Costa Rica 2019: Zipping Into a Deep Dive

As of today, we have been back from the Puravida Adventure* for a full week. So why have I not been filling your feeds with pictures of intrepid zipliners who (Oh, gosh!) just happen to be posing in front of a volcano?

So many reasons, but perhaps chief among them is the sentiment I posted on Facebook just before we boarded the plane that began the return trip from Costa Rica to Kansas: "I'm ready to be home, but I'm not ready to not be here." Because, oh, people, this was the trip you dream of when you dream big.

It was big in an actual, measurable way. Check out the picture above. You will note that I, a tall woman who has been in the back row of pictures since second grade, am the shortest in our traveling party. Lovely Girl#2 looks down on me from a couple of inches, Husband hovers around 6' even, and Boys#2 and #4 each claim 6'4" or so, so we may  have been the most vertically-gifted traveling party in the nation during those 10 days.

But it was also big in the sense that every single variable that could have gone our way actually went our way. In the next few days I'm going to be pulling out some specific topics to oooh and aaaaah about, but for today, let me just say that if we would have had Boys#1 and #3 and Lovely Girl#1 with us, this would have been the most perfect trip in the history of vacations. (Those three are adults, with actual paying jobs, and I am thrilled about that, but sad that those same work schedules didn't lend themselves to October vacations.)

Here's one example of how the vacation gods cared for us: We went to Costa Rica during the rainy season (optimistically christened "Green Season" by the local travel board). Because I lived there during my 3-plus years in the Peace Corps, I knew rainy season is not a myth but is often manageable. Husband did not know this, and for the month before we left my beloved insisted on pulling out his weather app every single day to show me: "Look! It's going to be raining in Guanacaste every day." And  I would patiently remind him, "Yes, it's the rainy season. It will rain every day. But there's a good chance we'll get at least some sunshine every day, even if your app isn't showing that."

Finally, with two weeks to trip time (at the point that all of our reservations were non-refundable), I stopped him as he pulled out his phone.

"I know rain  is forecast for Guanacaste. I know that. You  have told me that several times, and if you tell me again I will be forced to grab that phone out of your hand, throw it on the floor, and stomp on it 800 times. I cannot control the weather, and even if all we do is sit in our AirBnB and read books and watch our luggage mold, WE WILL HAVE A GREAT TIME."

Ahem.

I was a little stressed at that point, is what I'm saying, with the eight gajillion things I could not control. But do you know what?

The weather was gorgeous. We ziplined in full sun, with the clouds blowing away from the top of Volcano Arena to give a perfectly unimpeded view of the jagged peak. We walked around the town where I had lived and popped into the bakery without carrying our umbrellas, and although we did go to the beach on the one full-on-rainy day, we knew a warm tropical rain is perfectly fine when you're going to be getting wet anyway.

And Husband, who is sensitive and reasonable, had not mentioned the forecast again so he wasn't forced to scramble to get a new phone.

So today's post is just to let you know that we've gone and are home, and our Costa Rica trip was, well, WE HAD A GREAT TIME.


*Puravida is the all-purpose Costa Rican word that means Great! Super! All Good! Hello! Good-bye! Literally it means "pure life," but who remembers that?

Hey! Look at Us!

I'm not the kind of person who likes to be in wacky photos. If you see me in a picture where all around me attention-grabbing poses are being struck, you can immediately pick me out as the one who is standing stock-still, mortified and motionless.

But look! That's me up there on the escalator, third up on the left side, waving so extravagantly that my right hand is a Bionic Woman-ish blur. Also, I'm wearing an enormous fabric sunflower and a shirt with a design that includes embroidered ruby slippers. Now I'm not a shrinking violet, but this kind of exuberant extroversion is not usually in my roundhouse.

Apparently it takes being with 6,000 of my closest friends to put me in that kind of mood.

For the past five days I've been at the international convention of P.E.O., a philanthropic organization that supports educational opportunities for women of all ages. We raise and give away (or loan) money to women who are new high school graduates, women who need more education to reach their career goals, women who are earning advanced graduate degrees, and women from other countries who are studying for doctoral degrees in the United States. And if that isn't enough, we also own a women's college that attracts great undergraduates from all over the world.

P.E.O. has distributed more than $344 million worth of educational assistance to over 109,000 women, and last week I attended its 150th birthday party.

Now it may have been just the sugar rush from all the desserts they were feeding us (Birthday cake for thousands! Yes, please!) but I'm convinced my uncharacteristic joie de vivre was generated by the knowledge that this group does such great things. You can't help but be impressed by one of our assisted students who has used a P.E.O. scholarship as a springboard to attend medical school and plans to go back to her poverty-stricken hometown to practice. Or a doctoral student from a England who points to a personal tragedy as the impetus for her study of women's issues.

