

In Which There Is a Dance

"There is a dance on Saturday night. A big dance! You should go! And put on short shorts, and stuff your breasts. Put on makeup, and skin cream, and perfume. Wash your hair- with shampoo! And I will lend you a pair of heels, because your sandals are very ugly. And then I will introduce you to some men I know", said Marjorie. She is 42 and the most lascivious woman I have ever met, and also a fabulous dancer with great legs. She is going to dress me up like a barbie doll so she can live vicariously through my youth. Unfortunately for her, I am not provocative and do not share her enthusiasm for Latino men.

So I put on my short shorts, and my makeup. I washed my hair- with shampoo! I put on Marjorie's heels and walked over the dirt and gravel road in them. "Stand up straight! Chest high! Walk slowly!" She's like a drill sergeant. She takes me to bar #1 and buys me a drink. She's astonished that I want a whiskey, neat, and not a beer. Alright then. And then we leave and go to bar #2 to meet up with her boyfriend. She buys me another whiskey. And then a beer. We see lots of women we know. She introduces me to one of her son's friends, Cesair, who is very polite and friendly and is going to school to be a chef. He takes care of me for the rest of the night, buying me beers, listening to my broken Spanish, and walking me home when I get tired at a pathetic 11pm at night like the gentleman that he is.

I spoke only Spanish for 4 hours straight. I can avow: alcohol does make it come easier.

In Which a Mediation is Necessary

I had noticed that after politely bringing up the dirty dishes situation twice, the single electric frying pan in the kitchen, along with various plates and utensils, more often than not lay on the counter with the greasy scum of old over-processed meat dishes floating like dead fish upon its glistening surface. This meant that I could not cook for myself. It also meant that I was revolted. It also meant that I was very angry, and could not tell Kenny I was angry because he was on vacation. I couldn't tell him when he came back because he had a lot to deal with. And so it was that I brought it up at a bad time, when we were all in the kitchen and I attacked publicly. Kenny replied that he needed to get a servant woman who could do his dishes. I told him that that was privileged and disgusting. He told me that he does not have time to do dishes. I suggested he grow up and act like an adult who can take responsibility for himself. He suggested that Pablo would be in charge of doing his dishes from now on. I suggested that they were not Pablo's dishes, and that was not a solution. He suggested I move out. I said that that was ludicrous, and that I had been given the house by Jill and Bob. He suggested that he had been there first. I suggested that I lived there now, and slept there more often than he did. He suggested that he spent more money on the house. Jill suggested we have a mediation.

Some of you may know that the last time I had a mediation with a room mate, it ended with me shouting, "I can't have sex in the living room!" and her moving out. I truly wanted a better outcome this time. I was committed to communicating non-violently. Only using I-statements. Compromising. Understanding cultural differences.

What I was unprepared for was the possibility that Kenny would be furiously angry and refuse to talk about his feelings. I was unprepared for him to reject the mediation format, and to think that trying to work things out was an invalid solution. When pressed firmly to speak, he acquiesced by saying he would go home, wash the dishes, and never use the kitchen again. There. No more problem. Jill suggested that that was not working together to find a solution. Kenny suggested that we were wasting his time. I got to tell everyone my feelings, disrespected, revolted, resentful, wanting to cook for myself, not wanting value or merit as a housemate to revolve around money, etc. There was no resolution.

The next day, Kenny almost left the house without doing his dishes, but I caught him and asked him nicely if he please would. He agreed. And has, to his credit, being doing them ever since. I think I won the war of attrition not because he thinks I am right, not because he wants to compromise or make me happy, but because he would rather do his dishes than ever, EVER have a mediation with me again.

The "peace" has been cold and mildly hostile, with lots of passive aggression. We are no longer friends. We do not speak if we don't have to. I think he is being a brute and a child, but who even knows what he thinks of me?

Many Things

I don't know how I do it, but it seems to be the way things happen. For the first month of moving somewhere new, I'm usually unhappy, lonely, frustrated. And then, like clockwork, I become happy again. It's as though happiness is my natural state, and once I reach equilibrium someplace new, I become happy again. This week has been just so nice.

Our guests have been just lovely, some women from Tucson, AZ, and one elderly lady in particular who reminds me of Maude from "Harold and Maude". Yesterday some students from the University of Peace came on a field trip for their sustainable tourism class. I made friends with a few of the girls, and they invited me to visit them at the University! I'm so happy to meet people my age and have friends a close distance away. Last night I made lemon squares when the kitchen was empty, and they turned out delicious.

