What's going on

A friend sent me a package full of newspaper clippings. I picked them up at the Post Office on Friday, and on Saturday morning, I devoured them over a cup of coffee. Back in the United States, when I was stationed in front of the Internet eight hours a day, I read the news with only mild interest. I was addicted to it, no doubt, but it rarely spurred in me much emotion. But on Saturday, as I read about Army soldiers and Marines who are fleeing to Canada to escape more tours in the Iraq war, I was really sad. As I sat reflecting, for once not on my own experiences here in Costa Rica but on the rest of the world, something shiny on the table caught my eye. It was a United States of America keychain, most likely a gift from a former volunteer. The keychain has an outer silver ring, and within the ring is a round American flag that can be spun around. I flicked the flag with my finger and was thankful for the three-month diversion of culture shock and change. I miss a lot of things from the United States -- my family, my friends, my new nephew, The Hills, but I don't miss living in a country that is at war.

Tuesday I left school after two classes. I felt sick at my stomach, probably because I ate my lunch of rice and beans at 9:30 a.m., earlier even than the famous early lunches of my former managing editor. I came home early to writhe with stomachache until it got too hot to writhe. Then I started to go back to school where it is a little cooler, but when I walked around the corner of the house and saw the kids lined up at the pulperia window, my stomach started to hurt a little again; I went back inside.

The next day one of the other teachers at the school, Felix, offered to massage my arms in order to relieve the pain in my stomach. One minute I was perfectly fine and the next minute I was in the worst pain of my life. Felix searched for and found some tender spot in my arm, near my elbow, and he mashed on it with all his might. Then he did the same to the other arm. I was literally in tears. He explained the significance of all this mashing and pain, but I didn't understand much of it. Something about una pega, which he says I most definitely have in my stomach. I looked pega up in the dictionary, but it just says, "pitch; sticking, gluing. 2. coll. practical joke, trick. 3. catch question (in an examination); 4. de pega: sham, worthless."

Aside from the persistent mild illness, which may or may not have been a worthless sham, things have gotten better for me here. There've been no gooey eye infections or greedy parasites or cases of grippe bringing me down (at least not at the time of writing). I can sort of understand what's going on around me and can, at times, contribute to conversations without taking up half the day digging through a dictionary.

Also, my host mom is suddenly all friendly, maybe because the family finally got paid for the first two months of hosting me. The Costa Rican government is running a bit late on its payments, mine included, but it has more things to worry about than whether I'm getting my stipend or not. More than half of the high school teachers are on strike. My host sisters haven't had classes in more than a month. I don't really understand the reason for the strike, but I secretly wish the elementary school teachers would strike for a week or two, too, so I can sleep in like my host sisters do.

Note: Since the time of writing I have learned that there is a meeting Friday of elementary teachers to determine if they will strike or not.

The other day my host dad invited me along as he drove some hikers to Parque Internacional de Amistad, which is way far up the mountain. We almost got struck by lightning. I thought the strike and boom seemed awfully close, but no one else in the car seemed bothered by it. But when we got home, the first thing my host sister did was tell my host mom how we all almost died. I read in the newspaper (yes, in Spanish) the other day about a boy who got struck by lightning while he was riding his bike in Buenos Aires, the town where I use the Internet. I also saw on the news where a woman was eaten alive by a crocodile. One minute she was rinsing her feet off in the river, and the next minute she was fast food. What a way to go.

I almost got run over by a herd of cows. I was walking like I always do down the middle of the road on my daily run/walk. I had my headphones on, listening to music in English and pondering how while there were lots of cows and pigs and such where I lived in the United States, I never really saw many of them up close except for at the county fair. Here, I was thinking, there are always farm animals everywhere. The horses just roam around free most of the time, serving as municipal groundskeepers. Once I looked out the window of the bus on my ride home from Buenos Aires and saw a cow giving birth in a pasture near the road.

So I was walking, deep in thought about farm animals and bouncing to the American beat when I heard some frantic cries from behind me. I turned to see, as if to prove my point, a herd of cows coming straight at me. There were two vaqueros behind the herd yelling for me to get the hell out of the way. I did and the cows rambled on past me, swerving a bit when they got close to me. Two more cowboys were coming towards me with four more cows, two mamas and two calves. The two herds passed each other without incident, but I heard one cowboy yell to the other, "Watch out for the American!"

Oh, and I fell in love last week, too. This happened simultenously with getting a second job. He's a Tico named Leo and owns some sort of English institute in San Isidro, a somewhat nearby town. He teaches classes there but wants to expand to outlying towns where there are a lot of people but no access to English classes. At first he planned to teach the classes in my town himself, but later he offered the job to me, saying it is better that the students have a native English teacher. That and it's a long trip from San Isidro. I'll work for less money than it would take to pay for the gas necessary for him to drive. The reason I fell in love with him, though, is that he speaks very good English, lived in Alabama and can do a wonderful impression of rednecks.

Note: I am using the word "love" very loosely. I only met the guy once.

Things at school are still going well. There is an evolution happening, though. I used to hate, hate, hate all of my third graders, but suddenly they are my best-behaved, most lovable students. The first graders are better, too. I get them first thing in the morning now, when they are still too asleep to give me many problems. My fifth-graders, on the other hand, the ones I used to love with all my heart (again, using the term loosely), now just stare at me blankly and flunk all their tests. Oh, and I have a new student in sixth grade. She's maybe 18 years old. She dropped out of school several years ago when she had a baby. Now she's back, determined to finish grade school. She keeps a framed photo of her baby on her desk during class.

I'll be back at the Internet tomorrow, so check back for more.