This group is a sisterhood, and I'm not going to deny that there are occasional sibling squabbles (although, oddly, the fact that the entire Kansas delegation dressed alike one day didn't provoke any "you're always wearing my clothes" outbursts). But I feel completely confident in saying that we left the convention feeling upbeat about the work we're doing, and determined to do more.

Beyonce may claim that girls run the world, but they are going to need education to do it right. And  having just watched that video for the first time I would also say that they're going to need more a more thoughtfully selected wardrobe. Obviously she should be wearing a black knit jumpsuit as she rides that rearing steed; white is completely impractical in this situation. Of course, that is  coming from someone who just showed the internet a picture of herself wearing a ruby-slipper-encrusted shirt.

Okay, ignore the fashion advice. Just watch me waving wildly and appreciate the organization that prompted that enthusiasm.

Women deserve no less.

Pura Vida

Volcano Arenal in 1979.

I almost didn't see this.

Back in 1978, I was a young college graduate. I loved the small town where for two years I had been a cub reporter on the county-wide newspaper. I loved my job, which was entirely made up of talking to interesting people and writing stories about those interesting people. I loved my friends and my church and my Army-green Ford Maverick. I was renting a cute house and had my own piano and furniture. If I'd been married, or even had a dog, I probably would have stayed there forever. 

I was 24 years old, though, and something inside me wanted an adventure. One day I was agonizing over this dilemma to a friend who was married (with kids, and a dog).

"So let me get this straight," she said to me. "You're going to live your life, and get to be old, and you're going to tell your grandkids 'I really wanted to do something cool, but I had a house full of second-hand furniture'?"

Within a few weeks I had quit my job and stored the few pieces of furniture I wanted to keep in the back of my grandmother's garage.  A couple of months later I was a Peace Corps volunteer living in Costa Rica at the base of the volcano you see above.

That sounds much more primitive than it actually was: I was renting a room with a family in a medium-sized town, and that family took me in as if I was one of their own four kids. I was the same age as the oldest daughter, and although I could not have been more different from them in looks (I was taller, wider, and blonder than any of them) I felt like one of the family.

It was the perfect adventure for someone of my timid nature and fear of creepy-crawlies, and I fell in love with that family and that country and that time of life.

Costa Ricans have a phrase they use at any opportunity: Pura vida. It means "pure life," and can be used to respond to almost any question, as long as the answer gives you pleasure.

How are you today? Pura vida. How was that fresh pineapple? Pura vida. What's the outlook for the future? Pura vida.

My Peace Corps experience was pure life, with the usual ups and downs of life accentuated in an unfamiliar environment that soon became home. I loved the musical accents of Tico Spanish as much as I loved the beaches and friendly Ticos and fresh fruit and well, so many things I can't list them.

When I left Costa Rica in 1982 I assumed I'd be back yearly for the rest of my life. Instead I've been back only twice--once with the whole family in 2001, and again with Husband for a long weekend in 2004. That second visit was so brief that I couldn't even visit "my" family.

Then a few weeks ago Boy#2 and his Lovely Girl decided to celebrate their first anniversary with a trip, and invited us to celebrate along with them. Their destination? Costa Rica. I managed to keep from shrieking out loud at the invitation.

Husband and I will spend a few days with my other family there, then join Two, LG#2, and Boy#4 for several more days in the country I adopted decades ago.

Next month we'll be at the foot of the volcano again.

Pura vida.

We Were in the Room Where It Happened

Boy#4, MQB, Boy #3. And some unnamed statue.

In the 48 hours since I posted this photo on my Facebook page, I've been asked perhaps two dozen times what I thought of Hamilton, and I've replied with perhaps two dozen different answers.

Unbelievable.

Rave, rave, rave, rave, rave.

Best money I've ever spent.

And while that last review was a bit of an exaggeration (there's a lot of competition for that title) I can say without hesitation that I do not regret a penny of the not-insignificant expense or a minute of the five hours we drove to the venue.

For years I had listened first to the buzz, then to the soundtrack, then to the friends who had seen a live performance of Hamilton. So when the traveling production came to Boy#4's city and he and Boy#3 invited Husband and me to join them for a Sunday matinee, I didn't hesitate. Yes, I wanted to go. Husband, who prefers a good TCM festival to rapped history, decided on a trip to Lowe's instead.

From the moment the first note was sung I felt my face split into a grin that was almost painfully large. During the next three hours I was amazed, thrilled, irritated (high school girls who love soundtracks should be segregated in a soundproof booth rather than seated behind crabby old me who doesn't want to hear them sing along), and was reminded that live theatre is a special kind of magic.

