OH, PRICE SMART YOU VILE TEMPTRESS ... OUR DECEMBER 2013 LIVING EXPENSES by Marilyn

CATEGORY	AMOUNT
Groceries/Household	536.18
Rent/Utilities	1030.15
Transportation	369.21
Doctors/Dentist/Meds	257.54
Dogs	38.23
Entertainment	0.00
Trips	0.00
Workshop/Garden	246.59
Furniture/Fixtures	62.63
Misc.	0.00
December 2013 TOTAL	2540.53

Cheese!!! Enough cheese to make Wallace and Grommit happy.

Saw these on first visit. Didn't buy.
They were gone, gone gone a week later :(.

Remember last month, the first month that I published our expenses, where I said we were trying to keep our expenses under $2,000? Well, that was before we joined Price Smart (the Costa Rican COSTCO) and shopped there … twice. True, the many staples I purchased will last us for months, but will we be able to avoid the Siren Song of smoked sausages, imported cheese, GHIRADELLI CHOCOLATE CHIPS!???

I hope so. We actually only bought one pricey chunk of cheese, skirted past the smoked sausages and, much to my broken heart (and the main reason we’d returned to Price Smart for the second time in as many weeks) the Ghiradelli chocolate chips were gone. Shoulda bought them on the first trip.

We will probably go back sometime in January because the giant bag of premium dog food at Price Smart was twice the size and half the price of the dog food we’ve been getting downtown in Grecia. But I’d still like to keep our grocery/household budget to about $100/week. I also prefer shopping at Grecia's Central Market and especially the Farmer's Market. It makes me feel much closer to becoming a "GringTica" which I hope some day to consider myself. 

What else kicked us over our $2,000 budget? Well, as everyone who owns a car in Costa Rica knows, December is Marchamo month. Marchamo is the annual liability insurance that car owners are required to pay. It’s based on the kind of car you drive and the age of the car. For our 2004 Subaru Forester, this year’s Marchamo was about $300.00.

I’m thinking that our doctor/dentist/meds category will probably stay around $250.00 until we get on the CAJA, so for the foreseeable future that’s not going to go down and may increase – neither of us has seen a dentist yet and although they are supposed to be a lot cheaper than in the U.S., we are going to wait for a few more months.

EPA -- just about everything for home and garden.

The other expense that is high this month is workshop/garden (besides being seduced by Price Smart, we were also lured by EPA, which is similar to Home Depot. It doesn’t help that Price Smart and EPA are within a half mile of one another). Paul is still putting together his workshop, and, unlike last month when we counted the electrical wiring as an extraordinary expense, we’re considering the lighting and shelving as more of “development expense.” And apparently the only place to get organic insect control is at EPA.  So those items are in the budget.

An EPA purchase and husband installation: Critical to my culinary happiness
and Paul's evening dish washing tasks -- lighting over the kitchen sink!

Well, even though we didn’t stay below $2,000, we spent a lot less than we would have if we were still living in the U.S. And most importantly, we love it here – we love our house, our garden, our workshop, our community … and especially the friends and discoveries we are making.

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 [MS1]

MUCHAS GRACIAS, GRECIA by Paul

We have lived in Grecia, Costa Rica for nearly thirteen weeks; but legally speaking, we are still tourists. We will start the process of getting our residency this month, January. Those who have been reading our blog know the routine. Briefly, as tourists, we are required to leave the country every three months and then re-enter to begin a new three-month stay. In March, we’ll travel up to Nicaragua for a few days. This process will continue until we become legal residents.

Our three months were up in December, so we decided to fly north to frozen Delaware on December 28 to visit friends and family. But on January 7, as we boarded the plan at BWI airport to return to Costa Rica, I became aware that a simple question was floating around in my subconscious.  Was I going home or leaving home?

In the faintest of voices, an old strand of DNA was speaking to me. Don’t leave, it warned.  Did I really want to stay? Or was I merely anticipating six hours in a horrible coach seat whose headrest would reach only to my shoulder blades, leaving my head to bobble around in agony.

