Muchachos. In every country in every world, the hard, physical labor often goes to the “guys” and yes, “gals.” As our country sprouts store like eggs to tadpoles, men and women in orange safety vests pour the cement, cut the grass, and schlep the mud. And it gets messy here, especially in the rainy season. When the rain starts, a few will have rain coats, but many will just keep hammering away as they get soaked.

After picking the coffee or hauling the garbage into trucks, they head home, often with less than minimum wage in their pocket. When I sip on a cup of coffee, I always try to remember the hands of the person who picked and sweat while struggling to put their kids in school, stomach toxic chemicals, snakes, and at the end of the day probably not enough money in their pockets to feed their kids. The faces get forgotten.

The other day on a morning run I saw a dump truck, loaded with heavy, wet dirt from the construction of the new mall, flipped on it’s side. His load spread across both sides of traffic, jamming up traffic for miles. An ambulance sat next to the scene. I had no idea of the driver was O.k. On a side road, a man chatting on a cell phone honked his horn impatiently because even the frontage road was effected. I fought back the rage and wanted to run over and sit on his hood. I crossed the pedestrian bridge over the highway. As I returned home, more horns began honking. Just as I started getting angry, I realized there was something different about these sounds. The honking was long and bellowed over the valley. As a banana truck approached, it’s load of green fruit hanging over the tops of the load, he honked and honked. Then I realized he was sounding the horn for his fallen comrade, his brother in arms.

The mall will get built. Along with the bridges and sewer systems. And every time I step into the stylish modern setting of bright lights and low-fat yogurt, I will try to sound a horn (in my head) of thanks for the backs it was built on.

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.

I stopped at a bagel shop in hopes of connecting to the Internet. After a day of clicking, hooking, and unhooking boggles and buttons, I resigned to the fact that either Hurricane Ike played havoc with our lines or it’s just another day of marginal infrastructure services in our quickly-developing, under-developed country.

While my daughter ate her Latin wrap, we shared a few bags of chips. I finally got on-line. Then when I tried to log on to this site and post another life-changing ditty, it asked me for my password. Guess where that was? Back home next to the computer that sat idly while I chomped on fattening chips. Now that would have been funny enough all by itself, except for the fact that I forgot to bring papers I needed for an errand with me on the errand; I was late for picking up my son off the bus; a hole popped open in the faucet to my outdoor hose; I forgot money when I went to pay my a bill at the pharmacy;* and this was actually the second Internet cafe I was at since the first one didn’t have connection. All of this on top of the noise still rattling in my head from every other driver (I exaggerate not) honking and honking and honking because no one on the road even moves fast enough.

As Coco peeled up the last of the bean and chicken wrap glued to the bottom of the paper plate because it was microwaved too long, I glanced over to see the book shelf where the Lexicon Library runs a small book exchange. Take a book. Bring a book. And they’re in English. I’ve never taken one since there’s never been anything I was interested in. This time there was Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’ve shied away from his work since it took me like seven months to read Love in the Time of Cholera. Perhaps there was a message in this book that would revolutionize my life. That’s why I was drawn to eat an over-cooked bean burrito at this bagel shop!

I told Coco how the system worked and that I had about five books at home I’ve been wanting to bring to this shelf, but of course forgot. Since she’s finally started reading books long enough to put a bookmark in, she’s quite interested in getting her hands on everything she can.

Coco: Mom, you can’t give away any books. What if I want to read them?

Me: Right.

She stuffed her 1/2 of her cookie in her jacket. It had quite raining when we walked to the car. I pulled into traffic and sat in the left lane waiting to turn. Before the light turned turned green, the car behind me honked. I swallowed and as my anger pushed up against my throat and decided this was just another thing I needed to forget.

*We pay bills at pharmacies and grocery stores here, among other places. It’s quite a monthly juggling act.

