Tomorrow I set out for an all day trek to Cartago. Cartago is city about one-half hour south of San Jose. Did I mention I’m going by foot? In fact an estimated 500,000 to one million people in Costa Rica walk to Cartago every year from almost every town in the country, hoping to arrive on August 1st or 2nd for the celebration of “La Virgen de los Angeles.” People leave from their home in hopes of finding a miracle, a cure, or to state how grateful they are just to be alive.

The legend is that on August 2, 1635 a little girl was playing by a river. She found a piece of rock that looked just like the Virgin Mary cuddling a child. Of course the girl thought it a toy, so she played away the afternoon and later took it home. The following day, she went back to play in the same place and found a rock that looked just like the one she discovered the day before. She brought it home to add it to her collection; however, the first one was gone. Same thing happened the third day. So one thing followed another and the little girl brought the priest to the river. He took it to the church and locked it up. But the next day, guess what? The case was empty and the statue reappeared back at the river. Naturally, the priest saw this as a sign to build a church on the site.

As with any legend, there’s a few holes in the story. So, I’m off to see what the people have to say. With a million people all walking in the same direction, it’s going to be fascinating. When we arrive at the church, we’re supposed to walk on our knees to the end and say a quick prayer - the line is long. Some believe this pilgrimage protects Costa Rica from natural disasters, some look for miracles. I am sure there will be a few stories to tell once we return from paying our respects to “La Virgen de los Angeles.” And once my feet have recovered and our clothes have dried out, I’ll be the first to let you know about all the miracles that have come to pass.

I’m not an old shoe at parenting, but I’ve been around this block now for about eight years. When did we all decide that children need to have humongous birthday parties at barn-like locations with boats and slides and nets and rock climbing and zip-lines? The entertainment is non-stop; the music so loud it reminds me of being a misfit college student trying to act cool and talk to my friends over the loud band between bopping around on the sweaty dance floor.

There’s no doubt the kids love it. Who wouldn’t it? Since Coco is getting older, she isn’t invited to as many. So she gleefully jumps in the car whenever Addy’s got a gig. At the first few parties I sat stiff in a corner, hoping I wouldn’t have to speak Spanish. If I can’t hear every syllable, I don’t get what’s being said. So I spend most of the time nodding, smiling, and making a good guess at what I should answer. Then while the kids bounce or swing around, I have to keep telling myself to NOT eat another one of those fattening, yet yummy little bocas the parents always get. (I don’t think I’ve outgrown the misfit thing.)

The theme party then carries over to a large cake, mounds of presents (that are opened at home), pizza or hot dog for the kids, and of course the finale - the piñata.

I accept these parties now, like I accept the rain. There’s parts I don’t like, but the kids have a ball. Addy’s third birthday is coming up. And since he’s stuck with me as a mother, he’ll be getting the balloons at home and the scoop of ice cream for a cake.

We skipped the piñata, which disappointed Coco. I reminded her she still had a bag in the refrigerator from the last party/parade/whatever full of sugary delights. Addison couldn’t take his eyes off the huge butterfly Coco decided to get on her face five minutes before leaving. The traffic had thinned. It was 6:00 and time to get ready for bed.

Party animals. We’re just party animals.

Friday was the celebration of the Anexation of Guanacaste. My daughter dressed up in the typical dress and insisted on braiding her hair. I’ve never been certain what the exact history is of this holiday other than Costa Rica took the province of Guancaste from Nicaragua to call their own. Supposedly, the land wasn’t working out so well for Nicaragua. Take? Give? Like I said, the details are a little unclear, but it’s a good reason to dance.

Costa Ricans are thrilled that Guanacaste is theirs. And since the area is now one of the most popular beach destinations, it’s incredibly important to the bottom dollar. In my life, it means dressing the kids in red, white, and blue and eating beans and rice. Coco is thrilled with any, and every, holiday. Dressing up in this big old skirt adds to the thrill. Before she left for school, the nanny sang one of the traditional songs and Coco twirled back and forth. One of the most commons songs to hear is Punto Guanacasteco, a courting song. The boy says: Que si! and spins his bandana above his head. The girl says: Que no! and with her skirt in her hand, spins around.

Even though the holiday fell on Friday, the government has made the official day Monday. At the end of our three day weekend, Coco and I were reading a book about world peace. (You know, one of those books that are for kids but really help us parents figure IT all out.) On the top of the page was a quote by Anne Frank: How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.