Happy Family: Back row: Michael, Matt, Marilyn,
Paul. Front row: Chris, Kaylee, Stephen

But the voice inside came from a deeper place. My stepson and his wife and two wonderful grandchildren (they aren’t children anymore) live in Wilmington. We love to visit them; there’s nothing like laughing and playing music, hours of Scrabble and Monopoly (this year, Beatles Monopoly!) and just connecting in ways that don’t quite translate over SKYPE. Was it the time we spent with old friends downing eggnog and catching up on each other’s lives? Maybe it was the general ease and familiarity of English, of knowing where to go for the best kielbasa (Johnny’s Market on Maryland Ave.), or buying shop lights at Home Depot with actual dollars.

As I buckled my seat belt, it came to me that a visit is like a dip in the pool. It’s nice, it’s refreshing, but eventually you get out of the pool. The answer to my question became obvious. Marilyn and I have changed profoundly since living in Wilmington. Our brains have been rewiring at breakneck speed. We were going home.

At 6:10 am our plane lifted off the frozen runway at BWI. My mind drifted to the 1938 film Lost Horizon, in which a group of plane passengers survive a crash in the Himalayas and stumble upon a hidden valley called Shangri-La. Here people live contemplative, peaceful lives and remain young for hundreds of years.  The passengers become enchanted and choose to remain in this paradise, except for one, who wants to return to his old life with Maria, a beautiful young woman from Shangri-La. But as they hike out of the valley back into the mountains, it becomes clear that she is no spring chicken. Her body begins to shrivel up like a three-hundred year-old raisin. I looked over at Marilyn, who was dozing next to me. She still looked good, and I put the movie out of my mind.

At 9 am, we touched down in Miami. All but paralyzed from the neck down, I found a place on the carpeted cement floor and with a rolled-up towel under my neck, fell asleep. Ahh, divine flatness! We finally took to the air at 2 pm and arrived in Costa Rica at 5 pm. There were plenty of old people who were not all shriveled up. The warmth and familiarity of the place embraced me at once. This was home.

Flor, telling her mountain lion story with daughter
Jenny, our landlady, translating

Customs was a breeze. A cursory question: “How long are you going to stay?” and the thump of a rubber stamp. We snatched our bags from the carousel and headed outside for a taxi.  Immediately, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. It was Flor, our landlady’s mother. We had met her at a Christmas party where her delightful story of fending off a mountain lion somehow melted through the language barrier and had us all laughing.  Now, here she was, smiling and waving at us. Flora! Pablo! Marileen!  Hugs and kisses all around. She introduced us to Giselle, who explained that she was our neighbor. Her husband is the saddle maker at the top of our little road. Aha!  The sign at the top of the road. Monturas! Saddles! More hugs.

Woozy from all the bienvenidos, we loaded our bags into Giselle's nine-seat van. She cranked over the engine, which sounded to me like a V-3. At the exit gate, the machine wouldn't accept her ticket. Clearly, she had not experienced the airport parking garage before. She and Flora chatted about what to do as we circled the parking area looking for a way out. Finally, Giselle called to an hombre who pointed to a door in the terminal where you had to pay. Giselle turned to Flora with a shrug. Que? (I took it to mean “What the…?”) She killed the engine, got out and walked back to the terminal and paid the guy. When she got back in, she said something to Flora which must have been hilarious, because they both exploded in giggles. The V-3 started with a jolt, and Giselle took us back to the exit gate, which this time accepted our ticket.  

Giselle and Flora seemed unaffected by the traffic congestion outside. They chatted as if they were on a veranda somewhere.  Marilyn and I, seat belted in the back, attempted to add comments in Spanish based on our guesses as to what they were talking about, but it was obvious that we were not making any sense. I wanted to ask, “Is rush hour always like this?”, but decided it was best to sit quietly and wonder at Giselle’s light and breezy mastery of traffic which might easily have driven lesser drivers to curses and bloodshed. Every so often she would ask a question over her shoulder. We assumed she was asking if we were all right, so we would say, “Si, si. Gracias.”  We laughed at ourselves remembering how new ESL students would come to class with only a few phrases of English.  “Welcome to my classroom,” we would say.  “Yes, yes. Thank you,” they would respond.

By the time we arrived at our little barrio on the mountain ridge, it was dark. The lights of Grecia twinkled in the valley below; the stars of the Southern Hemisphere twinkled above. We paid Giselle 25,000 colones ($50). Muchas gracias, mucho gusto and hugs all around, and Giselle was off, back up the hill to the house with the “Monturas” sign.

