Not even close

I love tamales, especially the Mexican kind that are a little spicy, made of god only knows what and wrapped in corn husks then stored in a coffee can for fresh keeping. When I was a kid, some guy used to come around selling them. That and shrimp.

They make tamales here, too, usually as a fundraiser – the equivalent of our bake sale. The parents of a particular class will get together, make tamales, then sell them for money to pay for various things at the school.

Note: Because the government has yet to pay me or my host family our monthly stipends, my host mom and I often joke about making tamales to raise money for ourselves.

The other morning when I got to school, I saw apron-clad women in the school’s outside kitchen (which is now also a classroom) and I knew it was a tamale day. And I love tamale days.

The tamales here are made of rice (of course) and filled usually with chicken or pork, then wrapped in palm leaves and cooked in a big pot over an open fire. They aren’t quite as good as the Mexican ones, but with a cup of coffee in the afternoon, they pretty much make my day.

It’s very important here tamales only be eaten with a cup of coffee, either in the afternoon or in the morning. Eating a tamale with a meal is horrible crime of etiquette. I should know. I ate a tamale with my lunch the first week I was here. Later, someone pulled me aside and politely informed me not to let it happen again.

At the time, I didn’t really see the big deal. I mean, the people here serve pasta AND potatoes AND rice all in one meal; talk about bad food etiquette. But now I can’t imagine eating a tamale with a meal. There are some things you just don’t do.

Today I saw a commercial for cold medicine. There was a crowd cheering on a guy who was riding a stationary bicycle outside in a track suit. When he was all hot and sweaty, he jumped off the bike, stripped down to shorts and a T-shirt and sank into a tub of ice water. I didn’t get the connection to cold medicine.

My host sister explained that in Costa Rica, the people believe that going from hot to cold or cold to hot makes a person sick. They would never iron clothes barefooted because a hot iron in one hand mixed with feet touching a cold floor would be a sure recipe for illness.

Seems strange to me, but so once did the tamale rule. This culture and I are becoming buddies, finally, I suppose.

Still, after five months here, I´ve learned that I’ll never, ever, ever really fit in. People will always be suspicious of me, always looking for some way to shove me into their stereotypes of American women – endlessly rich, sexually loose and easily taken advantage of.

Even if I stop taking cold showers after I run and continue to avoid tamales at meal time, I’ll always be just another gringa.