For eight years, Marilyn and I taught English as a second
language in Phoenix, AZ, where life is lived with one foot on the gas pedal. We
arrived in Grecia to start our new life on October 2. Our car is supposed to arrive here this week,
but it’s not here yet (we just learned it will be next week). We have gone three weeks without a car. But this pitiful
little hardship has turned out to be a blessing. We have discovered the joy of
riding the bus.
This is a country in which 50 percent of the population
does not own a car, so buses are an absolute necessity. They are clean, on
time, and run hourly day and night, even up on our little mountain road four
miles from downtown Grecia. (Last week, they raised the fare from 415 colones
to 420 colones; or from 83 cents to 84 cents.) Today, we will shop for
groceries.
At our bus stop, a
yellow line painted on the asphalt, we see the familiar faces of neighbors,
whose names we will learn in the months to come. But for now, a smile and
“Buenos” suffices. Since we live near the end of our bus line, the bus is empty and
we have our pick of seats. The driver is a handsome man who clearly loves his
job and the people he transports into town daily. He makes change from his
money tray without missing a beat. (I am muy impressionado. It seems like in
the U.S., the ability to make change has gone by the wayside, with high-tech
cash registers doing the math for the clerks.)
Costa Rican coins are mostly
gold-colored and come in six sizes: 500, 100, 50, 25, 10 and 5 colones. The 5
colones coin is stamped in aluminum with the thickness of a disposable turkey
roasting pan.
As we progress down the road, the bus fills with Ticos,
many of whom greet each other with little pecks on the cheek. Young people offer their seats to the old
folks, all wizened, wobbly and bent over. Down the mountain we go, past the
local bodegas and countless free roaming dogs. Now and then the driver hits the
horn to say hello people working in their little yards by the road. In the US,
the bus would be quiet and eye contact would be avoided. Here, there is no
fear. School age boys and girls ride the bus in their uniforms unaccompanied by
parents.
The clouds are gathering in the east as we arrive at the
bus station. The sidewalks are bustling with people on foot. The doors to all
shops are open. I don’t mean simply open for business; I mean open to the
outside world. This is normal here where the climate is generally in the 70’s
and insect free- especially mosquito/fly free. For Norte Americanos, strolling
down the side walk is like a trip back to the 1950’s in the US. You
pass a pharmacy, an appliance outlet, a dress shop, a bank, an ice cream
parlor, a café, and a variety of little stores selling men’s clothing, jewelry,
fabric, shoes, hardware, and cell phones.
(As in the US, everybody has a cell phone.) This vitality is not
interrupted with silent parking garages or vacant lots filled with empty cars waiting
for their drivers. This small city has
not been repurposed for the convenience of cars. Cars park on the street.
(There are no parking meters, by the way.)
A delightful hodge-podge of human activity is present
here. A delivery truck double parks, and the driver unload appliances to the
whirr of the hydraulic lift. A man in a Hawaiian shirt disappears into a
produce store with a huge bunch of bananas on his shoulder. An attractive Tica
in tight blue jeans and high high heels crosses the street pretending not to
notice the stares of all the men. But her splendidly exposed cleavage and heavy
eye makeup leave no doubt that stares are welcome. Traffic lights are few, and stop signs are no
more than a nuisance; but somehow people and cars get along without injury.
A block away is the town square shaded by massive trees
who spread their grandmother arms over the Ticos as they have every day for a
hundred years. Here is where young couples stroll, moms sit and chat watching
children romp in the grass, old men nose through the morning paper, various
hombres doze on the cement benches while others just sit on the corner watching
all the girls go by. A sprinkling of
gringos snap photos. They try to fit in, but somehow, like us, they stand
out.
Facing the park is the Cathedral de la Mercedes, a towering, deep red structure
constructed of steel plates. Its doors are always open for people to
wander in and out. Here, during the noon day hustle, a few people kneel or sit
quietly in meditation before ornate wooden statuary carved by skilled local craftsmen.
It faces west as apparently all Costa Rica churches do, and we can see its twin
steeples from our patio four miles away.
While we are shopping, the rain begins, hammering on the
tin roof above the open air market.
We have three shopping bags of food, so I can’t hold the
umbrella. Outside, people are huddling under the overhangs and in doorways of
the shops. Many have umbrellas since
this is the rainy season, and downpours visit each afternoon. There is a lot of
smiling and joking. Though it’s late October, the rain is warm and
friendly. We have 45 minutes to kill and
so dash down the street to an open air café for coffee and a pastry.
Totally drenched and happy, we sploosh into an open air
café, The Café Delicias. We order café con leche and two cinnamon rolls.
Feeling like two characters in a Woody Allen movie, we watch people dash
through the puddles and between cars. We can’t help our idiotic smiles. With
five minutes to spare, we lug our three grocery bags a block to the station and
climb aboard the bus for El Cajon, our neighborhood up on the mountain ridge. I
dig out 840 colones for Marilyn and me ($1.68 US), and we head home.
Out of town the bus make a hairpin turn right, and the
engine slows. The driver downshifts and downshifts again as the pavement begins
to rise steeply. The windows are fogged up, perfect for drawing silly faces. Up
front, our driver is joking with the passengers. We wipe away the steamed-up glass and watch
for our stop by the saddle maker. We get off and walk down Calle Echoes, our
little street, which descends steeply. We are the fourth house, the last house,
before the road disappears steeply into undergrowth. Our new family member, a
sweet little stray we have nicknamed “Mama dog”, runs up the road to greet us,
tail wagging. At our driveway, we hear
Lily and Charlie barking excitedly. This is it. We are home, soaked and
smiling.