Charlie and Lily, our sweet doggies, were wild with joy. Of course, after our 10-day separation  they had no way of knowing if we had died or what. I took off my glasses and let them lick my face until they had their fill. It was the least I could do.  Marilyn threw some bow-tie pasta together with tomatoes, olive oil and Parmesan. We barely had enough energy to eat before we crashed onto our fantastic Swedish foam king-sized mattress with Charlie and Lily. Hugs and licks all around, and we fell instantly to sleep. Yes, this was home.

We woke at 5:30 am (a habit acquired during our teaching days) and had our coffee on the patio, as the sun was rising over the mountain to the east. The dogs ran around the yard; Charlie, like a jet powered aircraft; Lily, like a tugboat in hot pursuit.  After about an hour, we listed the payments we had to make today from my Social Security check. Rent, utilities, payment to Justin the dog sitter, groceries, and if we had enough left over, some lumber for improvements around the house and my Tico workshop. I was in the shower, when I heard the dogs barking. Marilyn called to me, “Paul, come on out. I want you to meet Hansy.” I threw on some shorts and T shirt.

I shook hands with Hansy, an amiable, generously tattooed young guy who lives a couple of houses over across a field. He is Tico but lived in the US for a few years in Woodstock, New York when he was married to a Gringa. He told us about his youth on drugs and alcohol and his rebirth only a few years ago as a painter. That explained the canvas he had with him, a still life of flowers rendered in a playful, giant, acrylic pointalistic kind of way. After taIking a bit about trying to survive as an artist, he offered to sell us his painting for a very good price.  He couldn’t have come at a worse time since our money is all spoken for and will be for the next several months. We gave him a ride downtown where we were headed to buy groceries. He showed us a large mural he had painted in the market by the bus station and then was off to sell his painting.

Grecia de Mis Abuelos by Hansy Lizano (The Grecia of My Grandparents); Mural in Grecia's Central Market http://www.hansylizano.com/

On the way back up the hill to our house, we decided to stop at the local ferreteria (hardware store) so I could buy some lumber for a light installation over the kitchen sink. Who did we run into but our landlady, Jenny and her father, Fernando. Hugs, slaps on the back and mucho gustos all around. Jenny insisted that her dad bring our lumber to our house in his truck, so we wouldn’t have to tie it to the roof of the Subaru. While Fernando and some workers loaded up his truck, Jenny introduced us to the owners and staff of the ferreteria. She knows everybody! She told Orlando, the owner, that I was doing home improvements for her rental houses and that I should always receive her discount. She was everywhere at once, climbing a ladder in the lumber yard to show me a Costa Rican hardwood, leading us into the back room where the stock is kept, assuring the salespeople that Marilyn and I are to be trusted.  They all smiled and stepped aside. 

On the way up the hill to our house, we looked at each other with goofy grins.  Ten minutes later Fernando arrived in his Land Cruiser truck with my lumber.

Yes, this is home. Gracias, Fernando. 

Fernando, Jenny's Dad

OUR COSTA RICAN CHRISTMAS: BEING NOT DOING by Marilyn

Creche, Grecia Town Square

This year brought many firsts:  first time retired, first time living in CR, first time learning Spanish, first time not spending Christmas with family and friends. Also, when we moved here in October,  we brought none of our Christmas decorations. No ornaments, no tree, no lights … and without TV, we’re not bombarded with tons of ads for the latest and greatest must-haves.

No Christmas shopping – our gift to ourselves and our family is our trip to Delaware on December 28. I feel none of the stress of worrying:  Did I get good enough gifts? Will they like them? What if they don’t? Maybe I should go out one more time; look online again in case I missed something. In the past, from Thanksgiving until December 24^th, I was pretty much consumed with buying the perfect presents, cooking the perfect food, making the house sparkle in and out.

I was always involved with whatever church we belonged to. One year that meant finding swathes of fabric from the attic and quickly fashioning it into 24 costumes in 24 hours for the children’s pageant. There were always meals to serve to the homeless and Angel Tree gifts to buy. These anchors kept me focused on the being of Christmas and I could never give them up, even when I was teaching and the week before Christmas also meant final exams and grades. But they often morphed into doing, and doing sometimes got pretty overwhelming.