I’m giving up coffee by default. My trusty old espresso machine is spitting back at me. Instead of an O.k. cup of espresso (it’s was never that great of machine brand new), I get a ground filled cup of sludge. For awhile I put up with the grounds in my teeth, splattered all over the clock and the wall, and drank the not-quite-Greek-though-not quite-Italian cup of joe.

I even took it apart as far as I could, which wasn’t very far as I couldn’t get most of the screws out. A box of baking soda and a jar of vinegar later, same result. When I lived downtown, I found this guy who could fix small appliances. It was a great shop in the 1/2 basement on Paseo Colon. I had really old blender from the 60s that needed a new thingamajig (can you believe this is a word??!!). One of my nannies tells me there’s a guy in the next town over that can fix gadgets. So do I want to drive around a hot little town looking for a guy that might be there in some dinky shop that I have “loose” directions to that can maybe fix it after I leave it for two weeks and then drive all the way back to find out it’s not fixable?

Small appliances in Costa Rica are way over priced for the marginal value gotten back. That old blender would have cost me $200 to replace. In Hipermas, I rambled down the coffee maker isle and saw a budget version of an expresso machine for $50, which wasn’t too bad but I passed.

I think when something breaks it’s always a great time to step and back and question if this broken piece of metal, wood, or plastic was a good thing in my life anyway. I’m one of those people that are not effected by coffee unless I drink four big ol’American sized cups. I just sooooo like the taste. Since I found it was not that hard to give up and chalked one up for “probably not an addiction” side of the column.

Now, I am pulling out the good old Costa Rican way of making coffee: A bag and a wooden stand. Put the coffee in bag; boil water; add coffee. If you were Costa Rican, you’d probably add a couple scoops of sugar. It’s not a bad cup of coffee. And the cost? Get out of town! The only disadvantage is that bag hangs around wet all day, and it can get funky if not dried well. But again, the cost of a new one is probably 50 cents to one dollar.

When I do make a cup, I still use the small espresso cup for that feel. Perhaps this is what smoker’s feel like when they chew on toothpicks after quitting. I went to wash the cup and the faucet was dry. As the dishes pile up I wonder, so what now? I have to step back and figure out if water is a good thing or not in my life? Perhaps this is too much work.

I think I’ll run to the corner to get an espresso.

Going out for a walk or run in Costa Rica is a challenge, as I’ve mentioned many times before. There’s rarely a park to sneak out to - except for the la Sabana - and sidewalks are as rare as jellybeans at Christmas. In lieu of a good place to pound my feet and shake my tail feathers, I sometimes end up at the mall. Guess what? Even that is ripped apart and a mess. The tried and true pavement I could depend on is now mud, re-bar, and trucks. Lots and lots of trucks. (And don’t forget the construction guys….more on them another day.)

I used to be able to circle the mall early in the morning because there were no cars and it was pretty safe - a kind of suburban-gentrified-Central American, hiking trail. I trotted over to the mecca of commerce and forgot how refreshing it can be to be running without drivers pretending you don’t exist.

As I approached the mall, I forgot also how entertaining the scenery can be. Besides getting in a bit of work out, I found new and exciting uses for the plethora of sequenced scarves I have hanging in the back of my closet. (I’m just kidding, I only have two sequenced scarves.) What mother of the jungle would ever want to live without one?

The birthday party was wild. Sure we had fun, but one of the guests of honor was wild - a real wild animal. This coati mundi was rescued, nurtured back to health and now lives in the woods yet sticks close to family that saved it. What coati mundi - pizote - shouldn’t get a few gifts for his one-year adoption day?

Coatis are related to the raccoons. It’s easy to see the resemblance in the movements and appetite. This fellow was especially fond of sugar. If you are traveling and stay in a beach house or rental cabin with an open-air kitchen, these critters will walk right in and take what they can get. Some like salty; some like sweet. If you don’t lock it up, and this omnivore can smell it and climb to it, consider it there’s.

