Costa Rica

Touched down on American soil via San Jose to Atlanta to Boston Sunday night. After three flying, climbing months in Monteverde, it felt appropriate to come home. Appropriate and rational and exciting in it's own right, but still difficult.

My departure from Costa Rica was a manic conclusion - my mood pendulum swung me from sobbing on my extra narrow twin bed in Yuri's house, to hysterically careening through the jungle on a canopy zip-line tour with my family. I departed Monteverde after tearfully packing my belongings, surrounded by my CR "brothers" mumbling and stumbling around my luggage, not quite sure how to react to my swollen eyes and soaked expression. The goodbyes were exhausting - the kind of exercise that left me tired and aching for many days.

Prior to bidding (temporary?) farewell to a place and people that held me safe and happy for three months, I boarded a bus and surprised my family in San Jose. From the hotel cafe, I watched Mom, Dad and Karyn deboard the taxi from the airport..."Bienvenidos a Costa Rica". I couldn't wait to show them this country! We settled in and enjoyed some drinks on the hotel patio, gearing up for our trip up the mountain tomorrow morning.

After spending the morning discussing, debating, and haggling fares with San Jose taxis, we identified a private microbus willing to take us the four hours north up the mountain to Monteverde for a reasonable rate. We arrived in my special mountain town around 3pm on Saturday. Despite countless warnings about the poor road condition; the windy, narrow unpaved passes, and the steep, dizzying ascent to the town center, my family was in disbelief for the majority of the ride. After checking into the hotel, we walked the two minutes to the Suarez household and met mi familia costariccense. We spent the next two days sharing gifts, taking photos, enjoying meals, ice cream, tours of school/Monteverde, and always amusing conversation with the boys and Yuri. There is a reason why we all bonded so well and so quickly - How fortunate to be part of two families where there is so much love and laughter. Stay tuned for a Suarez/Pollenz family reunion in MA for summer 2007!!

Besides the Suarez family - the heart of my happiness in Monteverde, I introduced my family to my favorite hangouts (Taberna and Bar Amigos), my favorite restaurant (Sophias), my school, my cloud forest hike, and many of my friends. It was an active couple of days. After Monteverde, we headed to Arenal via jeep-boat-jeep. We took a van to Lake Arenal, crossed the lake in a 20 seat covered boat, boarding from a deserted length of shore, and arrived at Tabacon; a beautiful resort with post card views of Volcano Arenal, garden lined pools and hot springs, soft white robes, and sushi buffets. It was a giant, disorienting leap from my standard of living for the past three months. Disorienting - but not enough to prevent me from hungrily gorging on two blissful days of lounging poolside with pina coladas, feasting on fresh seafood, wine, and an unlimited dessert bar, strolling through hot springs to nightly happy hours under the stars...it's amazing how much joy can be "charged to the room". Arenal was a perfect mix of R&R and sweaty adventure. The four of us went on a zip-line canopy tour which had mom shrieking, dad stalling mid-wire, and Karyn and I hanging from our feet. We spent two nights salsa-ing, having fortuitously stumbled upon some local dance talent in the area. Antonio and Esteban were tireless on the dance floor and Karyn I twirled home well past last call (perhaps in time for early bird breakfast) both nights. Mom and Dad even joined us for a night at the discoteque.

After Arenal, we headed to Montezuma - the sunkissed, sleepy beachtown where we made ourselves at home for three full days of beach lounging and good eating. Albeit the clear, mid-80 degree sunfilled days, I think even amidst storms we would have warmed up to happy hour at Ylang Ylang and fresh seafood dinners at Cocolores. We started our mornings with "Beaten of Fruits", aka. Pineapple smoothies, and ended it with sunset-admiring pitchers of sangria. In Montezuma, we woke when we wanted to, meandered to the pool, or the town a minutes walk from the hotel, or the beach. It was the perfect last, lazy stop before boarding a plane back to "reality". Montezuma is a place devoid of any agenda. The majority of the residential population drifts through it's days high as kites, but even if marijuana is not your proclivity, this sun-baked town begs you to dream deep, sleep well and sail through your day unconcerned by time, immune to stress.

Our road from Montezuma led to San Jose, where we checked into a hotel by the airport, enjoyed a delightful tapas dinner complete with a Flamenco show, and retired to bed for our 5am wakeup. Boarding the plane to Atlanta was anticlimactic and as we lifted from Costa Rican soil, I slept...perhaps a defense mechanism, but a fortunate one. Boston greeted me with an orange/purple post-sunset sky and I was genuinely happy to be home. Undeniably part of me misses my "Tica-life" in an empty, distracting way, but I'm looking forward to finding new fullness here with new adventures on my horizon.

