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.

What park with a lake would be a park with a lake without ducks? We just happen to have funny ducks with red, bumpy, rubber-like things on their heads. These happen to reside in la Sabana in San Jose. It was a beautiful, crisp morning so I challenged our group to get ready: Fifteen minutes we leave! Off to see the ducks!

Since it’s only an eight minute drive from my house, we arrived with plenty of room to park. A man with a few missing teeth, wearing an orange vest, held up a stick to signal to me that he’d watch my car for us. Coco delighted in throwing the funny ducks bread, and Addison just tried to eat it.

We wove around the path and tossed each pack of ducks we passed a few tidbits. We sat down for a break on a log and a woman selling fresh fruit cracked us open some agua de pipas and Coco devoured a bag of chips. Ten minutes later, Addison was crying; Coco’s feet hurt; and we were running out of bread.

Usually I like to research just about everything I see. I don’t want to know anything more about these ducks. They’re perfect - whatever they are - and they’re troupers because the water they live in is green, some of them have wings with no feathers, and people pick and pester them all day long. Yet season after season, another crop of chicks swim about in the murky waters.

Coco shared her last piece of bread with a little girl who’s father was “texting” on shore. The child tossed the whole slab of bread in. The father didn’t look up. We packed up and went on our way. The kids waved goodbye to the ducks and the girl. As I pulled the car back into traffic, I tipped the man with the stick as much change as I could find. He waved his gapped smile and wished me a blessed day.

Amen.

As Costa Rica’s Independence Day - and all of Central America’s - approaches, the excitement flaps in the flags and flutters in the faroles. And is a farol what you ask? A lantern that lights our way of course.

Every year school children around Central America stick a candle in a lantern and walk with a pole that looks like the crook of a sheperd’s staff on the night before the 15th. Since the holiday is on a Monday this year, school children around the country could be seen today dressed in Typico clothes while toting their farol at their side. The farol is most dramatic at night of course when the candles are more potent.

Some parents (probably terrified at the fire hazard possibilities) opt for those light sticks. Those light sticks are hard to find. My kids always end up with candles. The first year my daughter went, one of the children’s lantern lit on fire. It made the parading of children in the pouring rain along the side of the dark road that much more exciting.

My daughter’s lantern was the traditional “buy-the-box-at-the-store” and then decorate the rest at home. My son got the bottom of a box. The kids will also dance and eat tortillas and beans and rice. But come the 14th, we’ll light up the faroles right along with the rest of Central America in thanks for our collective independence from Spain. We’ve come a long way baby.

Costa Rica’s Independence day rolls around on September 15th. Our freedom came without much fanfare. In fact, the story goes that a guy on mule delivered a note to the powers in charge that said: You’re free from Spain. Still tied to Guatemala, it took a few more years to then break off from Guatemala and declare itself a complete sovereign nation. All of Central America celebrates the 15th of September as a day of freedom.

On that day in Costa Rica, each school child is required to participate in civic activities. There’s a parade in every town and scattered barrios. In August the Costa Rican flag begins to wave on street corners as vendors hope for early sales. The kids take to the street and prepare to march.

The surrounding Central American countries developed armies. In 1948, Costa Rica put down all arms for good. I can’t think that has something to do with it’s unique position of peace and relative prosperity amidst nations of indescribable poverty and violence.

I like our little army of drummers. It helps us keep time with our own beat.

Coco was just too small to go any further. The swimming hole in the river was blocked by a long path of boulders, rocks, and mud. When she left the door with her friends to walk to the water, I put on my sandals to follow. Instead of going to the spot I was familiar with, the children turned to the right. I lost sight of them all. I jogged and slipped in my shoes, trying to keep up.

Hidden down those gorges and steep roads is a refreshing Costa Rican secret: The rivers. I am not talking about the rafting rivers, those are big and well-known and a true adventure if you’re into paddling and pounding the rapids. Further back in the more ordinary campo are the rocky, cool, refreshing rivers of Costa Rica, rolling their way to the sea. Most Costa Ricans know of a river near by where you can hang out for the afternoon among the rocks and water. Getting there can be a challenge, that’s a big part of the secret.

I kept Coco in sight and saw her slip a few times in those silly Crocs, which were worse than my sandals to walk in. The parent in me wanted to call out: Get back here! You’re too little to keep up! Then the adult in me said: She’s in your sight, so perhaps it’s better for her to find it within herself to stop. The group turned a corner. When I came around the bend, I couldn’t see any of the kids. Now the parent-in-me was telling the adult-in-me that I was stupid and should have listened to her. I heard kids giggling and talking but didn’t know where to turn. I continued down the steep road (you know the kind you have to walk perpendicular on to stay erect) and came to a ledge with no kids in sight. Now the parent-in-me was panicking. My daughter is not swift around water and has no experience in rivers.

