The Incredibly True Saga of Metaphorical Bloodshed in Costa Rica

 

I am alone, although I am surrounded by people.  I sit somewhat precariously on the edge of a not-very-comfortable seat in the back of a very, very small and crowded bus.  My fellow strangers are playing mad-libs, awkwardly and with much tension, each trying desperately to make everyone else laugh with their outrageous and non-sequitir words.  I attempt to abandon the very small space that we are all occupying by turning my attention outwards, the window becoming my perspective.  Ruddy white squares come and go, blurring into one continuous block of houses.  There are cars and trucks and dogs and chickens, but no people.  I imagine myself lost in the green hills climbing some big rock or taming a wild monkey.  I am unable to transcend my discomfort however, and I find myself undeniably trapped inside the bus along with the anonymous crowd.

I am from Berkeley and I’m funny and nice and pleasingly quirky, but I’m feeling shy and having a hard time making friends with any of these strangers.  I shift my focus back to my window perspective and observe the social dynamics secondhand, tracing the come and go of social interaction in the reflection on my window.  Jake flirts with Natalie, Natalie flirts back.  Jake flirts with Natalie some more, and then with Rita who is hostily unreceptive, and then with Rachel and Haley who immediately abandon their conversation with the other Molly to reciprocate his show of interest.  Meanwhile, Natalie is still flirting with Jake, until she is distracted by Rita’s look of disdain, at which point she turns her attention back to mad-libs and, after a fair amount of thought, suggests “erect,” visibly congratulating herself on the clever and naughty word. She checks to see if Jake has noticed (he hasn’t), and is obviously disappointed that such a word was wasted on a moment in which it wouldn’t be appreciated.

I try to forget the fact that I feel alone, attempting to fortify myself with confidence vicariously, turning up the volume of my iPod until I am no longer alone, just independent.  At one point I even try to join in on the game, suggesting  “llama,”  and congratulating myself on the spontaneous humor I feel comes naturally.  However, only the people next to me hear (due to Rachel’s intermittent snorts in response to Jake’s charming wit), not the counselor at the front of the bus with the pen, so I say it awkwardly a couple more times, and then let the issue drop.  It is my first day in Costa Rica, and I feel out of my element.  Everyone else has come with people they know; siblings, friends.  I am the only one without a person except for one boy who is trying too hard, continually suggesting  “penis” and then looking around hopefully, checking for a reaction from his fellow passengers.  I feel sorry for him, but even more sorry for myself, and I sit, wishing I knew someone, but too intimidated by everyone else’s apparent normalcy to make any more-than-cursory attempts at friendliness.

The next day, we start Spanish classes and the intimidation begins to dissipate a little.  We no longer have to initiate conversation ourselves because the teacher does it for us, and so we all start learning a bit more about each other without the pressure of stupid answers and stupid questions- we all sound stupid because we’re speaking in broken Spanish.  We bond over hunger and host family woes as we play foosball during break, and I gradually begin to feel less foreign. 

When class is finally let out, I’m pumped up on adrenaline from the nearly four hours of sedentary vegetation in class, and am feeling witty.  On the walk back into town on our way to lunch, I listen to conversation, but make sure to hold in my comical remarks and ingenious comebacks- I know my brand of humor isn’t for everyone.  Upon arriving at the restaurant and once more sitting down though, I’m unable to contain myself any longer.  

“That’s what she said!” I say. “That’s what she said!”

And then I realize that they have no idea what I’m referring to.

“Because, remember when you said,” I say, pointing at Simon, “I never knew it could be so hard?  You were talking about Spanish class, but I thought...”  I trail off.  Damnit.

The silence that greets my remark is not entirely unanticipated, and I prepare to resign myself to a lonely two weeks in Costa Rica.  My cheeks have reached a deep shade of scarlet when the laughter begins.  I look up and realize, with immense relief, that (mostly) people seem to be laughing with me, not at me.

“You’re funny,” says the other Molly.  “Why don’t you talk more?”

And I rejoice that all hope is not lost.

Over the next two days, I am forced to abandon my initial self pity, and by the fourth day, I am no longer feeling alone, having spoken to and made friends with thirteen out of the fourteen people.  It is on the fourth day that I have my first conversation with Jake.

