"Enough is enough,” I said to my friend as we drove back from dinner with her (bilingual) family. “I need a lover, or perhaps a job. How else will my Spanish ever get better?”

There was a pause while she waited for the oncoming cars to pass.

“You could always take some classes,” she said finally, accelerating around the corner. 

I laughed then, but the next morning I sat bolt upright in bed. The sky was light but the sun still an hour from rising behind the mountains. She was right. Why had I not even considered lessons?

And that’s why I now spend my three hours each weekday morning sitting across the table from Grace at Casa Conversa in Santa Ana. Out the window I can see the Poas Volcano in the distance and the noisy yiguirro birds interrupt our wide-ranging conversations. This is the national bird of Costa Rica - the clay-coloured thrush, in English. And in a country rich with exotic fauna and colourful flora, it would be hard to find a duller bird. But its song is quite magical. 

Grace is in her early 50s, with two boys in their thirties, two grandchildren, and an 8-year old third son, who is actually her grandson, the son of her eldest boy. The one who is in jail. The one who impregnated a 14-year old girl, and then once released after serving his time for that crime, got himself caught up in a bar fight where someone died. Grace just shakes her head when he comes up in conversation (and her whole family is regularly a topic of discussion). He was a llorono, she said. Such a cry baby, made a fuss about everything, even when he was a young teenager.  

Grace has been teaching English for more than 25 years. She’s met people from all over the world, and been invited to visit some of them. Her (other) son, supported through one of her alumnae, did his secondary school studies in Vermont. Such a amazing opportunity that left him completely bilingual and comfortable in both countries. There’s a woman in Chicago who takes classes online three times a week. “She says it keeps her young,” explains Grace. She will often tutor a whole family, parents and children both, during their temporary postings to the country. Listening to her stories, her life seems so real, so vibrant. It’s very earthy and interwoven with people, both friends and family. 

Last week, I had my toenails painted by Grace’s sister Tatiana, aka Tati. It’s one of a few things she does. Many Ticos seem to have several businesses on the go. The following day, Tati was going with her husband on holiday to Albany, New York, a place she had worked for seventeen summers selling rafting tours. Her husband is a clown, an actual clown, and has a store where he sells accessories, party favours and teaches apprentices how to be clowns. He’s also a courier for one of the well-known restaurants in Santa Ana. Entrepreneurial, as I was saying. 

They all live together down an alleyway off the main road. The eastbound road that is. Santa Ana has two one-way roads parallel to each other. It’s quite efficient but does mean that traffic races along. You can’t hear it from Grace’s compound though. The narrow passageway from the street is long, with buildings on both sides, and the small, semi-covered courtyard at the end is surrounded by a half-dozen rooms and apartments, cheek-to-jowl. These include Tati’s nail salon and beside that is her own dwelling, next to her mother’s, all interconnected within. In front, along the alleyway, are a series of rooms that they rent out. Grace’s area, where she lives with her youngest son, is up a flight of outside stairs near the kitchen. There is only the one kitchen, shared by everyone including the tenants. In a corner of the courtyard there’s a small, netted trampoline, along with a scooter and a table. There’s not really space for any noise to get in.  

Cramped as it is, how lovely it must be that there is always a relative to invite over for coffee, a friend to lend a handful of chiles, or someone to keep an eye on a grandchild. And while it's spanking clean (the Ticos are super hygienic), the television plays an inane music channel, dampness lurks in the corner, and there is a lot of painted concrete. But there is also such a friendly warmth that I felt like coming over to cook everyone pancakes. Tati's two-year old grandson was in the salon with us, playing with stickers, wandering over every now and then to stick one on me. Tati's daughter, Nicolas' mother, was there to start, but left with a teenager, the son of a friend who had died recently on a motorbike. It's family at its best, and I felt honoured to have been invited into their home. 

I'm quite comfortable in this culture. I’m not surprised by potholes, or the beggars at the traffic lights selling lollipops, or pencils, or bags of juice. The erratic driving and search for specific ingredients in diverse supermarkets is just part of the fun. I feel as though Costa Rica is in transition, though, hovering between being a developed and developing country (I gather that first and third world countries are terms no longer in use). I hope it manages to keep the best of both worlds.  

The Spanish lessons are intense - three hours is a long time, but it’s the right amount. I can feel myself remembering the language, recognising more words and pulling others up from the archive drawers in my brain. I feel more confident when I speak. Odd how it never occurred to me to do the same thing when I arrived in Montreal. I suppose I figured I could just muddle along, do my best to make myself understood and all would be fine. And it was, but I could have made it easier for myself. 

 

(too cool for school - was just heading out after class, hence the glasses!)

I’m all over the map emotionally these days, swinging from the profound contentment I might feel walking home from the supermarket to a frustrated anxiety that I don’t know what I’m doing here. But I need to trust myself. A year of discovery was never going to be a walk in the park. The existential questions that I carry around with me are not from here; I lived with them in London, took them on holiday, and tuck them in beside me at night. Sometimes I can look at them and smile because they aren’t being irksome, other times I feel them pressing in tight, pestering me to consider them, mocking me for thinking I’ll come up with answers. 

Of course I realise that geography won't fix a philosophical problem. But it is lovely to wrestle with all my thoughts and ideas while the sun is shining and the parrots squawking in the trees outside.