Seven Year Switch (2010) (17 page)

THE FLIGHT ATTENDANTS PASSED OUT THE COSTA RICAN
Immigrations/Custom Form for us to fill out during the flight, so when our plane landed at the San José airport two hours, forty-five minutes, and many bumps later, we were ready to head right to customs.

We gathered around Joni for a head count. “If you haven't already done it,” she said, “don't forget to change what ever gadgets you're carrying to Central Time. Not that time really matters on this trip, except for meeting up purposes.”

A few women reached for their watches or cell phones. The rest of us smiled tentatively at one another. It felt a lot like the first day of summer camp, when you looked around and wondered who would be your friends by the end of the week.

“I'm Joni, and if you haven't met her yet, I'd like you to meet Jill, who's been with Great Girlfriend Getaways for almost seven years.”

“Hi, everybody,” I said. I thanked Joni silently for not pointing out that I'd been tethered to my headphone the whole time.

Joni nodded at the woman to her right. “This is Vianca. She's been guiding our Costa Rica trip from its inception. If you need to know anything about anything, Vianca will help you find the answer.”

Vianca was about my age. She had exotic features and a sleek geometric haircut, and she was wearing jeans and a black
tank with a big chunky ethnic necklace. She wasn't beautiful by conventional standards, but she carried herself in such a way that you couldn't take your eyes off her. I wanted to
be
her.

“
¿Qué hubo?
Vianca said. “That pretty much means ‘what's up?' Costa Ricans normally say it like
¿Quiubo?
The weakening of the
e
to an
i
at the end of a word is very common in Costa Rican Spanish.” She grinned. “Or you can just smile and leave the rest to me.”

“Thank you,” one of the women said.

“
Gracias
,” someone else said.

“Show off,” somebody else said.

“Okay,” Vianca continued. “There are only eight gates in this airport, so even though we've come in at the farthest gate, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump over to immigration.”

Cynthia put her hand up.

Vianca nodded at her.

“Do we have to immigrate?” Cynthia asked.

A couple of women swallowed back laughs, but Vianca looked at her kindly. “Don't worry,” she said, “they won't try to keep you here.”

“Ha,” Cynthia said. “Even if my family begs them to?”

Cynthia got a bigger laugh than I thought she actually deserved. Vianca and Joni led the way, and we all followed the signs, printed in both English and Spanish, toward immigration and baggage.

Vianca turned around and started walking backward, and I had a flashback to one of my own tour guide days, when the dozen or so people in my group let me walk right into a pole. I didn't see anything in Vianca's path, but I kept an eye out for her just in case.

“We're going to walk right past the souvenir shop,” Vianca said, “since you can buy the same stuff literally ten times cheaper in downtown San José.”

There was a desk just inside the immigration hall.

 

Save Time on the day of Departure,
buy Your departure tax today.

 

We all stopped and took a moment to puzzle over the odd capitalization.

“Most countries include this tax in the cost of the airline ticket,” Vianca said, “but not Costa Rica.”

A couple of women groaned, and we all started to reach for our wallets.

“But Great Girlfriend Getaways has included your departure tax in the cost of the tour,” Vianca continued. “So if you'll line up, I'll hand each of you twenty-six dollars in cash.”

There was a pleased group murmur, and everybody started filing obediently into a single line. I stepped back to the end with Joni. “Little touches can make a big difference,” Joni whispered. “When people look back on a trip, you don't want them to remember being nickeled and dimed to death.”

“If you come back again without GGG,” Vianca was saying as she handed us each a crisp twenty, a five, and a one-dollar bill, “you should remember to bring cash, to save yourself a steep little service charge for using your ATM. Also, we'll wait till we get to a bank in San José to change your dollars into colones, since we'll get the best rate there.”

Vianca herded us over to the tourist line. An enormous photo mural of people riding ziplines through the lush Costa Rican tropical rain forest kept us company while we waited. I wondered if I'd ever have the nerve to try something like that. Surfing seemed a lot less challenging.

We prepaid our departure tax and tucked our receipts away for safekeeping. As I rode the escalator down to the baggage claim, I tried hard not to imagine Anastasia's feet getting caught in its shiny metal teeth. I focused instead on another huge photo mural slanting down over our heads. A waterfall burst out of the lush tropical growth and landed in a pool below. I could almost hear the roar of the water. Enormous white letters proclaimed WELCOME TO COSTA RICA.

I blew out a long gust of air and reminded myself to savor every single detail of this trip. Who knew when I might get the chance to go somewhere again.

About twenty minutes later, everyone but Cynthia had their luggage.

“Don't even tell me,” Cynthia said.

Vianca draped an arm over Cynthia's shoulder. “Come on. I'll help you fill out the lost-luggage form. With any luck, they'll deliver your belongings to our hotel before we fly out tomorrow.”

“Lost luggage,” Cynthia said as she made quotation marks with two fingers of each hand. “Right. How do we know somebody didn't just steal the suitcases with the best clothes?”

“We'll fill out that form, too, while we're over there,” Vianca said.