One year, on Christmas Eve, after the stores had closed and I couldn’t shop any more, I baked and roasted, sautéed and simmered. In between, I painted the extensive wood moldings in the dining room. We’d recently redone the room, but my choice of color of the baseboards and wainscoting didn’t seem quite right. And heaven forbid that our house full of company would think I had bad taste. So I stayed up all night painting three coats of soft yellow over the olive green mistake. It was no wonder I usually ended up with the flu or bronchitis every year by New Years’ Day. I had accepted this as a consequence of burning out with all the doing I was doing.

Instead, this year in Costa Rica we relish the peacefulness of being. Here on our mountain, as Christmas approaches, I take pleasure in my daily routines of writing, gardening, baking/cooking. And after Paul’s morning writing stint, he heads up to the workshop, losing all sense of time as he works on another sculpture.

Polish Raisin Bread - A Tradition Passed Down from My Dad Who Got It from His Mom

Grecia Metal Church

How is this being, not doing? The only way I can articulate it is that, to me, doing always has a “should,” “must” or “have to” attached to it. Being, on the other hand, emerges from one’s inner spirit. I bake bread, not because I am supposed to bake bread as part of an action plan, but because the entire process of baking bread is joyful for me. In contrast, I painted my wainscoting because I had to have a perfect house for my Christmas guests.

Altar, Christmas Eve, Grecia Metal Church

Mini-Santa, Grecia Town Square on Christmas Eve

It’s not until Christmas Eve, however, when we drive down the mountain to Mass at the Metal Church in Grecia, that the being of Christmas this year envelops me. We get to Grecia early and stroll around the town square. The town crèche is still missing the Infant who will be placed in the manger at midnight. It’s balmy; people stroll or sit on the cement benches. Several pose in front of the crèche for photos. We sit too, people-watching before entering the church at about 7:30 to get a good seat.

Red velvet drapery swags tied up with gold bows greet us as we enter the church. Red and gold is the theme of the festively decorated pillars; the altar is banked with dozens of red poinsettias. A crèche just a little smaller than the one outside on the town square waits for its Infant. A blue curtain behind the crèche hides the glass coffin where the crucified Christ lies in repose. No sense worrying Mary about the future on this eve of her baby’s birth.

More people-watching. Folks enter the church, bless themselves and find family members. There are hugs, kisses. Many of the women hold what at first appear to be baby dolls. Then I realize that they are tenderly cradling the infants from their home crèches. A distant memory tugs at a corner of my mind: I know that I’ve seen this before, maybe at St. Anthony’s, the Italian-American church I attended in high school. These infants will be blessed at the end of Mass before being taken home and carefully placed in the family’s manger scene.

In a corner of the altar, behind the blue curtain, choir members and musicians tune up and check their mics. A man who looks like he knows what he’s doing adjusts chairs, lecterns. He hurries to the back of the church and I see that he’s entered a tiny room with ropes hanging down. He begins ringing the church bells. A deep bong, bong, bong … I have an overwhelming urge to join him, hanging on to one of the bell ropes, feeling the weight, the heavy brass bell pulling me up into the bell tower.

The first hymn signals the procession of gold-robed priests preceded by a deacon enthusiastically swinging a censer. The smell and smoke of incense soon permeates the church. The final priest holds high the Infant who later will be nestled into the manger. Mass has begun. The Pascal candle is lit from the four Advent candles – three purple and one pink.

Mass in Spanish reminds me of my childhood when Mass was in Latin. Now, as then, the mystery of the words is balanced by the familiarity of the rituals. I am well-practiced in sit-stand-kneel. At the Peace, Paul and I hug and he whispers, “What do we say?” “How about Feliz Navidad?” I whisper in reply. We turn to the nuns in the pew behind us and grasp their hands. “Feliz Navidad,” we say. The nuns look confused. It occurs to me that because the Infant has not yet technically been born, e.g. placed in the manger, it’s not time to say “Feliz Navidad” yet. Oh well. Gringo mistake.