We have just been let out of class and are hanging around at a bakery in town.  Our once-large group has decided they would rather stay behind at the bakery than go and find a gym, and are bidding us farewell as we walk out onto the street.  Now it is just me and him, and the first thing he says to me only serves to further reaffirm my preconceived suspicion that he is a self-righteous and shallow ass. 

“I think she likes me,” he says as he runs his fingers through his nearly perfect hair and nods his head in Natalie’s direction.  Natalie gives him a fluttery wave through the window, flipping her hair and cracking him a little smile.

“Yeah,” I say, “I think so too.”

“What should I do?”  A marked contradiction to his outward display of egotism and confidence, the worry in his voice surprises me.  “I mean, I feel like everyone always expects something from me.”

What?  I feel like.. what?  Lost for words, “Hmmm” is all I can muster.

“Don’t you ever feel like that?  Like people expect things from you?”

“Well, yeah.”  Ummm.

“I feel like people here expect me to be something I’m not.  I feel like Natalie expects me to... do something.”

“Well, yeah.”  I focus on the road ahead.  Going to the gym.

“Well yeah?  What does that mean?”  He looks at me.

“Well, you’re flirting with her all the time.”

“Yeah.”

“So I think she probably assumes that you like her.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“What should I do?”

He’s really not very smart.  “What do you mean what should you do?”

“Well, it’s not gonna go anywhere.”

“So why were you flirting in the first place?”

“Because that’s what people expect from me.”

Oh my goodness.  He doesn’t seem to be aware that the conversation’s come full circle.  I turn my head and see a frog on the other side of the road.  It catches a fly with its tongue.  I turn back around and find that Jake is watching me.

“Don’t tell me you’re so conceited that you can’t recognize that you conform to other people’s expectations of you just as much as anyone does.”

Conceited? Again, I don’t know what to say.  I start to deny his claim, and then think better of it.

He’s smiling.  “See?”

As we begin talking, I realize that my judgment of him has been terribly harsh and hasty.

At first, all I do is listen.  I allow him to do all the talking and I play it safe, not revealing anything about myself beyond the exterior Me.  I am so in the habit of being private that it comes naturally, and yet, with him, it feels forced.  And it seems that almost as soon as I register this thought, I begin to talk.  He is honest, so much so that I find myself being more candid with him than I ever am with anybody.  He doesn’t expect anything from me, and because of this, I feel inescapably drawn to tell him everything.  My careful and monitored self becomes just an observer as I strip myself bare of pretense.  

We walk for a long time with no real direction, the destination having been forgotten by the wayside.  We wander, amble, mosey our way along the road, mostly talking, sometimes not.  By the time it begins to rain, we have shared life stories and I have been forced to reassess my opinion of him, discovering that he is one of the most honest people I have ever met. 

Mine and Jake’s conversations continue, and over the next few days I grow closer to everyone else too.  Whereas my conversations with Jake generally stay away from politics, the group as a whole talks a lot about the election, and about the government. While Jake stays quiet during these debates, I plunge right in.  One day at lunch, some of the group is once again arguing.  Debating abortion, the war in Iraq, and the presidential candidates’ stances on gay marriage, the conversation is not really going anywhere.  Everyone is having a hard time listening.  

Coming into the trip, I had assumed that I would be cushioned by the familiar liberal homogeneity I had thrived upon growing up in Berkeley.  I anticipated some Costa Rican culture shock, and was instead met by a host family who knew even more about Obama than I did.  On the other hand, I soon discovered that there were Republicans in the student group.  Real, live Republicans.  Plural.  I was in no way prepared for the type of diversity I would encounter upon meeting people with different political views from my own and was having a tough time adjusting to it.  I have already written off Rita, the most outspoken conservative, as ignorant, and Bethany (I deduced she was conservative after my rant against George Bush was met with a hostile silence) as stupid.  Because of these judgments, I’m having a hard time listening to their opinions and the conversation is gradually becoming more and more heated.  I’m having a particularly hard time keeping my cool with Rita.

“Obviously Obama’s not ready to be president,” she says with a tone that tells me she knows she’s right.

“Why not?”  I’m careful to keep my voice level.

“Well, he’s never showed any support for the war in Iraq.  He doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that the war on terror can’t wait.  We have a moral duty-”

“Moral duty?”  I cut her off.  “To kill thousands of innocent civilians?”

She roles her eyes.  Desperate for some support and not trusting myself to continue the conversation alone, I turn to Jake for back-up.

“What do you think?”  I ask him.