Windy season is here; it's dry, sunny, warm like spring, and gusty. I think I am the only person who likes the wind, but I luxuriate in it. It makes me feel totally alive and exhilarated.

I have been focusing on artistic endeavors. I painted a road sign for the hotel, spending many hours down in the basement mixing paint and thinner, making a huge mess and a very handsome sign to tell the drivers on the road not to honk. I also made a lantern lampshade for my bedroom. It was a naked lightbulb before. What I did was I boiled scrap office paper and then put it in the blender and spread it out thin on a screen to dry. Then I crumpled some other office paper and stained it in tea, the way we used to make treasure maps as kids. After letting that dry, I rubbed it with vegetable oil to make it translucent, and stored it for a few days between sheets of paper to wick out any extra oil. Once the handmade paper was dry, I folded it into four to make an open rectangular cube. I cut a window out of each side and glued the oil paper over. Last night I hung it in m room and it's soooooo beautiful! I also got a little desk for the hallway, and it has totally changed the whole house. It has a checkered table cloth and a stack of poetry books and a little blue lamp. I cut wildflowers and put them in an empty soda bottle with the top cut off. Finally, something nice! And I can write there. I am writing a short story, my first short story since I was a kid! It's going ok. But I'm reading "100 Years of Solitude" right now, and it is absolutely the most enchanting and delightful story, but it puts my writing to total shame.

I have been walking uphill from town to come into work on some days. It takes the better part of an hour, and it's way uphill. So it's a good workout, and I'm slowly meeting the people who live along the road, and the dogs are gradually beginning to get used to me and they bark less. Sometimes I stop in the Super to buy snacks for the walk up. I've been exploring their different dry cookies and plantain chips; everything is sort of gross but enjoyable just the same time.

The town has a new mayor! Mourning doves are building a nest outside my window! Mornings I don't have to work, I walk around the house in my wrap, with the doors open, eating papaya and writing.

Casper. Casper is gone from us forever. Kenny let his crazy stalker fuck buddy take care of him, and now she won't give him back or stop calling. He changed his phone number, and told her to just take the dog. It's sad, but I know that it's best because Kenny had no time for a dog. He couldn't take care of him and kept boarding him in Puriscal: he's only been at the house 2 nights all month. So goodbye Casper! You will be missed!

The bug situation is getting pretty hairy. I have to admit, my repugnance for bugs seems to grow daily. It is because there are no limits here! No boundaries! The bugs are lawless and prolific! The little ants here cover everything so indiscriminately as to be the universal texture of objects. Last night there was a scorpion in my bedroom. I tried to catch it in a water bottle but as soon as it moved I screamed and had to wake Kenny up because I couldn't sleep knowing it was in the room with me. Needless to say it was a humiliating experience that skeeved me out to the max. I can't put my hand anywhere dark or hidden because god knows what is in there. It's sort of like everything is covered with poopy slime, but invisible or small, moving poopy slime, and my bed is an island in the middle, a little safe haven in a world that belongs, most certainly, to the insects.

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly

Another week has gone by in this little country. I had a lot of work to do, and sometimes, I have to scrounge work up to get in enough hours. I taught a lot of yoga classes. I really am getting better and better at it.

Jill and I have been switching the garden over to hydroponics, which means that the substrate in which the plants grow is not soil, but rather coconut shell fiber and rice husks. This means that there are no molds, pests, or chemical imbalances in the substrate. Whereas in soil, you have to worry about balancing your nitrogen, potassium, etc, in hydroponics you've got a blank slate. To give the plants nutrients, you feel them plant food, basically. We've got some organic food to give them. The soil on our land is very high in clay content, so hopefully we will get a better crop now! The rainy season is ending and now comes the windy, dry season. We planted tomatoes, sweet red peppers, arrugala, spinach, lots of lettuce, parsley, dill, and cukes. It was nice to work in the dirt, and it reminded me of when I was young and my family had a garden. We plant here by the moon: you plant seeds that grow up on the new moon, seeds that grow down when the moon is dark and waxing. You transplant and graft when the moon is waning in the last quarter. Why? I don't know. I asked though. It has to do with water in plants.