Looking forward to catching up with you all soon, and hopefully seeing some of you sooner.

"Pura vida" - coined in Costa Rica...I urge you to find it wherever you are.

Love always,
Kat

It would be a huge oversight to judge an entire place or people by an unfortunate incident. With my track record thus far; credit card stolen in Monteverde, mugged in DC, robbed in Nicaragua - my list of desirable locales would be unfortunately short.

Despite a harrowing experience in the country and recognizing that Nicaragua does not top the list of popular tourist destinations, it is unarguably a BEAUTIFUL country with kind people (note my Good Spirits far outnumbered the isolated Evil ones I encountered during my time there).

To recap the sunny memories we had in a country that has yet to be fully discovered and appreciated by the masses (perhaps that's why the special moments we had there felt so special): Tim, Kate and I boarded a bus heading off the mountain at 445am - pobrecitos - Tim and Kate clocked about 10 hours of sleep during their first three days of travel here. I, on the other hand, was well rested and raring to go and I think also the last one out the door to the bus, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. We took the bus to our favorite small, Tico town Las Juntos and spent a day with Roy exploring a deserted gold mine and basking in hot springs, or rather drowning in too many cervezas than is publically acceptable before 12noon. We had a blast. It was the best 9 hour layover between buses that I could imagine. Around 3pm, we headed back to the highway (aka, our bus stop) to flag down the Nicabus heading north to the border. After a few buses roared by us without a second glance, we admittedly became worried that perhaps this "flagging down the bus routine" was not as easy as we expected. Finally, we boarded our luxury coach and settled in for a five hour trip to Granada. Got through customs and over the border without much of a problem.

GRANADA - recently competing for a top seed on my "must see" list, this city has a little bit of everything charming and desireable in a place. The architecture is reminiscent of the old churches and high ceilings I saw in Spain. Front doors typically opened into airy atrium areas with columns and colorful walls. The sidewalks were littered with rocking chairs and chatter, people sipping icy beverages in the midday heat. The streets were a mixture of paved and cobblestone roads and alleys. The heat was oppressive, but the omnipresence of open-air courtyards and porches and parks made our walks and our days feel breezier than they probably were in actuality. We had some good meals in Granada, lots of whole fish dinners, tilapia and bass that threatened to tumble off the sides of our plates. We had an interesting bocadillo (sampler platter), of all things fried and unidentifiable. I took the approach of trying everything, questioning nothing, and using lots of salsa. Flor de Cana rum was cheap and everywhere, but I seemed to prefer a cold Tona (local beer) over a bucket of rum and coke most nights. We smoked lots of cigars, courtesy of Tim's friends who worked in the cigar factory in Estelli, a small town a few hours north of Grenada. They came to visit for the afternoon, toting a not so inconspicuous cargo of Nicaraguan made, but not sold cigars. I enjoyed ending my lunch (ending my night, beginning my day, finishing my hike, etc) with a cup of tea and a kaluha dipped cigar. When in Nicaragua...

After Granada we went to OMETEPE, an island famous for it's two (one active, one not) volcanos in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. Ometepe was picturesque and muy tranquilo (Mario). We met Berman, my boyfriend also a National Geographic featured guide and small-town hero of Ometepe. We hiked Maduras, the inactive volcano, a 6 hour roundtrip, muddy climb to the crater...where a thick and slimy lagoon and incomparable views awaited us at the top. We rented bikes one day and road the 1 km...errrrrr, 2 hours out to Chaco Verde, a beach cove where the pina coladas were smooth and the sunset serene. Unfortunately, we ended up hitching a return-ride in the back of a presumably cow-carrying (though fortunately empty) flat bed truck after suffering some bike-difficulties on the way home. That night, we went to Ometepe's "Party of the Year"...an outdoor festival of live music, Flor de Cana, memorable characters and lots of dancing. Caught the ferry back the mainland the next morning.

Ometepe was followed by a trip to SAN JUAN del SUR. During Semana Santa this town is the equivalent of Cancun during American spring break. It was insane...almost more than we were ready to handle after three days spent on a quiet island in the lake. Besides good restaurants, beachwear shops, and a long narrow coastline, San Juan was bursting with reggaton music, half-clothed girls, and bars open all day and all night, serving shots around breakfast. It was madness, but interesting to realize that American teens/coeds aren't the only ones that find otherwise sleepy beach towns, haul in oversized speakers, and drink themselves into an oblivion day and night during their vacations. Nica guys and girls may have us beat. Luckily we found a slightly quieter and far more beautiful beach about 40 minutes from San Juan where we spent the day sunning and surfing (well, Tim surfed). Kate and I drank and I chased PanMan, the Argentian baker, around the beach trying to buy a whole grain tomato and cheese biscuit.