So it’s not recommended to feed these animals. They can become a little too aggressive over time if they know people give them food. This farm has in-depth experience with animals and is helping to reintroduce the animal back into an environment where it will thrive. Unfortunately, the trauma many of these animals go through such as loss of their mother or abuse (because someone thought it was a cute pet), disrupts the natural instincts of the animals and they will only be able to return to the wild in a part-time manner.

Coco got a good scratch on her arm when the Coati wandered over to see if she was holding out with more sugar. I told her no matter how “cute” and tame the animal looks, it still is a wild animal and petting them can be a tough exercise if not handled by an experience person.

Some day, if the right female comes along, this guy may wander off in the woods and never come back. If so he’ll probably be ready to live it up in the wild. Until then, more sugar anyone?

I do things I know are not good for me. Like for example yesterday, for lunch I had potato chips and sour cream. This is not part of a balanced diet. I skip exercise and go without flossing.

So now we have cell phones. Our newest treat and tantalizing temptress. Beside looking silly while we wander up and down grocery isles talking to a tiny piece of electronic equipment (need I mention how goofy people look talking to the air with a Blue Tooth thing on their head??!), the things are going to land us with so many more diseases and ailments. In ten years we’ll be scratching our heads and saying: Gee, I wonder what caused all this brain cancer? Does diabetes and sugar consumption ring a bell? Television and lack of exercise?

If you haven’t seen this video, you perhaps will understand like I did, that these little “jabber-walkies” are more powerful than we ever suspected. I’ve been reading about the tumor causing little beasts for years. I still have cell phone, though I’m considering getting a lead case for it. Watch this video and put two and two together. I was amazed. Plus I swore I’d never have left-over melted chocolate and a glass of milk for dinner again.

**Only residents are allowed to apply for a cellular phone line in Costa Rica. But do not worry, old lines are bought and sold under the table all the time until your proper cedula is in hand.

Addison sat happily among a pile of rocks, putting a few in a cup and then dumping them out. When I walked out to see him, the nanny started claiming she’d seen this gorgeous flower in the neighbor’s yard. This nanny almost walks without touching the ground when she talks about planting or blooms or roots. She waved me over to look.

I went over to the wall and stood on my tiptoes to peek over the wet cement wall. I expected to see another flower I’ve seen a million times before. There is that first moment when I see something I’ve never seen before. Whether it’s a piece of art, or a new face, or a couch I’m thinking about buying. If I quite my mind long enough to stop arguing with my past and wrestling with my future, I tune into this frequency that aligns me with this PLACE. I think it’s the place flowers come from and trees and children and baby bunnies. Pure ISness, for lack of a better word.

For a second, I saw snow fairies and ice castles. Before the nanny spoke again, in those few seconds, I was in that place where I don’t want to do anything or be anything or name anything. This beautiful crisp white heliconia hid in the depths of a moist, small garden. Even my nanny had never seen it before. We turned our attention back to Addison and went on with the afternoon.

As we were about to leave, the nanny walked onto the patio with two of the stalks from this plant in her hand. The theory goes in Costa Rica, stick it in the ground and it shall grow. And I’ve got to say that works almost 80% of the time. And when it doesn’t work, you just try it again.

So now, with the help of that PLACE, and a good hole I shall dig, I will have icicles growing in my yard.

The old swing set made a perfect parallel bar. Motivated by the summer Olympics on television, I unfastened the metal swings and threw them aside in the grass. The picnic table skittered across the grass as I pulled into position, two feet in front of the metal bar. I stood on top of the far end of the table; ran to gain momentum and jumped. I’d hang and propel back and forth with my body until the inertia wore off. In my mind I was a great gymnast. In reality, I probably looked like a nine year old running off a picnic table and hanging there.

I pulled the table back. I was getting more confident. I climbed atop the weathered wood and stared at the crusty metal bar. There are some images we remember that are odd. Like why do I remember watching my mother take the pot roast out of the oven? Or my father frying baloney over the flames of the kitchen stove? Then there are memories I know exactly why I remember them because the action bordered on being something so stupid the Universe just needed to be sure I would never repeat that action again.