Who’s Anne? she asked.

I told her how we went to Anne’s house, which is now a museum, when she was just a year and one-half. She asked all sorts of questions about how they ate and played and where the secret doors were. Perhaps I made a mistake of telling the whole story about Anne hiding in the attic; I didn’t sugar coat it. I told her the ending. As I looked back at the page to continue reading, I could tell Coco was going to cry.

Why do they do such things to kids? Just because she was playing and making noise in the attic?

I assured her it wasn’t because of the noise and explained that these really bad people just wanted to kill and hurt others because they weren’t like them. Coco grabbed several of her stuffed animals and placed her chin upon them. She told me she had a plan:

I know what the kids can do next time. We can dance with our skirts and twirl and say: Que no! The boys can take their banaderas and spin them over their heads! That’ll make them go away!

I couldn’t think of a better way to find world peace than to dance. This may become one of my top holidays of all.

This big ol’ hardware store moved into San José about five years ago, more or less. I must admit it was a relief to finally have a large hardware store to wander about in. I’m used to doing a certain amount of home repair by myself, and a one stop hardware store is just easier for me when I need to get a big plank of wood for Addy’s new therapy swing, a swath of rope, screws, and a brick of cement for the guinea pig cage.

This EPA came to Escazú on the West side of San José about three years ago. It took over a location being constructed by the WAlmart owned Hipermas. Hipermas deserted the location because during construction, it began slipping off the cliff. An engineering boo boo of enormous magnitude. Imagine picking up a broasted chicken and suddenly falling into a raven 500 meters below. Not pretty. Lots of people lost money on that deal. So it sat for awhile and little by little the shell of the 1/2 built shopping store was removed. EPA scaled back the building enough to make it stable. About a year later, there I was, milling through the wide isles looking for the tools that make my life run a little easier.

I think in reality, EPA saves me gas when I have to buy these few odds and ends because otherwise I have to go to different stores (all over the place) for many of the items. I believe the corner hardware store will always thrive in Costa Rica because this culture is accustomed to buying three nails and one screw at a time at a little place in town. (I love that about pills too. You can actually go into a drugstore and just buy four aspirins if you want.) The little ferreterías are cramped and it is always a good place to challenge my Spanish because I have to remember words like nail, washer, screw, bolt and that “thingy” that goes around the other “thingy.”

My daughter whined as any child would with boredom and repeated frequent requests for M&Ms and/or a plant. But she gets to push her own little cart, which satisfies her until we get to those plants. How can I leave without a pink impatiens or a heavenly hortencia? We never do linger too long at EPA. Those florescent lights give me a headache and the air conditioning makes Coco’s eyes water. After picking up that last screw, we make a run for the cash register. I mean, it did fall off a hill once. I’m not taking chances.

A guy walks into the church and says:

God, please! Please let me win the lottery. My family is so poor; my feet are swollen; my children are sick; my horse is dying; my rice is stale; my house has a leak; my phone doesn’t work; I can’t get on the Internet; I’m tired and need a break.

Silence.

The man leaves, only to return the next week.

God, please! I must win the lottery! Please God. You must help me! Please let me win the lottery. My family is poorer; they’ve cut off a leg, my children are dying; my horse is dead; my rice is rotten; my house has two leaks; my phone got stolen; I still can’t get on the Internet; I’m exhausted and don’t know if I can go on.

Silence.

God? Are you there God?

A booming voice comes from above:

Will you at least buy a ticket?

Ask most Costa Ricans where they went during the month long school break in June and July and hoards will reply: The beach. The rain stops in the Central Valley; off to the beach.

For two years, I owned a home on the beach and when the holidays come, I miss my little wooden house. All the romantic ideas I’ve ever had about the beach are true, especially on the Caribbean, my coast of choice. In the morning I’d walk along the beach and many days see no one except a few monkeys. The sea is clean and the horizon sucked me in like an endless vacuum of light. The kids loved the sand and our little town was as quaint as a little town in a snow-globe. (Hey, now there’s an original souvenir!) Life brimmed on every leaf, in every tree, and in each drop of water.