After San Juan, we were tanned and tired and not ready for what awaited us in Rivas. In a nutshell that was our trip. I hope to make it back to Nicaragua soon - this time I'll wear my money belt.

Heading back to school today to say some final goodbyes. Hoping to head to the beach for a couple of days before my parents and Karyn arrive on SATURDAY!!!

Espero todo esta bien...con mucho amor,

Kat

Semana Santa...Holy Week ushered spirits of good and evil into my life. I found them in Nicaragua; a country boasting beautiful volcanos, elaborate and old architecture, and cheap and delicious rum. In order to recap, I must begin with the end or at least towards the end, because the memories of my stolen pack, lost passport, and teary hours in the immigration office on the border are still real and red in my thoughts.

I spent the last three days holed up in a hostel in Managua, Nicaragua´s unfortunate capital city, replete with burned out buildings, shoeless children running in dirty streets, and sketchy men hissing on dark corners. Managua, also home to the US Embassy and the National Immigration Office was a mandatory stop on my unintended traveling trail. On Friday at around 8am in the morning, while waiting for my Ticabus in Rivas, a small, for the most part untraveled town about an hour north of the Costa Rican border, my bag (with passport, money, ipod, camera - and ALL of my photos from the trip thus far-, among other traveling essentials) was stolen out from under my hands, by a one toothed, gold-chain wearing, greasy haired man...and that´s how I described him in the police report I filed hours later. Kate, Tim and I were heading back to Costa Rica after a sweaty, suntanned and social seven days in Nicaragua.

The soon-to-be-object of my vengeful nightmares approached me as I was packing my water bottle into my bag. Tugging at my shirt sleeve, he motioned towards the bus departing from the station, mumbling, ¨hay su bus, hay su bus¨ (there is your bus). As I glanced in that direction, hands still on my pack, another unidentified guy pulled my bag out from under my arms from the opposite direction. In the half a second it took me to turn around, the man, my pack and most of the bustling crowd around the bus stop had vacated the area. *Evil Spirit 1*.

Realizing all of the contents in my pack were now missing, I began to get tight chested, barely able to communicate in English never mind Spanish. With a copy of my passport in my main pack, I decided to board the bus to the border anyways, hoping to find a kind soul in the immigration office that would allow me to cross the border with my copied, though unofficial passport. I would sort out the logistics of obtaining a new passport once I returned to Costa Rica. So we road the hour to the border, which gave me ample time to think about my losses. And the things that meant the most were of course no use to the Rivas Robber; my journal, the 100 or so precious pictures I had taken since arriving in Costa Rica, my passport, with over 20 stamps of my life travels thus far, my EpiPen, my retainer case The woman sitting next to me on the bus, put her hand on my knee for the last 20 minutes of the ride, whispering ¨tranquilo, tranquilo pobrobicta¨ (quiet, calm, poor little one). Apparently my muffled sobs were not so muffled.

So we made it to the border and I was promptly informed to head back to Managua about five hours north, go to the US Embassy, and the national immigration office, get a new passport and return to the border when I had everything I needed. This could take up to a few days and of course being a Saturday, the offices were closed until Monday. I stood there, with Kate and Tim (loyally and blessedly - *Best Spirits 1 and 2* - by my side), flashing my most convincing deer in the headlights expression, begging for a favor, begging for a departure stamp on the crumpled and dejected, oddly symbolic of my emotional state, copy of my passport. Finally after about three hours, a few calls to the US Embassy hotline, many hugs, and lots of waiting slumped against the wall of the border immigration office, I was granted a departure stamp, but warned that I could leave Nicaragua, but if I was not allowed back into Costa Rica I would have to return, go to Managua and get the temporary passport they had advised me to do initially. Feeling triumphant and newly optimistic, contemplating a trip to the Duty Free shop to buy my new Nica Immigration Office friends (*Good Spirits 3, 4 and 5*) some Flor to Cana rum to thank them for their efforts, Tim, Kate, and I walked the 100 yards to the Costa Rican line. There, a no-nonsense, Hitler-mustache donning Costa Rican immigration office looked me squarely in my eyes (which had retained some familiar strength and were no longer as wide and fragile) and said simply, ¨You cannot come in, go back to Nicaragua¨ (*Evil Spirit 2*). There was no more wind to knock out of my spirit. At this point I was deflated in an unsteady knee shaking kind of way. Having lost my ability to attempt to explain my situation, I just stared at him...but within minutes I was physically ushered to the other side of the line. It appears he wasn´t willing to permit my sad and desperate state to loiter too long on Costa Rica soil.