Getting Ready to Place the Infant in the Manger

In Front of the Grecia Town Square Creche

At the end of Mass, the women around me take out their infant statues and the priest blesses them. One woman kneeling nearby clutches her baby Jesus and sobs. Others hold theirs with their husbands or children, a family tradition. The choir begins “Little Drummer Boy” and the procession to bring the infant to the crèche begins. After Jesus is placed in the manger, the church bells ring out and people begin filing out. Now is the time for “Feliz Navidad.” People greet each other jubilantly. They will go home and gently place their Infants into the mangers. Jesus, not Santa, will bring gifts to the children.

Paul Videotapes Worshippers Leaving Mass

We head down the church steps to see if Jesus has shown up in the town crèche. Not yet. People are posing for pictures and we do too. I haven’t discovered how and when Jesus gets into the town crèche. Is there another procession at midnight on the dot? Is he snuck in by one of the town maintenance workers? I just know that in the morning, when families come to stroll the town square, Jesus will be there. Being, not doing.

Our Patio, Where We Watch the Stars

Paul and I return home and have eggnog and homemade Polish raisin bread (from the one precious loaf we’re not giving away) on our patio. The sky is inky black; sparkling with millions of stars. A bright planet glistens above the town square now distant in the valley. Waiting for Jesus. 

NOVEMBER LIVING EXPENSES IN COSTA RICA by Marilyn

Inspired by Paul and Gloria Yeatman+ (retireforlessincostarica.com) we are determined to keep our living expenses in Costa Rica at or below $2,000. So, like the Yeatmans, we’ll be posting our expenses on our blog every month. I like the idea of comparing what we’re spending with what others are spending to live comfortably in Costa Rica. 

CATEGORY	AMOUNT
Groceries/Household	403.99
Rent/Utilities	1049.01
Transportation	76.66
Doctors/Dentist/Meds	180.56
Dogs	69.32
Entertainment	29.99
Trips	0.00
Workshop/Garden	109.58
Furniture/Fixtures	924.19
Misc.	15.02
November 2013 TOTAL	2858.32
LESS Extraordinary Expenses*	995.39
ACTUAL LIVING EXPENSE	1862.93
*Furniture for house; cables, etc. to bring electricity to workshop

In the States, discussing money issues with others is still pretty verboten. People will gleefully share information about who they hooked up with or what drugs they’re on, but talk about how much you earn … never!

Many who move here come with substantial savings and investments. They may have healthy pensions or retirement accounts. They don’t have to count pennies (or colones) every month. But there are also the folks like us who hope to find a way to live well on a limited budget.

It was extremely refreshing as I began my research on moving to Costa Rica to discover Paul and Gloria’s website. They are truly an inspiration and let us believe that we could do this too.  

A bit of background on us is in order. Paul and I spent much of our working lives as freelancers in creative fields. Although we had “real” jobs at various points, those jobs (editing, video production, adjunct faculty) did not provide opportunities to build strong retirement accounts. We were fortunate to have the last years of our working lives be as high school teachers. We each earned enough “points” in the system to have small pensions that now supplement our Social Security income.

So that’s what we have to work with.  By keeping our Costa Rica expenses below $2,000, we should be able to develop a decent savings account. In the monthly expense grid that I will be publishing, I am not including “prior commitments” like credit card and loan payments. Because we no longer use our credit cards, they are not part and parcel of our living expenses in Costa Rica; still, until we finish paying them off, they will be impacting our ability to save as much as we would like.

During November, we had nearly $1,000 of what I’ve indicated as “extraordinary expenses.” We moved into a house with almost no furniture. It is a great house and we feel very fortunate to have it, but all it had in it was a table, four chairs and a bed that was too small for us. After meeting Paul and Gloria in June, we thought we might be able to find a terrific furnished house in a great area for $500 a month because that’s the deal the Yeatmans have. They had strongly cautioned us that they’d fallen into a “one in a million opportunity.” But it wasn’t until two weeks of rental house shopping that the reality of the “one in a million opportunity” set in. The house we’re in now is the first one we looked at and initially rejected because the rent was $850 a month with minimal furnishings. But now that we’re here, it is right for us for many reasons (to be discussed in a future blog) and well worth the $850 a month.