I watched the movie The Hours, which was very good, and I finished a book called "The Other Boleyn Girl" which was fun but too romantic. Why was it too romantic? Because here is what romance looks like here:

Cato, our usual driver, sent his uncle to pick me and Kenny up at the hotel and bring us home. While waiting for Kenny to get in the car, the driver and I strike up a conversation; where are you from, you speak great Spanish, do you have a boyfriend, etc. While in the U.S. the boyfriend question is a very suggestive thing to ask, or considered nosy, here it is a vital stat. Then he tells me I am very beautiful. Whatever. This guy's like, 70 years old. When Kenny gets in the car, they start talking- about me- saying, yeah, she's pretty, she's single, she even speaks Spanish. This is broing out, tico style. But it's at my expense. I tell them they are snakes. They laugh. As I'm getting out of the car, the driver tells me I'm guapisima, "very attractive", and I awkwardly say thanks. When I get inside, I explode. I tell Kenny how I am so sick of men treating me like a piece of meat. "You're a tourist", he says. "I'm not a tourist, Jesus Christ, I'm a human being!" I'm yelling now. "And you! You're talking to him in Spanish about me, AS IF I'm not there, AS IF I don't speak enough Spanish to know what you're saying! I hate it! I hate being treated like an animal or a piece of furniture! It's disgusting! It's like no one cares what I'm like, how I feel, or what I want!" "Rachel, I'm sorry, I won't talk about you anymore like that." He is exasperated. Kenny and I have barely spoken since then, although I did apologize for yelling at him. I spent the rest of the day festering in my room, feeling trapped in a horrible ugly house in a horrible country where everyone is terrible and I have no friends and no money and nothing to do but try to get rich old people to chill the fuck out. I also ate an entire pack of Oreos. When was the last time I bought Oreos in the US? I don't even remember.

That was the lowest point. Because there is a part of me who loves solitude. I just need more solitude that is actually alone. That feeling where there are tons of people in the room, and you've never felt more alone? That's bad. Being the only person in the room? That's the best. At least for me.

Which is why today was a great day. All our guests left. Kenny is on vacation. Pablo has the day off. Bob and Jill are off at their friends' house, and I am babysitting the telephone. They said, you can eat whatever you want. They said, you can tan by the pool. They said, you can watch TV in our house. They said, please redo our wellness brochure.

Today was dedicated to my inner child. My inner child likes feeling safe, being in charge, eating sugar, loud music, being alone, being barefoot, and fixing problems. I ate papaya for first breakfast. For second breakfast, I ate vanilla ice cream crepes. I tanned by the pool. For lunch, I made garlic potatoes, the way my grandfather makes them. Then I had another ice cream crepe for lunch-dessert.

As I was tanning by the pool, I reached my hand back behind my head to grip the top of my lounge chair. Something bit me, something with insect legs that stick to your fingers. I screamed and flung it off, my finger covered in blood, and went to find Eugenio to ask him if I was going to die. He said, what bit you? I don't know. I dragged it off (meant to say flung, but messed up with the Spanish). Does it hurt? No, but it did. Where is it? I don't know. I dragged (flung) it off. But it had claws on its legs. Let's see. Not a scorpion. Not a snake. Not a wasp. We looked around the pool for it but found nothing. I went upstairs to check on my potatoes in the oven. Then Eugenio came up holding an enormous bright green grasshopper, called an esperanza, in his hand. I screamed. Then I looked very closely at it once the heeby-jeebies were out of me. Two enormous pincers. Yep. That's what bit me. And no, it's not poisonous at all.

Later, I put my ipod on the big lobby speakers and turned it way up, and worked on the wellness brochure. Now, I am not in any way a genius about Microsoft Word when it comes to formatting. Also I am at a huge disadvantage because there are only PCs here, and I have been learning how to use them since I got here. However, it was readily apparent that the last person to make the wellness brochure not only knows nothing about Microsoft Word, but has no internal need for perfection, consistency, order, and organization. I totally re-hauled the document, making a totally new one, and now it is perfect in every way. Everything is located in a text box of the exact same width, justification, font, and size. I feel very satisfied with this work.

It is difficult that I still don't know how to live my life here in a way that feels good. But I'm trying. I'm trying to remember that I am in paradise. And have no homework. And really no responsibilities besides working 30 hours a week. Which just goes to show, outside conditions do not really affect our happiness as much as we think they do.