So we needed a new plan. We decided to head back up to Rivas in an attempt to find my passport, or at least talk to the police. While trying to find a bus north, we met Ulysses *Good Spirit 6* at the tourism bureau on the Nica-side. He offered us lodging in his apartment, a ride back to Rivas with his friend, and discount bus tickets. He also squeezed my shoulders and rubbed my back, urging me to find strength somewhere and insisting that money is money and things are things, but I´m here and whole and for that we should all be happy. I sincerely agreed, though began thinking about how difficult it is to accept the reality that you are in fact ¨whole¨ at times when you feel entirely shattered. So, we headed back to Rivas, spent the evening gaining composure, trying to rehydrate and refuel, and scour the city streets in an attempt to find my passport or perhaps talk to someone that may know something about it. I approached teenagers selling goods at the market, men driving the bicycle taxis, woman gossiping on the stoops outside the shops and homes. In the best Spanish I could muster, I told them about a one-toothed robber that stole my bag. I told them I would give them money for my passport returned, that I didn´t need (though would happily recieve) the other items lost with the bag, but I just wanted my passport. We didn´t come up with anything, but my story became somewhat of a legend at Hospedaje Lidia, the understated but cozy pension we stayed at in Rivas. Lidia and her mother, who was constantly taking a footbath in her rocking chair, bemoaned my losses and referred to me as la chica sin passporte (the girl without a passport) to their friends and passerbyers. They gasped in horror after inquiring how much my stolen camera and ipod were worth - undoubtedly the price of their small abode.

A plan was made and in the morning; Kate and Tim headed south back to the Costa Rican border to make it in time to catch their flights out of San Jose and I headed north to Managua, a city who´s reputation preceeded it in a dark and ominous way. No place for a blonde gringa with wide eyes and a fragile spirit to be wandering around alone. Again, I met kind people on the bus northward. A man bought me a gaterade and gave me his cousin´s business card - the best taxi driver in Managua. He insisted Gito would take good care of me. Not sure how I was supposed to find this reliable cousin, Gito, in a city where taxis outnumbered working bathrooms. So, I arrived in Managua about five hours later, and quickly found my hostel which was propped in the center of a four block safety zone in Barrio Martha Quezada. I was warned not to walk beyond the fruit stand to the north, the internet cafe to the south, the ¨Viva Managua¨ spray painted wall to the west and the main street to the east. Even with those warnings, the robust and friendly guard in the hostel courtyard insisted on walking me to dinner each evening and even walked with me to buy a water at the pulperia one night.

Lest this turn into a short novel, I´ll save the details and explain that I spent two days struggling through immigration procedures at the US Embassy and the National Immigration Office. The very bi-lingual Embassy was a breeze. I sat in air conditioned offices staring at strange almost lifesize photos of Bush and Cheney. The staff at the Embassy took on worried expressions when hearing that I was traveling alone, but were somewhat relieved to see on the copy of my passport that I was in fact 27. I think they saw my blonde ponytail and ever-present retainer and wondered what high school abroad program had dropped my lost soul in Managua. The Immigration Office was a different story entirely. With all of the forms, signs and instructions in Spanish, I nearly began brainstorming options of careers I could pursue in Nicaragua. While sitting in a crowded waiting room of entirely native Spanish speakers, sorting their own papers and own problems, my hopes of leaving this country anytime soon began to dim. Finally, admittedly after a few more tears and near overly-dramatic collapses onto the linoleum floor, I was granted a departure stamp and was FREE to leave the country. I gleefully head back to my hostel, took my self-appointed hostel body guard next door with me to buy dinner and three beers to go, locked myself in my hostel room, ate shrimp and drank Tona on my bed and watched subtitled episodes of Commander and Chief. It felt like one of the greatest nights of my trip thus far.

In the morning, at 430am I headed to the Ticabus station, boarded a bus south, whizzed over the border and slept....slept well. I arrived home in Costa Rica to many hugs...enough to knock me over. We reinacted the robbery several times in the kitchen and then admired my new temporary passport and my police report. You can´t put a price on feeling comfortable and safe, and as Ulysses insisted, my things are just things. Marlon quietly unplugged my ipod charger as I got ready for bed last night and said, ¨let´s put this away so you won´t think about it.¨ I just smiled, grateful to be back. Heading home today for EASTER EGG HUNT...missed it on Sunday, but excited to surprise the boys when they return from school.