Though I did not live full-time at the beach, I got a taste of what it’s really like - after the postcards are sent. Since most vacation spots on the Caribbean are below the port of Limon, it is at least a five to seven hour drive. With kids, it’s a long ride. On the Pacific coast, there are a few spots like Jaco and Punteranus closer to San Jose. However, many choose beaches on the north Pacific and the drive becomes as long. A few places it makes more sense to fly a commuter plane. Living so far away from the city means deciding what you are willing to either live without or be content with fewer choices. You may have to settle for dial-up Internet while you wait for a year or two for DSL. If you depend on special needs services or supplies, do a lot of research before choosing your location. A routine trip to San Jose figures into most ex-pats budget that decide to live on the beach.

My home was a dream tree house. Half wood and half cement, both materials bring challenges. Wood means termites. Cement stays damp and brings lots of mold. The Caribbean rains almost all the time with several small breaks throughout the year. Closets are a no no. In a closed space, mold seems to grow in seconds. Beyond termites every home will have ants, cockroaches, geckos, spiders, more ants, of all sizes, scorpions, and of course mosquitoes. Since Costa Rica has cases of dengue fever, it’s wise to sleep with a toldo - mosquito net. Water supply is iffy, and often so low you can’t flush a toilet. Many people air condition at least one room where computer or other technical equipment is kept.

Petty theft is a problem at the beach. Keeping a guard up is just wise. There’s a lot of drug use. It comes with the territory. We were robbed once because someone staying in our guest room on the bottom floor didn’t shut the little wooden shutter at night. Though the guests lost cameras, phones, and clothes, thankfully no one was hurt. But common sense goes a long, long way at the beach.

What could be the most important thing to do before settling at the beach? Rent. Resist buying if you can. I’ve watched many-a-Gringo pull up stakes after a few years because one or more of all those factors I mentioned above proved too much to handle. Test drive the town and the area before deciding. It’s true you can sell, I did with some great help. In fact you may decide the beach is yours forever, but instead of Cahuita, you prefer Puerto Viejo down the road.

So why even go? We all know the answer to that: it’s the beach, and the sun, and the forest, and the monkeys, and the air. I could never breath enough of that fresh oxygen and plants and life growing on every tree and gate and wire and road. It’s incredible. Days on the sand, the kids would loose themselves in play and imagination and sticks and rocks. We lived very much in the NOW; the beach is all about the NOW. But it’s a lot of work, especially with small kids. Between those moments of surf and sand come the laundry, dinner, fevers, stomach aches, bug bites, whining, and all the other “regular-old-life” challenges. At a different time in my life, I would have kept my home, but single parenting two kids and one with special needs was just too much. A home at the beach demands a lot of on-hands care I couldn’t give.

My daughter must have been trading stories at school with her friends about who did what over the vacation because in the car she asked me out of the blue why we sold her house. I told her what I’ve written here but in the terms a seven year old can handle.

We’re going to go off and see volcanoes for awhile. Plus we’ll be going back to the beach. We’ll always be going back to the beach.

Coco ran over to me at gym class, cupping her hand beneath her mouth to catch the pool of blood. She cried as I ushered her to the bathroom. I turned on the water and looked at the tooth hanging by a thread.

All you have to do is yank it out, I said, unrolling some toilet paper to catch the drooling spit and blood.

If it comes out then the mouse will take it! she said, dabbling the matted paper into her mouth.

The pain of pulling out the tooth was secondary to the thought that Coco would loose her tooth to a little mouse that comes in the night to take children’s teeth. I thought this mouse to be as odd as the bell in France at Easter. And why exactly are we adults charading around as fairies and mice anyway? So when I need to know the all-important things I life - I Google it. And wouldn’t you know it? It sounds like the mouse and the fairy as the one, in a way.

A long time ago in Europe, people ran around burying baby teeth as a form of good luck. Well out of this wacky tradition came a French fairy tale called “La Bonne Petite Souris.” A little mouse changes into a fairy and hides under a mean King’s pillow and bashes out his teeth every night to torment him. Then, over in the Spanish speaking countries, Ratoncito Pérez, or “ratón de los dientes” - the tooth mouse, was a character created by Luis Coloma. The Queen wanted a tale to comfort her little heir because he’d lost a tooth. Flash to present moment, and we have a little mouse hauling around a ladder and large coins, slipping unnoticed under a child’s pillow, exchanging money for enamel, and escaping in the night to the next toothless child’s bed.

As usual I am wedged between two customs, and now it looks like there’s a little French in the mix. I find myself mixing my metaphors and legends all in an attempt to ease my child’s mind that she’s just lost a part of her body and nothing else will fall out or die in the night. Over the eight teeth Coco’s lost, I’ve been known to say things like:

Well, the fairy guides the little mouse with the twinkle of a light and then the mouse hauls his little butt up the two-story building, finds a hole, does the deed, and scurries along.