Perhaps it was the sweat. Perhaps I did one jump too many. As I flew threw the air (all three feet), I looked up to watch my hands reach for the red bar as the palms of my hands slid against the glossy paint without grabbing on. I fell flat on my back with one exception: My arm propped under my shoulder blade like a broken spear. My wrist had broken the fall and folded in half like a Swiss knife snaps back into it’s case. That was my one and only broken limb. Every day my son navigates the world with limbs that don’t work like he wants them to. I was challenged over not being able to pour Kool-Aid. He struggles a million moments a day to get his muscles and nerves to all work together to just take one step. His feet drag behind him and his knees just won’t bend with strength.

When I moved to Costa Rica, I quickly discovered some of the benefits of living here that could help someone with special needs, whether that need was temporary like a broken leg or more permanent like Muscular Dystrophy. Most homes come with a “maid’s” room. It’s a small cuarto (usually near the laundry for obvious reasons), and it almost always has a bathroom. The room can be no bigger than the size of mattress, but that room served our family tremendously when my mother-in-law came to live with us. After six months in Costa Rica, she broke her hip. Luckily we found a house with a maid’s room big enough to also put her T.V. and a desk. And since it was on the first floor, so she could walk to the kitchen and patio without navigating many steps.

This one architectural feature proves to be a bigger bonus than I’d imagined. And add in that most homes have several bathrooms in addition to the one off the maid’s room. For a family of five growing up, we always had one. What a luxury to have kids in a separate place to make their watery messes! What a necessity to have my former mother-in-law on a different floor and back by the kitchen!

I quit jumping off picnic tables a long time ago, but now I have to navigate the world of a special needs child, plus those holes in the sidewalk and molded over driveways (in the rainy season) are always testing my balance.

Placing clean laundry on the grass was foreign to me, until I moved to Costa Rica. Every Monday morning I can go out to my small patch of backyard in the city and find at least one or two dishtowels splayed on the wet lawn. One of the true sources of pride in this culture is clean laundry: White shirts, sparkling school uniforms, and even old dishrags.

Addison has three nannies. Each rotates during the week; each has special talents and quirks and gifts I get to watch and enjoy over the three days they spend with us. I can see over time how each woman offers my home a bit of who they are. Two of the ladies are more like grandmothers. These women come from the country and no one has a dryer. Few have washers. Plus there’s often not a lot of room or time to hang things on the line before the rain comes. Laundry is almost an artistic outlet.

The nanny on Sunday/Monday will collect the towels from the kitchen and go to the pila - the laundry sink - and apply rub this blue bar of soap all over it and then proceed to scrub it with a brush. This ritual is not far removed from washing laundry in the river and beating it on the rocks. Some of the towels get soaked for a day or two. (If the nanny leaves before getting these soaking things out on to the lawn and I miss them, the smell can get funky.) The towels then lay out on the grass for the rain to beat them into the final round of cleanliness.

When I first moved here, I may have huffed out to the lawn and thought “they” were crazy to leave the laundry in the backyard. Now I can smile and appreciate the story that goes behind it and see how I do the same things with cultural traditions I’ve learned due to history, fear, weather, and common sense. If I could take one these nannies up to live through a winter, they’d think I was bonkers with all the “tricks” I’d do so the pipes couldn’t freeze and mittens wouldn’t get lost.

If the Sunday/Monday nanny gets a load to dry before she leaves, she gleams and almost bursts with pride in how wonderful mother nature is in getting the dirt out. Her smile energizes me for the rest of the day, and I have a funny urge to go and scoop her some pistachio ice cream and make her a cup of coffee. Perhaps the nannies think I’m a bit on the lackadaisical when it comes to laundry and stain removal. But I’m thrilled to let them pick up where I drop off. Around here, there’s never a shortage of cleaning - limpiando - to do.