Will take another time to fill you in on my happy travels in Nicaragua. It is a beautiful country. A vastly different country from Costa Rica - authentic and traditional in a special way that Costa Rica perhaps lacks with it´s emphasize on ecotourism. I met amazing people, enjoyed time with special friends - both from home and new acquaintances, found a world famous tour guide boyfriend. You didn´t know I´m dating Berman??? (That´s for Kate and Tim...). Lots of special memories to report, but alas, another time. For now, I am safe, armed with a temporary passport and a learning experience that will last a lifetime.

To all future travel robbers: you may still be able to get my pack, but I know how to get back across the border now!

Love always. Suerte y salud,
Kat

At 5:17pm on April 6th, 2006, Jack Kenneth Pollenz arrived. He weighed 7 pounds 15 ounces and was 23 inches long.

Megan, Steve, and Jack are happy, healthy and returning home from the hospital today. I can´t wait to meet my NEPHEW!!!!

Love to all (especially the newest, most special member of my family...can´t wait to hold you and love you!)

Kat

Thrilled to head to Nicaragua on Saturday, but right now I think I´m most excited to see Kate and Tim deboard the local bus in Santa Elena! Finally...visitors!! I´ll be anxiously waiting with my favorite street-side empanada lady, craning my neck to see the tell tale smokey, exhaust billowing signs of the bus careening up the mountain into town. Mi familia tica is also excited about their arrival. Last night Roy assured me that it would be ok with mom if they slept in my room with me. I tried to explain to him that it may not be ok with Kate and Tim to share my extra narrow twin bed with me.

The town has been preparing for Semana Santa (Holy Week). The boys all went to Confession yesterday and the house is stocked with traditional comida (food) de Semana Santa... a corn flour pastry stuffed with bean paste and/or vegetables.

School continues to go well. I love my 11th grade class, but holding their attention proves to be more and more of a challenge as we approach the final quarter. Eleventh grade is the last year in high school and the school system is dictated by the loathsome administario exams. Every ¨graduating¨ high school student needs to pass the federal administario, similar to an SAT but harder and more comprehensive - includes all subject areas- in order to officially earn his/her diploma. The last quarter of colegio (high school) is therefore dedicated to reviewing for this exam...no grades are given out and therefore the students´ incentive and motivation to participate and be present in class wanes considerably. It´s a strange (and flawed) system. Universities in Costa Rica are federally funded - i.e. tuition is payed in full via federal funds - and only those students who pass the administario are eligible to attend college. Because the government dictates both the funding and the exam guidelines, the system seems dictatorial, lacking any quality control measures. The government creates an inappropriately difficult test so as to ensure that federal funds are only spent on a small number of university-bound students each year. Roughly 10% of the graduating class passes the test each year and only those that pass go onto college at the expense of the Costa Rican government. So add the extremely low odds of actually passing the exam to the psyche of our already school-weary 11th graders and you have our current situation. Referred casually as ¨senior slump¨in the US, the sentiment of students here could more aptly be characterized as complete indifference and acquiescence. Several of them are already interviewing for tourist-based jobs at hotels, restaurants, reserves, etc...and for the most part they´re just ¨done¨ with school. Plus warm weather, and the advent of high tourist season (ie. mass exodus of attractive gringos to Monteverde) has them thoroughly distracted. As Xenia explained to me the other day at lunch, everyone is more concerned about finding a gringito/a, which loosely translates as a casual fling with a tourist, than coming to school. With almost half the class having turned 18 sometime this spring, I see more of them at night at Bar Amigos than in English class...verguenza

Heading to Nicaragua on a 445am bus Saturday morning. A local bus will take us down the mountain, drop us on the Pan-American Highway and from there we are supposed to wave down the Tica bus bound to the border from San Jose. Not exactly sure how this is going to work, but I presume we´ll manage. Spending three days in Granada, the oldest post-colonial city in all of Central/South America. It´s supposed to be beautiful. Then off to Ometepe, an island in Lake Nicaragua where we´ll be hiking the volcano which resides in the center. Allegedly, you can repel into the crater of the volcano, but I feel like that kind of thing warrants some experience repelling. We´ll spend our last two days on the beach in San Juan del Sur and then head back to MV in time for Easter Mass in Santa Elena.

After that, I have ONE MORE WEEK of school...madness. Will be ending my trip with a week of travel with my family. I already know that 7 days of hot showers and meals that cost more than $3/plate will feel like luxury. Then, I´m homeward-bound - still not quite sure how this is possible.

Wishing you dias soleados and viajes felices,

Kathryn