Of course the little mouse knows where you live! The fairy keeps the address list!

Coco was so happy about loosing her tooth, she came screaming down the steps to tell me. Tears came down her face and her voice cracked. I held her while she gripped her tooth tightly in her palm. I waffle about what to do and say with all these culture-created tales. It has crossed my mind to tell my kids that none of these things exist. It’s all just made up.

When Coco let go of her grip on me, the mouse immediately crept into the conversation. Coco declared she is NOT giving up her tooth. She has a little bear box that holds most of the teeth. Coco doesn’t care about the money, I don’t think any kid really does, though that can become the focus. The mouse, the fairy, the bunny, I guess I see these as tools. Metaphors are delightful, useful ways to explain and decode what it is we are truly feeling. Talking about a mouse is a lot easier than putting a child on the spot and asking them exactly how they feel. And I’ve found if I stay with the moment, and reach a little further, I do get to hear what my children are worried about.

I went back to the kitchen and flipped the quesadillas. Coco followed me. Then, she jumped up and down and said:

The kids at school won’t make fun of me anymore!

I told her she was very brave as I cut her food into tiny, easy to chew chunks. I sensed the little mouse/fairy had already been by and slipped us a whole bag full of gold.

Whether it’s a bear in the woods or a monkey in the rain forest, seeing an animal on it’s own, doing it’s thing is one of the greatest treasures I’ve ever experienced. We’re treading heavy on all our lands. Costa Rica battles development right along with the rest of the world. Our “all natural” status is often threatened, and we can leave such destruction behind. Does anyone still doubt that our existence is not connecting to all living things?

Plant a tree; hug a bear, befriend a beetle; watch this video and send it on so at least for a moment, we’re sending these beautiful creatures our thoughts and perhaps a little luck that they’ll still be here to hang around with our grandchildren.

When I look up there’s so much more to see. Trees reach up and play with the sunshine. There’s a whole life going on at an upper level that if I’m hustling along too fast, miss. Looking up, really looking up, makes me stop in my tracks and pay attention to no other moment than the one right in front of my eyes. That is my goal. Now. Not yesterday and “all I did wrong” or “all they did to me” or “whatever ever else I can come up with.”

This little exercise is a lot harder than it looks. Sometimes the voices in my head have a whole party going on in there. Yet look what I found when I told the voices to go home. I don’t want to miss Cherub-like ladies in the window chucking while chatting on the phone. I don’t want to miss statues of Bishops that - if you look closely - is cross-eyed?

There’s a catch though. Always looking up can be wrought with problems. I’m a testament to that. It all comes back to that balance thing. Look up; look down; never loose sight of what’s straight ahead. Who’s got time for anything else?

The other half of the Cow Parade awaited us in downtown San Jose. The artistic endeavor, which exhibits life-size and bigger fiberglass cows, dots through two sides of the main drag in downtown - a place where many do not like to go. Although seeing the cows was only half-way exciting for Coco (her little brother would be happy just going in the car anywhere), the idea of seeing pigeons was thrilling.

Since I lived downtown for almost two years (in fact just up the block from this pink cow), I can navigate the goofy, criss-cross roads pretty well. I drove right to my favorite parking lot. We saw many cows. Some had faded a bit after almost two months on display. A few were even in a “cow garage” getting repairs.

Bringing the cows to San Jose was a great idea. The crowds have wained, in fact most looking now are just tourists. But that first weekend we went, it was a kick to see people energized and enjoying downtown. After the kids fed the pigeons, we walked back to the car. I had a conference call to make and would just squeak it in.

On our way home, we got stuck in a traffic jam. In a stretch of highway that only takes me five minutes to cross, we inched along for 45 minutes. I kissed the conference call good-bye. We cracked open waters, and Coco was now grateful about the banana I’d packed (earlier she refused the banana as if I’d brought along the bottom of an old shoe to eat). Addison napped, and we listened to classical guitar. I was putting down bets it was an accident, the nanny was throwing her money on road work. As I revved the engine to keep it cool, I tried not to snip at anyone. Unless I want to abandon my car, choosing calmness sure beats raging at whatever was holding us back.

Addison woke up just as we passed the men working on the cement barriers down the middle of the auto pista. This is the stuff they leave out of the guide books. Life really is an adventure down here.