A Long Expected Journey
The night before I left was far from sad. As prompt as my departure would be, that knowledge did not seem to spoil the energy of the night. Not a bit of unease lingered in the humid summer air. Rather, laughter mixed with words of hope and good fortune whirled around the front porch of our home, joining the mosquitoes and puffs of tobacco; an ambience that very closely resembled a particular evening shared by a wizard and a hobbit in another world. My father and I had not the skills advanced enough for smoke rings, not to mention pirate ships, but nonetheless, readiness for adventure stirred within me, and the stress of the next twenty four hours was yet to be realized.
At 4:00am the following day, I was packed and ready. A hearty breakfast was prepared and shared. Before driving to the bus station I checked the weight of my luggage one last time. To everyone's surprise, I managed to pack more clothing than I needed, nine beers, a 200 ft slackline, a tent, and a spikeball set all while ensuring that the bag remained below fifty pounds. But most important was my travel punch, in which I held my passport, 200,000 Costa Rican Colones and my COVID-19 vaccination information.
In the year leading up to this day, I had been accepted to various universities, each for a different degree; Anthropology, Ecology, Modern Languages and Outdoor Leadership. But it was clear to me that I was not ready to make a decision on what to study in college, I had to explore my seemingly endless curiosity first. A number of different plans were crafted at the drawing board before I settled on a direction; at 18 years old I was going to move to Costa Rica. My occupation would be that of a volunteer on a biological reserve until I found a job that would pay under the table. My goals? To learn Spanish, gain experience in environmental conservation, and embrace the discomforts of life in a context far from familiar to that of my upbringing.
In the O’hare Airport, forty five minutes before my plane was scheduled to take off, it was finally my turn to check my bag after waiting in line for two hours. The gentleman at the desk asked for my passport, my health form, health insurance, and my covid-vaccination papers. Check, check, check and check. Then he asked for the date of my return. My heartbeat quickened. I had not purchased a return ticket. I was not planning to return any time soon.
“Sometime towards the end of december” I responded, keeping in mind that my tourist visa was only good for 90 days. I was too nervous to do the exact math.
“Like the 20th?”
“Sure.”
Tick tick bip tip, click. “Very good, all set!”
I accepted my boarding pass with a quick sigh of relief and was on my way. After another anxious wait to pass through security, I ran about a quarter mile to my gate, hoping to arrive with just enough time to board. Fortunately, and to my surprise, boarding had not even begun yet.
My one-way-ticket was very cheap. Firstly because I was headed to Costa Rica during the rainy season, when fewer tourists go. But also because I had a 9 hour layover in Tacumen Airport in Panama City.
I had forgotten to download podcasts, the airport wifi in Panama wasn’t free. I tried to read in order to distract my mind, but the possibility of troubles in customs once I would arrive in Costa Rica held my thoughts hostage and reading became impossible. Not only did I not have a return ticket, but my flight was to arrive by 10:15p.m an hour after the city curfew, which had been put in place since the beginning of the pandemic. The only people permitted on the road after 9:00pm were taxi drivers, police officers, and those with special permission due to occupation or other responsibilities and obligations. My friends in San Jose however, insisted upon breaking curfew, to pick me up for the airport, to avoid being dramatically overcharged by taxis drivers.
An automated message reminding travelers to social distance, avoid sitting or laying on the floors, and to wash one's hands frequently was played over the loudspeaker every five minutes. “Tacumen te cuida!” (Tacumen looks after you) always concludes the message as if to mock my anxieties.
After what seemed like an eternity, finally, I followed the other travelers through the empty tape maze towards the immigration officers at the airport in San Jose. I stepped up to the counter, delivered my passport and health form, and politely greeted the officer.
“Buenas tardes.”
“Ingles o espanol?” he responded.
“Ingles please.” I was too stressed to try understanding Spanish.
“Do you have your return plane ticket?” My heart sank to my stomach.
“Ugh… I didn’t… I’m not..” I scrambled for my words. “I’m going home yet, well… after Costa Rica… I’m going to Panama… I’m going to be volunteering here!”
“So in 90 days you will leave Costa Rica, go to Panama to renew your visa and then come back?”
“Yes, exactly. I’m going to be volunteering for a while!”
“Te digo algo joven, It is not illegal, and many people do it but I need to go ask about this, wait here.”
He left his station and exited into a back room. I was panicking. I felt dizzy, and my legs nearly forgot their responsibility to hold me up. I couldn't go back. Not after all that traveling and all the expenses.
Upon his return, he sat down at his desk, took off his mask, looked me in the eyes and said, “So this is what is going to happen, you have to go back to the chicago. You will sleep here,” pointing behind him where he had earlier disappeared, “and in the morning you go back.”
“Well, can’t I buy my ticket for December right now?” My voice was hoarse with fear, and worry.
“No, listen, when you get to the desk, you need to have your passport and your return ticket, I’m sorry, you have to go back”
“But I have the papers to prove it. I'm going to be a volunteer, I’ve been here before, I love Costa Rica! My friend is out there waiting for me!”
“Your friend is from Costa Rica?”
“Yes”
“You have his phone number?”
“Yes, yes, one sec,” I responded, looking for Luis’ contact on my dying phone. I showed the officer Luis’ number. He dialed it, the phone rang, and Luis answered. I didn’t understand a word of the conversation. Every once in a while the officer would stop and ask me a question. “How long were you in Costa Rica the first time?” and “When did you first travel to Costa Rica?” “where did you stay?”.