What kind of mind can conceive of and complete this opera, where every word of dialogue is rapped? What kind of artist devises the choreography that supports the music so seamlessly that it feels like part of your own imagination? How can this be so intricate but seem so effortless?

The night before I had been at the keyboard when the our community theatre presented its final performance of Shrek. Community theatre is filled with people I know and love, and the production has been so much fun. When it comes to artistic or technical brilliance, though, it is not on the same level as what is perhaps the greatest musical ever written.

But at the end of Shrek the cast, made up of my friends and the neighbors' kids and the lady who makes the doughnuts, spilled out into the audience and sang the final song. As they filled the little theatre with the joy of "I'm a Believer" I looked past the keyboard to see a couple of teenagers dancing with an abandon my muscles immediately remembered from half a century ago.

It's the same way I know I'll never forget my sudden tears when Lafayette and Hamilton sang "Immigrants! They get the job done!" and the Hamilton audience broke into applause.

Live theatre does that. The history, the love stories, the conflict and resolution--it's the emotional muscle memory of our lives, and we're in the room when it happens.

Did You Pronounce This Pot-Purry?

The taste of summer

Believe it or not, we are in a brief moment of my life when I have not much to overshare on the internet. (Hello, July!) I am happy, age-appropriately healthy, and my children are not doing much to inspire me to violate their privacy in a way that would attract the attention of Cambridge Analytica*. My time is being occupied by (badly) accompanying the local community theatre's latest production, and by (badly) sewing up some curtains for the spare bedroom's facelift. Neither of these is going well enough for me to blog, which is amazing since I blogged my heart attack so apparently that was going well.

But when I have a dearth of recent observations, I tend to turn for inspiration to whatever is on my phone's photo file. They could be filed in the category I pronounced as Pot-Purry before I started watching Jeopardy and became educated.

Here, in no particular order, are the things that have caused me to pull out my trusty iCamera:

1. Caprese salad, which is seen above. Oh, my, heavens. I do not even calculate the WW (the lifesaving organization formerly known as Weight Watcher) points for this magical melding of mozzarella, farmer's market tomatoes, and local basil. It is the taste of summer, and even Weight Watchers WW cannot deny me summer.

Adorable August

2. Every year my Much Older Sister's Christmas gift to her siblings is a calendar that features vintage and current pictures of our extended family. I love this gift more than you can imagine but as I turned the page to August this week I was struck by three features of this picture taken in front of the family home when we were 13, 12, 8, 4, and 2 years old respectively. First, I was quite sure in that moment in my life that I was destined to be the Fat Lady In The Circus. My self-image was that I was grossly obese, even though looking at this picture I realize I was a perfectly average size. Hmmm. Booo, Teen magazine. Second, just how stylin' were my younger brothers? Hubba-hubba bubbas, for sure. That spiffy plaid jacket was especially fetchin'. Finally, the cute centerpiece of this is now the the world's most beautiful grandmother. How did we ever get to be old enough for me to make that statement?

3. Finally, since I'm now retired I'm kinda-sorta looking for ways to earn yarn money, which is the money I would spend on yarn if it did not seem such a frivolous use of retirement funds. This job search isn't serious, but I did take an online aptitude test to see if maybe I'm overlooking potential opportunities. And because the internet does not lie, I now know that the way I will be earning my yarn money is as a (drumroll, please) SINGER. Yes. The internet does not lie, but it apparently is tone deaf, because no. And if I move to my second choice of new careers, that would be as an athletic agent. Hahahahaha! Internet, you stupid.

Okay, off to practice musical accompaniment and sew some curtains. I may do those badly, but not nearly as badly as I would do the next eight things the internet thinks I should do.




*Side note: If you have not yet watched The Great Hack on Netflix, close this browser and open your Netflix account in order to be transfixed and frightened.

It's MOM Already!

Marie Antoinette does not approve. 

So here's the takeaway wisdom from today's post:

Time flies when you're getting old.

It is MOM (Medical Overshare Monday) again, already. It seems only yesterday that I was regaling you with stories of my wonky shoulder, then heralding the miraculous healing powers of physical therapy (honestly, miraculous), and with a short break to talk about how wonderful my family is and how much fun grown-up children are, we're back to me, me, always me and my failing infrastructure.

If you check today's picture you'll notice that even Marie Antoinette looks disapproving at how much upkeep my corpus is needing, even though Marie's head pops off when you push the button on the back of her neck and she really shouldn't be all judgy-judgy about my meds. Up until a couple of years ago I was able to list my prescriptions on one line at the doctor's office (thyroid supplement and thank you, Mom, for that faulty gene) and my over-the-counters on one additional line (multivitamin).

Then came the discovery of clotting issues (that faulty gene was yours, Dad) and a lifetime prescription for blood thinners.