  “What?  About the election?”

“Yeah, sure.” I start to try and calm myself down, breathing slowly. 

“I dunno,” he shrugs, “I’m never gonna vote so it doesn’t really matter.”

Not breathing anymore.

“What?  What do you mean you’re never gonna vote?  Are you serious?  You’re never gonna vote?  Do you have any idea?  Any idea at all about how important?  How important?  It’s your responsibility!  YOU’RE NEVER GONNA VOTE?” I explode.  I can’t believe it.  I can’t...

“Whoa, relax!  I’m not a U.S. citizen, I can’t vote.”  He’s looking at me worriedly.

Trying to breath again.  “Oh, yeah.  Sorry.”  European citizen.  It’s okay. 

“Yeah,” he says, laughing a little.  “It’s okay.”

But I’m wound too tightly, I’m on edge. Now I’m curious.  “So, if you could vote for someone, who would it be?”  I hold my breath.  

He looks at me, and seems to measure my emotional stability before replying, “I dunno, probably... McCain?”  He states it like a question, and I feel him watching me as I absorb his answer.  I see Rita give a little smirk out of the corner of my eye.

Deep breath.  “Why?”

“Uh, well... he just has more experience, I guess.  And he keeps taxes low.  I mean, if I had it my way, there wouldn’t even be taxes.  I don’t want the government stealing my money.”  

Wrong answer, he can tell.  

“Molly, look, I don’t really pay that much attention to politics.  It doesn’t really matter to me.”  He tries to sidestep the issue, but I can’t let it drop.

“The government stealing your money?”

Hesitantly, “Yeah?”

“The government stealing your money?  You’re rich, you can afford it.  What about people who aren’t rich like you?  They rely on you to share a little bit of your money so their kids can go to school.  They can’t afford private school.”

“Hey, I go to public school too.” He’s talking louder now.

“Yeah, you drive there in your new car.”

“I don’t need to apologize for being well-off.  It’s nothing to be ashamed of.  My dad worked his ass of to get to where he is now.  He doesn’t owe anyone anything.”

“What about the people who work their asses off all their lives, work three or four jobs, and never make it?  What about them?”

“It’s not my job to support them, my money is my money.”  

I breathe.  The whole table is watching us.

I start to say something, but I stop.  How can I even respond to that?  How can I even respond to a statement so entirely antithetical to everything I believe in?  It’s fairness, simple fairness and compassion.  So, so obvious.  I realize that Jake is looking at me.  I look back at him.

Pause.

Shaking my head.

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

I look down.  I realize it has started to rain.

The rest of the table slowly starts to resume their chatter.

After a bit, “Molly,” he says quietly over the muffled patter of rain on the tin roof over us.

I look back up.

“We can still be friends, right?”

I find myself momentarily speechless.  Can we?  I look at him.  And then I return to my senses.

“Yeah.”  I say.  How could I even question that for a moment?  “Of course,” I say more firmly.  Of course.  I smile shakily at him.  He looks relieved.  

I turn my gaze downwards, focusing on my fork.  Of course.  I listen as the rain drops hit the pavement, making little splashes in the newly forming puddles.  The noise on the other side of the table begins to pick up.  Rita is still yelling about the Iraq war.  Her rant is now directed towards Simon who doesn’t seem to be taking her opinions any more lightly than I did.  I tune her out.  Wow.  I just yelled at the wrong person.  “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry.”  I look back up.

“Sorry?”

“Yeah.  I’m sorry I overreacted.”

He smiles.  “It’s okay.”

“And thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being honest.”

“Always,” he says, offering me his hand over the table.  I take it.  “Arm wrestle?”

I laugh.  “Okay, but watch out.  I can get pretty beastly.”

He just raises his eyebrows at the understatement.  I’m pretty sure he lets me win, but I don’t really mind.

For the rest of the trip, Jake and I remain friends, and we remain honest with each other.  There are a substantial number of points that arise about which we don’t agree, but while the rest of the group bares their teeth and fights to the bitter end, Jake and I learn how to disagree without yelling.  I am forced to confront the fact that the liberal cocoon I was raised in has stunted me in just as many ways it has nourished me and I have to learn how to listen.  Upon parting ways, it is mutually agreed that if I am ever to be surrounded by pitchfork wielding fascists, I’ll call him up, and if he’s ever threatened by naked tree hugging hippies, he’ll drop me a line.