I’ve gotten out of the habit of reading a daily newspaper. There’s one reliable English language newspaper source in Costa Rica called the Tico Times, which comes out once a week on Fridays. On Saturday at the grocery store, I decided to flip through it to see if I wanted to spend the 600 colones (about a $1.20). The price has gotten a little steep, and with kids, I often end up using it for to hold flower clippings or to catch glitter on crafts without ever getting to the articles.

To my shock, amazement, and thrill there was an add for a theater production of Hamlet. Big deal. Been done, right? Millions of times shall we say? But in Costa Rica? In English! It was as if I was in third grade and someone had told me Bobby Sherman was signing his life-size, pull-out poster down at the corner drug store. I had to go. A few years ago, I saw King Leer by the same British company and was in heaven, regardless of how many characters ended up dead.

Target I miss, but theater I long for like my the smell of my high school sweetheart’s grandmother’s pegorie’s cooking in her oven. It’s something I don’t get enough of anymore.

There is a lot of theater in Costa Rica in Spanish. The problem is my Spanish isn’t good enough to understand the yearnings of Stella or the despair of Willy without getting a headache. I miss a lot when sentences wrap around emotions. And that’s kind of the whole point of theater: wrapping our emotions around language long enough to figure out a little piece of life. Or at least get a good laugh and not be with the kids for a few hours.

This Hamlet production was showing at the Eugiene O’Neil Theater a part of the North American Cultural Center in San Pedro. The center is subsidized by the U.S. It has an art gallery, library, language classes, and other performances in music and dance. I asked my daughter if she wanted to go and even though she’d never heard of the play, she said no because she’d be too scared. (How did she know there was a ghost when she knew nothing about the play?!)

I picked up my nanny (a fine date that, yes, does speak English) and drove through the rain through downtown and into back neighborhoods to land perfectly upon the Center’s front steps. A guy said he’d watch my car (one of the few car-parkers that put’s a price on parking is the theater and event guys - but still, it’s worth the $2.00 he charged). We got in line early and sat front row, center. I held up my camera to take a picture of the stage so Coco could see it, and a guy behind me said, “You’re not going to take pictures all through the performance are you?” I’m not a theater critic for the New Yorker and thought I’d dressed rather “theater-ish,” but I’ve been around enough to know not to take photos, leave my cell phone on, or crinkle little wrappers of candy during performances. Since brevity is the wit of the soul, I surprised myself at how quickly I turned around and told him of course not! I guess neither one of us thought the other too rude as we then had a cheery conversation on the troupe and the other performances they’d done. It took about ten minutes for my mind to sink into the language. Once there, it took everything in me to not slap my knee and chortle at the incredible brilliance of the play.

And yes, almost everyone ended up dead. I think it was a bit of a shock to my nanny. Since it’s one of the longest plays, I got home really late for a mom with a son that likes to get up between five and six. Hamlet could only bring on the most of interesting of dreams. I couldn’t wait to find out.

The rest is silence.

They’re at McDonalds, the local fish restaurant, and the bank, and the coffee shop, and the hair salon, and every other location that has a place to park or a curb to sidle up against. The “car-parker” guy (for lack of a better name) is there to protect my car - come hell or high-water or until he needs a bathroom break.

These muchachos(as) - range from incredibly professional, armed with sticks and whistles to the few that are trying to scrape by another day and looked as though finding a shower was a tough prospect. Protecting my car for an hour or fifteen minutes is their lively hood.

I am a regular at the big city park la Sabana, and I am great buddies with this particular car-parker. I like to arrive early before the lake path gets too crowded and the rain starts. When we arrived yesterday, our car-parker was hanging his duffle bag on the back of a “no parking” sign and cinching it with rope so it wouldn’t be stolen. Inside I imagine he had his beans and rice and tortilla for lunch. He’s probably watched this spot of the park longer than I’ve lived in Costa Rica. He smiles, caring not for a second he’s missing most of his front teeth.

The moment I get back to my car, he’s there waiting for me. He’ll stand on the side of the car and help me back into traffic - whether I need it or not. Many times, it would be impossible to back up and pull onto the street without the car-parker’s help. The muchacho(a) will stand behind and say the command: Déle. Déle. Déle. Déle, which in a literal translation means - you give it. According to my sources this is more like the expression - give it gas; keep it comin’; you’re fine keep backing up; you got it. The phrase is also used in soccer when someone wants to get a pass or a teammate encourages another to kick it hard.