 For several reasons we chose not to ship any of our furniture from the states. So for the next few months we will be purchasing (or Paul will be building) furniture. The “extraordinary expenses” in November represent a used bed and bookcase and a new sofa. We are turning the old house behind ours into a workshop (one of the bonus opportunities of this rental) To bring power to the building, we purchased electrical cable and fittings. These improvements will also be considered “extraordinary expenses” since they are not “required” to live comfortably in Costa Rica, but are choices we are making over and above our living expenses.

So there you have it. Of course every household will be different, but by looking at a variety of monthly expense budgets, you may be able to develop your own idea of what you’ll need to start your new life in Costa Rica with more clarity. 

THE BUS INTO TOWN: Part 3, The Detour by Marilyn

This morning I had an appointment at 9 with Dr. Juan in Grecia. So I went up to the top of our road to get the 8 o’clock bus.

At the bus stop was one of my neighbors. After some uneasy, smiling silence (I really can’t wait to be able to speak in actual paragraphs in Spanish), she asked me if I had any “chicos” and I said “dos” and then she asked me if “estan vivienda aqui” and I said “no” and she shook her head sadly. We again fell into uneasy, smiling silence. If Paul had been with me, he would have found a way to continue the conversation – I tend to freeze.

The bus came and my neighbor smilingly ushered me to board first and I smilingly ushered her to board first. While we were miming “after you …” “no, after you …” and neither of us was getting on the bus, a young woman carrying a little girl started down the bus steps and handed the child to my neighbor – along with a teddy bear and a bag of clothes. Ah, I was getting it! My neighbor was the abuela of the little girl and she was babysitting. So after I realized my neighbor was staying behind, I boarded the bus, waved goodbye to my neighbor and her granddaughter and the bus continued down the mountain.

Until about 500 meters from where I had boarded. The bus stopped. At first I thought the driver was just stopping for more passengers, but no one boarded. The driver had the bus door opened and was talking to some men. People on the bus started standing up and looking out the front window. A truck was blocking the road. I thought it may have broken down as it was backing up and was now stuck. Of course, because I didn’t understand any of the conversations, it turned out I was dead wrong (I also can’t wait until I am able to comprehend actual paragraphs in Spanish).

The bus driver turned the engine off and we just sat there. He made a phone call. He talked to the guys that were standing around the truck. After about 10 minutes, he restarted the engine – but he began backing up the mountain. Rapidly. This is a very large, heavy duty Mercedes bus. Have we mentioned in previous blogs that the roads are narrow and have no shoulders? I looked out the window in amazement as we continued zooming deftly up the mountain – backwards. Finally, the driver pulled off on a small side road and turned the engine off again. This was getting interesting.

After a few minutes, his cellphone rang. When he finished the call he started the bus. We made our way down a much narrower and winding side road. At each hairpin turn he’d slow the bus to a crawl. This road was just a bit more than one car in width, so the bus took up the entire road and then some. The “then some” did not include any shoulders, because there were no shoulders, only deep drainage ditches.

We wound our way down to the river. I’ve noticed that most bridges on Costa Rican side roads are even narrower than the road leading into them. Another thing is that the bridges are often at the base of a “U” in the road. This means that you have to stop on your side of the bridge and make sure that no one is coming down the other side. You can’t tell if someone is coming down the other side until you’re right at the bridge. So there we were, stopped at this narrower-than-the-narrow-road bridge and on the other side, an SUV was stopped facing us, taking up the whole road.

I looked out the window. The non-shoulder of the road that was parallel to my side of the bus dropped about 20 feet straight down to the river. I decided to concentrate on the lovely tropical foliage that we would be crushing should the bus roll down the embankment. Meanwhile, the SUV backed up off the road and onto a front yard to enable the bus to pass. The bus driver beeped a thank-you and we crossed the bridge (I held my breath for everyone on the bus, just to be safe) and headed up the other side of the narrow, winding road until we came to the main road again.

Above us on the main road, a barricade had been put up. Several very large trucks were parked on the part of the road that we hadn’t been able to drive on. There were no detour signs, just the barricade. In other words, if you live here, you should know how to take the detour without anyone telling you. I still didn’t know what was going on.

The rest of the trip was uneventful except for the careening down the mountain part. We were about a half hour later than normal. I’ve never experienced our bus being anything but exactly on time. To make up for some of the lost time, the driver gunned the engine going down the mountain between stops. Amazingly we made it to town unscathed.