“Don't worry,” I said. “You can always borrow some of my clothes.”

Cynthia gave my T-shirt and jeans a once-over. “Or we could shop,” she said.

 

AS SOON AS
Cynthia and I checked into our bungalow, I made a dash for the business center to check my e-mail. Nothing. I checked my cell phone again. Not a single message.

My eyes filled up. No news is good news, I reminded myself. Anastasia and Seth had lots of catching up to do, and it was perfectly understandable they'd forgotten all about me. It was a good thing, and because of it, I was in San José, Costa Rica, having the time of my life.

A single tear rolled down one cheek. It dead-ended at the corner of my mouth, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand. I opened a blank e-mail and started writing to Anastasia.

I reread it. I knew the chances were slim, but if I happened to get eaten by a shark or a crocodile while I was surfing, this was not the letter I'd want my daughter to remember me by. I deleted it and tried again.

Ugh. What kind of mother misses her daughter
oodles
? I highlighted the whole thing and pressed Delete.

Yikes. If this e-mail didn't send her straight to therapy, I didn't know what would. Why was it so ridiculously hard to write a letter to my own daughter? What was my problem? I lifted my hands off the keyboard and shook them hard, then tried again.

I pushed Send fast. Then I opened up a blank e-mail for Seth. I stared at it for a while, thinking of all the things I should and shouldn't say to him, about Anastasia, about us. Finally I wrote:

I STOPPED FOR A MOMENT TO LISTEN TO THE PIANO
player in the lobby, then made my way out to the open-air sidewalk café. Most of the women were already seated at round tables shaded by deep salmon market umbrellas.

“Don't sit next to anyone you already know,” Vianca was saying to two women who'd walked out just ahead of me.

The women rolled their eyes, but they separated. Joni and Vianca were each at a different table, so I took a seat at the third table.

We were spending the night at the Gran Hotel Costa Rica, a 1930s pale salmon and white-trimmed throwback to a grander time. Not only was it an official national historic landmark, but the location was also perfect—according to my notes, we were surrounded by the pedestrian-only streets of the Plaza de la Cultura and directly across from Teatro Nacional.

I could still hear the piano music, something jazzy and unidentifiable, through the open windows, and when I looked through the wrought iron fence at the throngs of people milling past, it almost seemed as if they were walking to the beat of the music. I couldn't imagine a better place to feel the Latin rhythm of San José.

“Can you believe John F. Kennedy stayed here?” one of the women at my table said.

I smiled at her. “So cool. And Harry Truman, too.”

“Let's not forget Julio Inglesias and John Wayne,” one of the other women said.

Cynthia came out of nowhere and sat down in the chair directly across from me. “Don't you just hate that? I mean, you think you're doing something totally different, and you find out everybody else got here first.”

She was wearing my favorite skirt, the one from Anthropologie. Even though I'd bought it on clearance and had had it forever, I'd kill her if she spilled anything on it. She looked down at her new pink gift shop T-shirt.
PURA VIDA
was splashed across the front of the shirt in optimistic green letters. “I bet everyone probably has a T-shirt like this, too,” Cynthia said.

It might not have been unique enough for Cynthia, but
pura vida
was my favorite Costa Rican expression. The direct translation is “pure life,” but
pura vida
could also mean everything from “you're good people” to “the good life to you” or “to life.” If something was cool or awesome, you could even say it was
pura vida
.

I checked my cell phone one more time to make sure I hadn't somehow missed a message, only to have it pop up with better open-air cell reception.

A tall, dark, and handsome waiter came over and asked for our drink order in English. One of the women ordered
guaro
, which I'd read was similar to a rough and not-so-great Costa Rican vodka.

“No way, José,” our waiter said with a look of mock terror.

Even though he probably used this line on all his tables, we cracked up.

“What would you suggest then?” the same woman asked.

“Caipirinhas are the new mojitos!” our waiter said with an adorable wink. I hoped he got a commission on them, because every woman at our table ordered one. A couple of them looked like they'd order up the waiter, too, if they could.

Since I'd done my research, I knew the caipirinha (kaipur-EEN-ya) and the mojito share two primary ingredients,
lime and sugar. The mojito adds rum, mint leaves, and soda water and is served in a tall glass. The caipirinha adds only crushed ice and Cachaça (ka-sha-sa), a Brazilian rum distilled from sugarcane juice, to a lime muddled with two tablespoons of sugar.

“Whew,” one of the women said as we tried our first sips. “Those Brazilians sure know their rum. I might have to think about a trip to Brazil next.”

“A-okay?” the cute waiter asked, making a little circle with his thumb and index finger, and extending his three remaining fingers.

“A-okay,” we all chorused, imitating his gesture.

He winked. “I make my highest effort to comfort your stay,” he said. When he walked away, we all turned to follow him with our eyes.

One of the sorority sisters made a swooning sound.

“Well, you can't argue with that,” the recently divorced woman said. I was pretty sure her name was Janice. “If my ex had made even his lowest effort to comfort my stay, I might not be spending the money I got divorcing him on this trip.”