Before or after the déle command, the car-parker will hover near the window. This is the awkward time I need to fish out some coins and tip the man with the orange vest. I usually tip anywhere between 200 and 300 colones. The amount depends on how many coins I have bouncing around the bottom of my purse. Occasionally, I pull out the 500 colones or even a “mil” (1000) colones.*

Do I actually think the man with orange vest, whistle and stick is going to protect my car when I’m shopping for those white pair of socks I can’t find for my daughter’s gym class? Technically, no. Most of these men and women I could take in a tussle. But it is another part of the culture here that everyone seems to obey - mas o menus. It follows right with the “no one will break into your home if someone is there” concept. Of course there are exceptions, but in general, this holds true. Since petty theft is one of the biggest crimes here, these little customs do seem to help deter the part-time thief looking for a quick hit of cash.

When I traveled here for the first time (I admit it was years ago!), my car was broken into when the car-parker guy stepped into the coffee shop to use the bathroom. In probably less than a minute, a crowbar smashed the window and the guy took off with my duffle bag which held my favorite raincoat, hiking boots, and spare prescription glasses. Since then, I’ve never had a problem. So I gratefully listen to the déle even when I don’t need it. And, I gratefully tip in honor of their presence.

*I do not tip the muchachos with guns. In general, they are hired by the mall, store, or restaurant. In that case, many won’t even accept tips. Plus I like to think it’s best to keep my distance from firearms as much as possible.

Walk through any neighborhood in Costa Rica in the morning, and you will hear sounds of children splashing in the bathtub. Often, the voice of a nanny rings by. Children around the country, not yet old enough for school but old enough to be without their mother’s for awhile, take a morning bath.

Addison is no exception. Except when he’s with me. Before starting the day, he gets a bath. It’s actually lovely and good therapy for him besides getting his bum and the folds between his neck clean. He fills up jars and bottles of water; experiments with physics; and relaxes after a stressful morning of exercise balls, yoga, and sweeping the condo wall clean of termites.

I’m not so good with the bath ritual. When I don’t have a nanny, Addison definitely is “less clean” so to speak. I’d rather roll around on the floor and tussle in the grass than sit on the ceramic next to the tub. Perhaps it’s the Leo in me. I’m a land beast. Or perhaps my European heritage accepts the fact that oil build up on the skin is a good thing. As with every cultural clash I encounter, I find good in both. I have definitely learned to relax a bit over the years over the bath time ritual and succumb to bathing my son more than once a week when I’m without a nanny. On the other hand, it’s O.k. to skip the morning (or afternoon) bath and even go to bed with a little dirt on our knees. Imagine! Almost unacceptable in Costa Rica.

Costa Rica is one of the cleanest countries I have ever been in. The trash on the road is the sign of a larger problem in this society that needs fixing. In fact I just watched a guy toss a pop can onto the side of the highway. I had to remind myself I was not in the middle of a Carl Haissen novel and could not chase the man down and exact my revenge since I was actually had my whole family in the car and was on the way to a therapy session for my son. But if you walk into any home - from a tin shack to an elegant mountain view home - it’s going to be clean. You could eat off the floors. Sweeping and mopping are more than a necessity, it’s national pride. I lax on cleaning skills too. I’m more likely to sweep when the cockroach death toll reaches over three. Less than three, I can live with for awhile.

So on your morning walk, listen carefully to the sound behind those little cubed windows in the concrete walls of the homes you pass by. And if you don’t hear a laughing child splashing in the tub, you’ll have to at least admire the brilliant, shining floors.

We all have a feeling that when Addison finally hits his stride, he will then completely own the world. Or at least our world.

In just the last month, it’s been amazing to watch his legs get stronger and instead of falling on to his butt to sit down like a tree chopped at the trunk, he bends his knees and gently sits. Instead of choosing to scoot on his rear across the floor, he asks for a hand to hold so he can walk. And he walks by just holding one hand instead of needing to be supported by two.

We’ve all learned this game of patience in this game of extra chromosomes. It’s like a game of chess without a time clock. When it’s Addison’s turn, he gets as long as he needs.

Instead of sitting and watching his sister and I leave for her ballet class, Addison got up and stood by a table for support. I said good bye to him. He waved his finger at me in a little wiggle like a protective parent: No, no, no he said.  Coco cracked up laughing and asked kissed him on the cheek after she’d kissed him. He tapped her cheek and snapped a popping sound which always makes everyone around him either melt or roll with laughter.

Coco and I walked outside. She couldn’t decide which umbrella to use. It was raining quite hard. She turned to say good bye one more time to Addison. He wiggled his finger and smiled as he told her no, no, no. She laughed all the way to car.

He’s funny, she said.

Yes he is, I said, standing there in the rain and waiting for her to get in.