THE 10 O’CLOCK BUS BACK HOME

After my doctor’s appointment, I boarded the bus to go home.

As we made our way up the mountain, the bus driver stopped the bus and started beeping his horn across from an auto repair shop. Eventually, a young guy in work clothes strolled down the repair shop drive and walked up to the bus window. The bus driver gave him a box with an auto part in it. They chatted for a bit. Then we moved on.

I have now noticed several of these informal transactions – like the child being handed off to her grandma. Once a tiny, elderly woman stood by the side of the road at a bus stop. When the bus driver stopped, he reached down near the front seat and picked up a box of plants. He got off the bus and handed the plants to the woman. Another time, the driver stopped and a woman went up to his window and handed him what looked like his lunch. And then there was the time that the bus driver stopped the bus next to a large garage, left the bus and disappeared into a side door. He reappeared a few minutes later, hopped back on the bus and drove on.

(I love every one of these events. I’m not sure why, but it makes me feel like I’m truly part of a community. At this point it’s a community with whom I can’t communicate with very well – except for lots of smiling. But it feels very real.)

After the auto repair shop, the ride was uneventful until we reached the Bienvenidos a El Cajon sign, which is about a half-mile below our road (Echo Way, or Calle Eco). The barricades were still there. I could see that workers were pouring asphalt. The bus driver pulled into the side road and I thought he was going to take the same detour – just going in the other direction – that the earlier bus driver had, but instead of continuing down the side road, he turned the bus around and faced back down the mountain toward Grecia. He said something and all the passengers stood up. We were getting off the bus!

Everyone started trecking up the mountain through the freshly poured asphalt. A young man came up beside me. “We have a long walk home, don’t we?” he asked in perfect English.

“Good exercise!” I replied, determined to appear happy with this turn of events. I was regretting wearing my clogs instead of my sneakers.

“The driver told me to tell you that we had to walk the rest of the way,” he said.

“I figured that part out when we all got off the bus and started walking,” I said, adding, “your English is very good.”

He smiled brightly. “Thank you,” he said, “I study in Grecia.”

“I’ll be starting Spanish lessons tomorrow,” I said. “I’m Marilyn.”

“I’m Jason. Maybe we could practice with each other,” he said.

“That would be great.”

“You live in Jenny’s house?” he asked.

“Yes, are you related to Jenny?” Nearly everyone on our mountain is related to Jenny.

“We have been neighbors for many years,” he said.

We continued to plod up the mountain – the steep, steep mountain. Chunks of asphalt were sticking to my soles. I took the last sip of water from my thermos. I would have really liked to stop and rest at the bus stop in front of the church, but all the other passengers seemed to be keeping up the same pace and several of them looked a lot older than me.

Shortly after we’d passed the upper barricade where the road construction began, a white car pulled up. I recognized the woman in the passenger’s seat as one of the people who’d been on the bus. The driver looked just like her, except that he was a man and about 20 years younger. Had to be her son. Jason walked up to the car, said something, and then turned to me. “Do you want a ride the rest of the way?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!” I said. We climbed in the back seat. As we roared up the mountain, I thought I could have easily hiked the whole way, but this was much, much better. They dropped me off at the top of our road and I “muchas gracias-ed” as they rumbled away. 

GEORGE BURNS AND GRACIE ALLEN REVISITED (sort of) by Paul and Marilyn

If you are old like us, maybe you remember watching George and Gracie (If not, check this link:.Burns & Allen) 
This morning, Paul and I wrote competing essays on ... pronunciation (we are flyin' high folks!!!). Anyway, here are the links to both from our Open Salon blogs:

Diapers, Scallops, and Which by Paul

Pak the Cah in Hahvahd Yahd by Marilyn

A WALK THROUGH OUR NEIGHBORHOOD by Marilyn

Slide show of one of our daily hikes.

THE RESCUE by Marilyn

One moment all three dogs were frantically barking at a squirrel in the dead tree just outside of the natural fence on our property. And then Lily slipped through the fence to get a better crack at the squirrel. It was the first time she’d done that. She didn’t come back when I called her like she would normally do.

The next bark I heard was not of the “I’m gonna get you Mr. Squirrel” variety, but more of a “Holy Crap!! What did I just do!?!”