I walked back up the hill and saw a path on the other side of some barbed wire. I crawled through and watched my sandals disappear every third or fourth step in mud. Now I began to plead with God and anyone who would listen: Please don’t let Coco go near the water. Don’t let her slip. As I passed through another barbed-wire fence, I looked up and saw children, one of them belonged to me. Although the rest of the kids were adroit and nimble in these woods, I quickly counted heads and found all in tact. I called out to Coco. Her face relaxed in relief when she saw me. She was covered with mud.

Once at the river, it was another 100 meter walk over the river and up rocks and boulders. I told Coco to stop. The other children went ahead. We sat on a rock; she began to cry. I told her I would take her if she wanted to go, but let’s look at the path ahead. She mustered enough courage to cross the river, gripping my hands as we stepped against the current. As she watched the other kids play up in the swimming hole, she cried because she wasn’t having any fun. I told Coco I remember being small, like she is, when I was young. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up I told her.

We threw rocks in the river. The foliage and fresh smells took over. I could have sat there for hours. Coco kept looking up at her friends. It wasn’t easy for her to decide to leave and climb back home. She gave me a fist full of rocks, and I promised I carried them home for her. I have been facing the fact that my children will die every day since conception. An automatic “worry-wart” must have been implanted right along with the new DNA unfolding in my womb. I’ve had to make peace with all the dangers that lurk everywhere in our lives: Bathtubs, edges of coffee tables, swallowing pennies, sticking fingers in sockets, drinking the dish soap; running into the street; strangers with candy; falling down the stairs; car accidents; bacterias……..need I mention more?

On the steep climb back up that slippery hill Coco told me as she walked down the hill, she had two voices going on inside of her: One telling her to stop and one telling her to go. Funny I told her, I think those same people live inside of me.

We held hands and hovered over to the side of the road as a group of fast ATVs sped by. Wet and spattered with mud, we got in the car for the long ride home.

At 8:45 a.m, we hit the streets of San José to join the thousands already on their way to Cartago. With extra shoes in my back pack, some water, and a raincoat, my nanny (turned faithful guide for the day) and I, embarked on a walk to give thanks. I learned it’s all about thanks.

It’s easy to find the way to Cartago: Just follow the flow. We hopped into a stream of people from Tilarán. A town north of San José. They’d already been walking for six days. As we moved through San Jose, the vendors were setting up for sales. Pharmacies sold band aides and aspirins; corner grocery stores put out cold water; and guys parked trucks loaded with fruit along the curb. After an hour of walking, we began to clear San José and entered the crowded suburb of San Pedro. Two hours into the walk, we bought coconut water and drank without stopping. Though people talked as they walked, it was amazingly quiet. Mother’s pushed babies in rickety strollers fathers caressed infants to their chests, and old couples walked hand in hand. I could hear the determination in the steps of the sneakers and the scrape of the sandals. After leaving San Pedro, we sat for a break. People we had passed earlier now passed us by. It felt good to take off my shoes. Everyone’s feet hurt. Along any point in the road, people stop and rub out the cramps and bandage blisters. The Red Cross is stationed all along the route. We packed up and prepared for what my guide said was Ochmogo: the big hill through Tres Rios. We ate food on sticks when we could and kept walking. Everyone just kept walking. After five and on-half hours, we arrived in the courtyard of the church. We walked to the entrance of the church and chose to finish on our knees to the shrine of the La Virgen de los Angeles. Before leaving, I was told it is important to bring a list of those you want to pray for, those that need special help. My nanny got on her knees and pulled out a photo of my daughter and my son. This trip was for Addison and to help him walk she told me. She took out the framed photo she’d hauled all the way down in her backpack and held it over her head as she crawled to the altar saying prayers for my son. The tears of all those around me became mine. Everyone who’d come to this place came to help someone else. They came to give thanks for the blessings already in their life and to help those they loved. This little statue, La Virgen de los Angeles is the mother of Costa Rica, the patron. In the basement of the church hang little charms: limbs, eyes, torsos, children, breasts, feet, …replicas fashioned by a jeweler of the body part cured after coming to Cartago on August 1st-2nd. The walk is a gift of time, energy, and finally deep gratitude for life, including the life of peace in Costa Rica. I saw people all moving together for a few hours, doing nothing more than walking in hopes of all arriving at the same goal. Unlike a marathon or a mountain climb, anyone can join in step and give this walk a try. It’s the people’s marathon I guess. And what better thing to carry on our backs than gratitude? That’s something that will really cover us when it rains. A special note of thanks to all those who wished me well. I carried you with me.

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.

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.

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.