When the levee breaks

It's been a rough week. It started out OK with a trip to the beach. Forty Ticos and I piled into a big bus and bounced our way to Playa Luna on the central Pacific coast. We left at 5:30 a.m. Easter Sunday and got to the beach by 8 a.m. We swam in the ocean and in the river, which flowed into the ocean, and made sand castles and ate a picnic lunch of, you guessed it, rice and beans.

Monday and Tuesday flew by flawlessly, but Wednesday I woke up with a runny nose and sore throat, which is what I believe led to my first big embarrassing breakdown. What happened was that my sixth graders told me on Tuesday there would be no classes Wednesday afternoon because of a schoolwide soccer match against a neighboring town. I asked the sixth-grade teacher, who confirmed that, no, there would be no classes Wednesday afternoon.

Thus, Wednesday morning started out fantastically. I had not yet identified my stuffy head as a cold. Instead I thought the slight headache and scratchy throat were caused by higher-than-usual amounts of toxic materials in the air because of the massive burn pile my host mom had going Tuesday night.

I enjoyed an exceptionally delicious breakfast of sweet bread, cream cheese and black coffee, then arrived at school to discover kindergarten classes were canceled for the morning because the teacher was out of town. Woo-hoo! I hadn't prepared for kinder at all, so this was a nice surprise. Also, the day before, I had canceled the class after kinder – fourth grade – because the students were so bad I stormed out of the classroom vowing not to return until Thursday. With no kinder or fourth, I had an hour and a half to get some other work done, and then I would only have to teach first and second grades before the school day was over.

I managed to get through first grade fine by singing them a lullaby (Hush Little Baby) and letting them sleep on their desks. I tried to work in "goodnight" in hopes of salvaging some sort of English lesson, but really I was just thankful for the few minutes of silence. My head was getting stuffier and stuffier. Second grade was a little wild, but we had fun with a March Madness counting tournament, and does it really matter if the kids pronounce 15 "five-teen"? I don't think so.

After second grade, I passed by the school director and asked, just to be sure, if afternoon classes were indeed canceled. I could see the kids gathering on the soccer field in the midday heat to put on their Potrero Grande reds and blues for the big game. To my surprise, the director replied with, "Yes, there are classes, why wouldn't there be?"

Why wouldn't there be? Because 90 percent of my students are in the plaza? How am I supposed to have class with no students? But, I didn't know how to say all that in Spanish, so I just sat in the empty classroom waiting. A couple of students trickled in and asked me if were having classes. I told them I wasn't sure, that I didn't really understand what was going on. So they ran across the yard to ask their teacher, then came back and said she had said class would be at 11:45. 11:45?? That's when I have lunch! And I was already starving. Now I was starving and utterly confused.

As I walked around the school yard pondering what to do, three or four little girls came running up to me,” Teacher, asldkfhlsakjdhfak;sdfkahsdfahsjdfl;sadlfj (something very fast in Spanish)." I took a deep breath and calmly explained for the 7,000th time that they must speak more slowly because I don't understand much Spanish. It didn't work. All four repeated the sentence together, just as rapidly as before. It was at that moment that the breakdown began, and the girls must have seen it in my face. As they turned to leave, one muttered, "Pobre teacher." Poor teacher.

I walked home, not really caring if I was supposed to be teaching or not. I was hungry and frustrated. I walked into the kitchen half hoping to find the house empty so I could begin my breakdown alone, half hoping there would be someone around to pat me on the back and tell me it was be OK.

My host sister walked in immediately with a big smile on her face. As I heated my cold rice and beans (that I had gotten that morning from the school cafeteria) in the microwave, she told me with much excitement that she has borrowed a CD with my latest favorite Reggaeton song on it. Any other time, I would have squealed with excitement because I've been searching everywhere for that song and haven't been able to find it. But with my eyelids barely able to hold back the impending river of tears, I just nodded and mumbled "gracias."

Then the sobbing began. I sat at the table, which is unproportionately taller than the chair and always makes me feel like a little kid when I eat. Crying made it even worse. There I sat, my chin nearly touching the table, shoveling lukewarm rice and beans until my mouth as I heaved a series of breathtaking sobs. "Que pasa, Jennifer?" my host sister asked, her eyes wide with concern.

When I didn't answer coherently, she ran to get her mom, who returned and patted me on the back (just as I had half-hoped) and fixed me a special fresco, the kind I like with powdered milk in it. Then she asked me over and over again what happened to make me cry, and I tried to explain to her that nothing happened except that I moved to Costa Rica where everything is different and I never understand what anybody is saying and that really I was just very hungry. I was crying so hard I couldn't eat, but I was so hungry I couldn't stop eating. I ended up sucking a piece of rice down the wrong tube, which set me into a coughing/crying fit that lasted a good five minutes.

My host mom sat down beside me and began telling me how much they enjoyed having me in their house, how I am a wonderful teacher and how the kids are learning a lot of English. Uh-huh, keep going. I nodded my head and kept on crying. I couldn't stop. Finally she told me that crying is good for the soul and to just keep at it as long as I wanted. She walked over to the school to alert the fifth-grade teacher that I was too sad to teach.

I have now recovered from my breakdown and am carrying on splendidly. There are moments when things are very difficult, but I never regret coming here. After all, where else can you call in sad to work?