Heredia

An aged man with a sun beaten face hung halfway out of his battered, red Toyota

as he hissed at a younger woman. He flashed his yellow teeth and licked his chops like a

starving predator of the jungle, and greedily looked her up and down. Machismo at its

finest. The young lady uncomfortably adjusted her tight sundress as she continued to

speak rapidly in Spanish on her phone. She sashayed across the street when the high chirp

of the walk signal sounded, and passed other shapely women walking the opposite

direction wearing sharp business suits, tight dresses, or high heels. What is in the water

for these women to be so fit? It was a bright and sunny morning in the high 70s with

occasional breezes from the mountains nearby. People whizzed by in obnoxiously loud

motorbikes and cars were honking in all different streets.

Dark clouds began to cluster together and crowd the blue sky, casting a sudden

gloomy shadow over the city of Heredia. The change happened as fast as a blink, with

skies going from baby blue to all shades of gray. Fat drops of rain began hitting the

cobble streets with ferocity, creating streams of running water. It seemed as if all the

bustle and flow of vehicles and workingmen and women immediately disappeared,

replaced with the repetitive noise of pattering. A restaurant owner looked out of the

window with his arms crossed and a blissful smile on his face. Across the street, an older

woman with a jacket draped over her messy black ponytail beckoned at a little boy to go

inside of a house.

It left as soon as it came; the clouds broke apart and the sun shined through again

to dry the streets. Restaurants propped open their doors again to welcome the sunshine as

if nothing ever happened. The rev of motorbikes reverberated throughout the city and
cars continued to honk as people walked on the narrow sidewalks. It didn’t take me long

to realize that this strange spectacle happened like clockwork everyday in the afternoon. I

put my umbrella away and headed toward the red and yellow striped stadium. As I was

passing, I could hear the gleeful screams and shouts of kids playing soccer reverberating

inside the brick walls of the stadium. Behind me, I heard a couple speaking in low

Spanish as they were jogging together. I moved over and they passed me with warm

smiles on their faces, saying “Pura vida” as they jogged ahead, and I smiled back,

repeating it.

Pura vida. It means pure or simple life, referring to the way of life that Costa

Ricans live, and also used to say hello, goodbye, or everything’s great. My smile stayed

on my face as I thought of how the carefree culture of this city coincided with my

personality. “Tico time” was a big thing about Heredia that described how nonchalant the

Costa Rican natives (called Tico or Tica) were about punctuality. I sighed sadly as I

thought of the fast-paced, rushed American culture that contrasted greatly with both

Costa Ricans’ and my sense of time.

As I continued on my walk home from Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica, I

started to realize that all the houses looked the same; they all had flat rooftops with earthy

colors of beige, brown, and deep red. Before I knew it, I was lost and I couldn’t find my

way back to my homestay mother’s house even though it had been two weeks since I’d

been in Heredia, Costa Rica. I saw a taxi driver passing by and I flagged him down. Shit.

As soon as I got in, I remembered the study abroad advisor from the first day of

orientation telling me that addresses didn’t exist in Costa Rica. The taxi driver looked at

me intently with a kind smile and I stumbled on broken Spanish,

“Aven…Avenida ocho, calle….calle di-diece….dieceseis, por favor.” I silently prayed he

would understand the avenue and street that I was referring to.

He stared at me with a dumbfounded expression and began to laugh nervously, “Eh… I

no understand.”

Panicked, I ruffled around in my backpack for the folder with my mama tica’s

address. I knew it was a landmark nearby, the little shop that sold tacos and quesadillas

down the street from my house. Pollo…Pollo something. The man nodded with a

knowing smile and started the car towards the place. I watched the GPS on his dashboard

move through empty streets with no labels and clutched my backpack, counting down the

10 days in my head until I would be back home with actual street names and numbers

again. When I saw the faded yellow walls of my mama tica’s house and the rustic gate

out front, I excitedly yelled, “Here! I mean… Aqui! Gracias!” I was so happy that I gave

him five colones and jumped out of the car before I remembered it wasn’t customary to

tip taxi drivers. My excitement fell and I dragged my feet to the gate, feeling defeated and

exhausted from the day. Ana Lia, my mama tica, saw my face and rushed over to me,

putting both of her wrinkled hands on my cheeks and asking what happened.

Although I was drained from the eventful day, I explained with as much beginner

Spanish vocabulary as I knew about what happened to my mama tica. Shoving forkfuls of

gallo pinto (rice and beans) in my mouth, I didn’t even realize there was a trail of ants

that traveled from the wall to the kitchen table into my plate. I almost threw it up in front

of Ana Lia but I suppressed the urge and smiled at her as she spoke to me in Spanish.

Although I didn’t know a word she was saying, I couldn’t hear her anyway over the

screaming thoughts in my head: THIS PLACE IS SWARMING WITH INSECTS! THE

MEN ARE PIGS, THERE’S NO ADDRESSES, THE STREETS ARE FILLED WITH

DEATH TRAPS AND MY CLASSMATES ARE STUCK UP! I looked up at Ana Lia

and finally noticed that she was staring at me intently, waiting for a reply. “Como?” I

asked, hoping she didn’t notice my face as I was bombarded with negative thoughts. She

asked me how my food was and I pushed the plate away, telling her it was delicious but

that I was full from earlier. She took my plate away, not noticing the army of ants that

were having a banquet on my behalf.

I walked to my room and flipped the light switch on. Lying down on my bed, I

stared at the white ceiling and recounted the days until I was back home. I heard a rustle

to my left and saw a black circle shoot across the room in my peripherals. Struck with

fear, I slowly turned my head to meet eyes with a roommate I had never witnessed until

this day. A beady-eyed cockroach momentarily paused while making the most stomach-

wrenching hiss and I froze, all the hairs on my body standing at attention. It sounded like

the hiss that I heard from the dirty old man in the Red Toyota that same morning.

Cucaracha, I heard my Spanish professor say in my head. He warned the class of the

wrath of the cockroach. Once you kill one, there will always be more. If you decide to

kill a pregnant cockroach, thousands of eggs would hatch and swarm from the dead body.

I flipped the light switch off and closed my eyes, slowly counting to 10 in my head. 10

more days.

Pura vida, my ass.