We knew that there was a steep cliff in the pasture next to our house, but we’ve never really explored it. Looking up at it from the road below our house was something we were waiting to do when the rainy season was over. The clay road was so slippery it was almost impossible to hike without cleats or crampons – we had neither. There were random rocks in the center of the road, but if you missed one of them, you were down … and dirty.

We’d only gone into the pasture itself once. The growth was overwhelming – 6 foot high grass and hidden stumps --  and you actually walked on a series of spongy roots, rather than firm ground. So when I heard the panic in Lily’s bark, I knew right away that she’d either fallen off the cliff or gotten stuck in the root system, or both.

Paul and I quickly changed into jeans and boots for the rescue. We were going to do our best to avoid snakes while we were saving Lily. If we could save her.

We scrambled down the road, slipping and sliding on the wet clay. Sometimes there were sturdy enough branches on the side of the road to hold onto; sometimes not. We got to a clearing below the pasture. Lily had stopped barking, so we had no idea whether we were near her or not. Below us, the cliff dropped down another several hundred feet to the river. Above us the cliff rose -- straight, slippery mud. We would not be able to attempt the rescue from this location. And Lily wasn’t barking at all.

“I’m going into the pasture from our side yard,” I told Paul. He was trying to find some way up the steep sides of the cliff.

I got to the side yard and slipped through a hole in the fence. 

I’d watched Sacha do this many times, but of course she is a 12 pound dog and I’m … not. I headed through the dense, eye-level weeds, calling Lily. She started barking again. He barks didn’t sound like pain barks, which was a relief. I remembered reading Emily’s post about rescuing the puppies (http://www.welovecostarica.com/members/Wild-Puppies-On-the-Edge-of-a-Cliff.cfm). It seemed like Lily had fallen down to the same ledge as the puppies had. I started praying that she stayed there. I kept calling to her to let her know help was on the way, although I had no idea what I was going to do.

I continued crunching through the weedy roots (or rooty weeds) until, boom, I was no longer on solid ground. I’d arrived at the edge of the cliff and I was caught in tangled roots up to my hips. Abbott and Costello came to mind. Flattening myself out I was able to extract my right leg, but my left boot was caught in a jumble of thick roots. My foot could come out, but I’d be darned if I was going to leave my boot behind.

Right about then, Paul showed up. He looked over the fence and saw me trapped in the weeds. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just a little … stuck,” I said. Lily barked again. She sounded close by.

 “I think I know where Lily is,” he said, coming to rescue me.

“Me too,” I said, “but first I need to get my boot uncaught.” I wiggled and jiggled until the boot came free.

“Crawl on your belly until you get to firm ground,” said Paul. He reached out and grabbed my hand and I slithered, mud-covered, back into the yard. We both called to Lily. “We’re coming, girl,” said Paul, “hold on a few minutes.”

Paul went to the Tico house to get an old, home-made, wooden ladder. I went inside and got some rope and also our nylon laundry bag. I figured we could put Lily in it and haul her up the ladder in case she was injured. I stopped to take a sip of water and realized my hands were shaking.

Paul dragged the ladder through the fence and Sacha and I tromped behind him. He got to the edge of the cliff and we were able to see Lily, about eight feet below, on the same ledge as the puppies had been. He lowered the ladder and kept poking the end of it until he felt solid ground. Lily looked up at us eagerly, a hopeful, timid wag of her tail.

Paul lashed the top rung of the ladder to a stump but before he began to climb down, Lily started to climb up. “C’mon, girl,” we reassured her, “you can do it.” She got up about two rungs and chickened out, sliding back down to the ledge.

After she’d made a few more attempts, Paul decided to go down and get behind her. Sacha stood at the top of the ladder, wagging her tail in encouragement. At the bottom of the ladder, Paul positioned Lily, putting his hands behind her rear haunches to support her. Up, up she climbed, with me and Sacha cheering her on.

She got to the top and made her way through the fence to the yard, trotting up to the patio as if nothing had happened.

As I peeled off my muddy jeans in the laundry room with still shaking hands, I heard Lily’s familiar, muffled bark coming from the other room: “Muwff, muwff.” She had her beloved orange ball in her mouth and was ready to play. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

THE BUS INTO TOWN: Part 2, SHOPPING IN THE RAIN by Paul

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.