“Do you think we should ask for menus?” the lawyer said, clearly hoping to redirect Janice before she started talking about her divorce again.

I was glad I'd gone over my trip notes again on the flight to Miami. “An assortment of
bocas
is included in the trip,” I said. “
Ticos
, or Costa Ricans, love to snack, and
bocas
are Costa Rican appetizers. GGG has ordered us a
boca
feast fit for a
Tico
.
Gallos
—tortillas piled with meat, chicken, or beans, and cheese; ceviche—a marinated seafood salad; tamales—stuffed cornmeal patties wrapped and steamed inside banana leaves; and
patacones
—fried green plaintain chips.”

“Don't get her talking about those,” Cynthia said, “or we'll be here all night.”

“Don't forget whose skirt you're wearing,” I said, as if I were only kidding.

Cynthia took another sip of her caipirinha. “Don't remind me. Does anyone know what time the stores open in the morning?”

“I'm dying to go to the jade museum,” somebody said.

“I hear the Teatro Nacional is amazing,” somebody else said. “I wish we could see a performance there, but I definitely want to at least take a tour.”

“I hope we start with the outdoor market,” the sorority sister said.

“All I want to do is surf,” one of the surfers said.

A woman leaned forward. “How much did it cost you to bring your surfboard on the plane?”

The surfer shrugged. “A hundred dollars.”

“Each way, Michelle?” somebody said to the surfer.

She nodded.

“Couldn't you rent one cheaper than that?” I said.

Michelle shrugged. She was probably in her thirties, long limbed and all angles, like a tomboy who didn't quite know how to grow up. Her sun-bleached hair was frizzy and wild, and her nose was sprinkled with freckles.

Michelle shrugged some more. “It's just not the same. It might sound crazy, but once you get to know your board, I don't know, it's almost like you're looking out for each other. And once you get a bad case of board love—”

“Board love?” somebody said.

“You'd never want to cheat on it?” Janice said. “Oh, puhlease. Can you imagine a guy worrying about how many boards he rode?”

“I'm so not going to touch that line,” somebody said.

Two new cute waiters cut through our laughter to place the first of our
bocas
on the table. I took one more look at my cell phone, then put it away in my shoulder bag.

“Did anybody else have a hard time leaving your kids?” popped out of my mouth.

“Ohmigod,” a woman with salt-and-pepper hair said, as she reached for a tamale. “It's the worst. And mine are twenty-eight and thirty-two.”

After the laughter died down, a woman who hadn't said anything yet spoke. “There was this robin?” she said.

We all waited.

The woman blushed.

Janice put a
patacone
back on her plate and rested her hand on the woman's. “Go ahead, tell us. Linda, right?”

Linda nodded. She had dark hair and beautiful skin, like the old Pond's cold cream commercials.

“I'm here with my sister,” Linda said. “We're both so busy we never see each other, and we used to vacation at the beach when we were kids, so we picked this trip as an excuse to get together. Anyway, at home I've been watching this robin who built a nest outside my bedroom window. You know, kind of tucked into the wisteria snaking up the drainpipe?”

We all nodded encouragingly.

Linda took a breath. “The nest is above eye level, so I couldn't see inside, but I could watch the mother robin sitting on it. One day I noticed fluffy new feathers and tiny beaks peeking over the edge of the nest. Then before I knew it, one of the babies started hanging over the edge, and the mother would have to sit on its head to push it back down into the nest.”

“Been there,” someone said.

We all laughed.

Linda wrapped both hands around her drink, as if she were trying to keep it safe. “Occasionally another adult bird would stop by to sit next to the mother for a while.”

“Probably the father,” I said as the caipirinha reached my brain, “swinging by between stints in the Peace Corps.”

Fortunately, the caipirinhas must have reached their brains at the same time, because everybody laughed.

“I bet it was just a girlfriend dropping by to chat, or to borrow a cup of worms,” the salt-and-pepper-haired woman said.

“Or to see if she wanted to go out cruising for boy birds,” Michelle said.

“I hope she had more sense than that,” Janice said. “That's what got her stuck in that nest in the first place.”

Linda waited until we settled down. “Then right before I left this morning, one of the babies was sitting out on a curled branch of wisteria. Just sitting there, like, bet you can't make me come back to the nest.”

Linda's eyes teared up.

“What?” somebody said.

Linda was sobbing quietly now. Janice handed her a tissue, and Linda dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

“I know this is totally crazy,” Linda said. “But I can't stop thinking that when I get back home, they'll all be gone, and I'll never see them again.”

Linda blew her nose once more. Somebody else sniffed.

“Okay, it's a little bit crazy,” Cynthia said, “but not too bad.”

I tried to catch Cynthia's eye, in case making her shut up was even a remote possibility, but she was too busy picking all the shrimp out of the ceviche.

Cynthia bit a shrimp in half. “Birds will come and birds will go,” she said as she reached for her caipirinha. “I mean, what ever. But here's the thing: eventually we all have to learn to friend for ourselves.”