“Ah bueno, bueno, gracias,” concluded the officer as he hung up the phone. He turned to me, looked me in the eyes again and said, “You’re scared! You are so innocent boy! I believe you. Your face is too innocent”
Cha chunk! “Welcome Back,” he said, stamping my passport.
I could barely say gracias. The Officer escorted me to collect my luggage and then through security. There I was briefly stopped because they detected liquid in my bag. I opened it up, showed them the cervezas I brought and was waved on.
As I exited the airport and passed the paparazzi of taxi drivers, I spotted Luis and Alexis on the sidewalk in front of the airport parking garage. I ran and embraced both of them. None of us could believe what had just happened. The Immigration officer followed me and approached Luis. The two changed a few words and the officer dismissed all of our thanks. He then patted my shoulder, tapped the brow of my cap, chuckled, and returned inside.
Luis immediately began explaining to me the entire conversation he had with the officer. I learned that the officer's first words on the call were; “What you say will determine whether or not you bail out your friend”. Luis had conveyed my entire story to the officer. He told him how we had met two years prior through a highschool exchange program. How I fell in love with Costa Rica, the Spanish language. He confirmed my intentions to be a volunteer for the next six months and gave him the names of my contacts in the south pacific side of the country.
In response, the officer told Luis his own story…
Costa Rica disbanded the country’s army back in 1949. With no military, a highly operative armed police force was established for national security, controlling borders, leading operations against drug trafficking, and general policing. The officer didn’t specify his exact duty, but told Luis that before working as airport security he was a part of such operations. He said that the ugliness he saw over the years hardened him and that things he had done haunted him. He said he saw honesty in my eyes and it was confirmed by Luis. The day I was traveling, September 20, happened to be the officer's birthday and as an attempt to correct the wrong and the ugly that he had participated in, he wanted to do something good that day. With no other reason, without knowing me, he allowed me to enter the country without the required documents.
All three of us were in shock. The reality of what happened didn’t hit me until after the forbidden drive in the empty streets of San José, and we made it up to my friends’ apartment. From the Balcony on one of the topmost floors of the apartment complex, I could see the entire Central Valley lit up with dark towering volcanoes in the distance. I laughed in disbelief. The spectacular scene declared my inconceivable arrival.
La Nostalgia Española
I am fortunate to have spent the majority of my studious Spanish sojourn in the city of Granada, where the streets of El Albaicín and the halls of La Alhambra animate and perpetuate the romance of historic Arabian Spain. It’s now been over a year since my return from Europe and I sit tapping away retrospectively at my keys, watching my embellished memories spell themselves out on the page, for there is perhaps no greater form of reminiscence than literary articulation.
It was a time of grand adventure and quiet studies; of familiar comfort, and enticing novelty; where strangers became friends and friends became family, bonded by our brief and unpredictable union at the hands of time and chance.
But where to begin? On the cold desolate mountain stops, or on the warm Mediterranean coast? Perhaps in the home of my generous hosts, or in the classrooms of the Center for Modern Languages which led me to Spain in the first place? I think not. It may be best not to begin with one specific occurrence at all, but rather a passage of evening events which, by the end, had become standard routine.
As the shadows of the city stretched east and the busyness of the daylight hours had come to rest, myself and several fellow students would make our way through the Albaicín up to San Miguel Alto to catch the sunset over the rugged desert beyond the city. Offering the most magnificent view in the entire region (possibly in the entire world) not one night comes to pass at San Miguel without the liveliness of diverse human presence; everyone eager to be cast into reverie by the impossible scene before them only imaginable in fantasy and fairytale. With the snow capped Sierra Nevada mountains set ablaze in the east by the orange glow of the setting sun, it is the only setting fit to host the verdant gardens of the Generalife, and the stoic palace of the ancient Moorish kings; La Alhambra, which together stand perfectly postured on a hill over the city, in the heart of the panoramic. It occurs to me now, long afterwards, that every individual who finds themself lucky enough to witness such a place, in fact participates in its spirit. For what purpose does beauty serve without sensation to experience it and consciousness to call it so?
As the night darkened to a navy haze, we would stay to watch the floodlights declare the Alhabra’s powerful position over Granada before descending from the lookout. Then, passing back through the Albaicín yet again, the yellow street lights challenged the sharp angles and narrow streets of the Arab architecture and the old city became a labyrinth of shadows and highlights; stark and irregular. We meandered through the maze in awe and without haste. However, the inevitable retreat for libations and a seat would soon ensue, as it always did.
Hours later, empty rounds and plates containing crumbs of what once were tapas laid disorderly across the table. A couple members of the company leaned deep into their seats while others nudged mugs to one side, making room for elbows over which leaned attentive countenances as the common laughter, swigs of beer, and lighthearted dialog yielded to more nuanced topics of conversation. A table of students from a number of different countries often made for quality discussion but before the night was over, of course, our diverse young crowd was always back to laughter. Then, exiting the bar with our bellies full and our souls satisfied by the sustenance of socializing, we would part ways and return by foot to wherever each of us temporarily called home.
It seems absurd to me now that I could have ever become accustomed to life in Granada; that any day could have been less than extraordinary. I am certain there were days in which I took for granted the splendor of my circumstances. A wondrous time it was indeed, but no matter where one finds themself and whatever their occupation may be, the ups and downs of human existence and mundane moments of life persist. Nevertheless, memory makes magicians of us all, and any reminder of Spain will forever send me floating through my own mind lost in an enchanted nostalgia.