This week's addition to my ever-growing list of medicines came after a routine bone scan ordered following my annual check-up. I joked about it at breakfast, since the only risk factor I had for thinning bones was my status as a Woman of a Certain Age.

"No way this is a problem," I told Husband. "I'm a big-boned, overweight, dairy farmer's granddaughter with impeccable sin habits. No sir, I don't smoke and I don't chew and I don't kiss the boys who do, heh-heh-heh."

The universe picked up on that heh-heh-heh and the next morning the doctor's office called, because of course they did.

Osteoporosis, with a prescription for twice-daily calcium tables, once-weekly bone strengthener, and five-times-weekly 30-minute walks.

I asked if this was a severe case, and the medical assistant explained patiently that osteoporosis is a number on a scale, and once you pass that number you have it. It's like pregnancy--no such thing as being a little pregnant.

So to recap: In a short two years I have gone from being able to list all my medicines on one line to having a spreadsheet that enumerates not only the names of the medicines but also the times at which they should be taken (morning, evening, once/day, twice/day, once/week), plus the special instructions (remind pharmacy of coupon or be ready for sticker shock, take with water only and don't lie down for following 30 minutes, take with food, etc.).

As I was whining to my brother about this sad state of affairs, he reminded me that our dairy-farming grandmother lived to be 98, even with the osteoporosis she passed down to me.

"Aren't you glad you're alive now, when they're catching this really early and treating it aggressively?" he said.

Well, yes, there is that. I bet Marie Antoinette wishes there had been some way to remove that button from the back of her neck, and also to fix the arm that is held on with Scotch tape after I dropped her one day.

I'm thankful for the treatments, and that my faulty calcium usage was caught way early, but enough for now. I'm hoping the next Medical Overshare Monday is a long, long time in the future. 

What It's Like

Mothers of younger-than-adult children sometimes ask me what it's like to have all of my grown-up, out-of-the-house, earning-their-own-salaries children back in the nest for a few days. (No, they don't really ask that. I'm just saying they do because I imagine they are asking it in their minds.)

The picture above actually sums it up quite well: I asked the Boys to pose outside the Fancy Restaurant where we celebrated my retirement, and that's Boy#2 poking Boy#3 in the ribs and making him laugh, while Boy#4 grins at the camera, and Boy#1 is obviously waiting patiently for the chaos to subside. I am behind my phone saying "Oh, for heaven's SAKE! STOP THAT!"

So in short, in spite of those receding hairlines and professional certifications and graduate degrees, much of the time it's what it's always been: Like dealing with a pack of puppies in need of house training. But there are also other moments during the week of retirement festivities that remind me (again) how much fun it is to be the mother of grown-ups.

This week is the perfect time for any home projects that have been deferred for lack of manpower.  We're having professionals re-do our pathetic backyard, which is currently made up almost entirely of dirt and failure. The pros were going to charge $X.XX to replace two buried pipes between the downspouts and the driveway, though, so Husband decided to take advantage of all the muscle in the house to lower the cost estimate. Included in the photo above are two engineers, one of whom is an actual professional engineer who designs pipeline systems for a living but was thwarted in his argument that "I'm the manager--I don't have to dig." Ha! Not so fast, professional engineer, and grab a shovel. (When he found out how little the lawn folks would have charged to replace the pipe, the PE snorted that next time he would bring a crisp $100 bill to buy his way out of the job.)

Whether you're a child or an adult, being together on the Fourth of July means you get sparklers and spark-pooping chickens and the like, even if you're of an age to overrule your mother's fear of the more robust fireworks. 

Midway through the week is the perfect time to take a generational break and give the young'uns some time to reflect on the crazy that their parents have become. A river float trip is just the right venue, as long as you send an occasional photo as proof of life. This also is an excellent time to do the idiot things your mother would find, well, idiotic. ("How about we jump off this fallen log into the rain-swollen river?" "GREAT idea!") Do not tell your mother about this until later.

This kind of celebration  is the best time for complete abandonment of any dietary restrictions, and when Lovely Girl#1 says she has bought way too many cookies, you must prove her wrong, especially if they are MomQueenBee themed! You'll notice that I am in danger of becoming that overly-thematically-appropriate crazy lady, what with my bee cookie and my bee shirt. Have I mentioned I have a beehive dress? I also have a beehive dress.

But maybe the best part of the week is when everyone is lined up in the same church pew, filling it a little more snugly than when they were toddlers but now able to listen more. The dress code appears to be blue, and I know I shouldn't have been taking a picture during church but I couldn't help myself.

Mothers of younger kids, hang in there during the sleepless nights and need for constant vigilance and refusal to eat any foods that aren't white. Much as we miss them when they're not around, having grown-up, out-of-the-house, earning-their-own-salaries children back in the nest is simply the best stage of all.