I am still a gringuitica, but not this gringuitica. Not the one who blogs every week. So to honor my memory of this blog and what I wanted it to be, I am stepping away. I’ll leave the content here – mostly for my own nostalgic (narcissistic?) reasons – but it’s peace out for me. At least for now.

Thank you for all your kind words and companionship along the way. I hope to see you again soon.

I went back to work six weeks after M was born. Of course, that was the week he decided he’d like to eat every hour, on the hour — and he’s still going strong at 15 weeks! (He starting to sleep 10-11 hours most nights though, so I get a good break.)

Learning to do things while seated, or with a baby strapped to my chest, or even one-handed — and in a few cases, not at all (goodbye, daily showers) — has been a challenge. I think this is what they leave out of the Mommy Manual. It’s not the sleepless nights, or the constant nursing, or the dirty diapers, or the mountains of laundry (how can something so tiny generate so much dirty clothing? I still don’t know.) that will do you in: it’s the immobility. If you’re a nursing mom, and especially if you believe in attachment parenting, then you’ll be tied to your baby during his every waking hour — and many sleeping ones, too.

Working from home, I find M’s self-set routine particularly difficult to manage. I love being with him, and snuggling him, and taking care of him — sometimes to the exclusion of work. There were days that I didn’t start working until after M was in bed for the night. There were nights that his 2 a.m. feeding signaled the beginning of my workday. There were days that I just couldn’t work at all. And there were plenty of tears and screams — and not just from the baby.

I’m happy to report that things are better everyday. F, my husband, is a great husband and father, and gives me time to myself everyday. M loves his Ergo carrier, and I can get some cooking and other tasks done with him on my chest. He’s taking more consistent naps, and loves playing with F while I finish work in the afternoons. And I can type 30 words per minute, one-handed. Boo-yah.

Just as soon as I’m ready to add another ball to my juggling act, I’ll get back on a blogging schedule. Yeah, right.

Two and a half years have passed since my last blog post, and life has changed. I got engaged. I got married. I got pregnant. And I had a baby. Saying that life has changed is a bit of an understatement.

I still live in Costa Rica. I still write for a living. I still live in the cool mountains. (Although I did move to a new house.) I still think about my blog — my defunct blog. I miss this. I miss writing for myself. At work, I write for my boss. Everyday, I write emails, grocery lists, telephone messages. But I haven’t written for pleasure in a long time. I long to once again flex my writing muscles in sheer hedonistic indulgence.

I wonder if anyone’s still out there. Although if I’m writing just for me, does it matter? I guess a blog is exhibitionist, if only in the written sense. So drop me a hello, if you’re there. If not, I’ll write anyway.

Because I’m inspired again. I’m inspired by the world around me. By life. By the beauty of my new home. By my husband, whose love sustains and enriches my life. And especially by my son, who has spent almost seven weeks schooling his mommy on unconditional love.

So here’s to a new generation of Gringuitica. When I started this blog in 2006, I called it the Misadventures of a Gringa (Soon to Be) in Costa Rica. Well, here I am. Embarking on new adventures as a wife, as a mother, as an expat, as a traveler, and as a continued student of life. I have evolved, and so will my blog. Stay tuned for a little of the old and a dash of the new. Here’s to continued introspection, self discovery, and yes, mommy blogging.

An oft-quoted statistic, and one that I cannot back up with any facts other than those batted around online, is that 30-70% of expats pack it in and move out of Costa Rica within one year of their arrival. This doesn’t refer to exchange students, international interns, or those looking to temporarily live abroad, so even 30% is a huge number: three of every 10 expats who sell their things, uproot their lives, and change their world will decide that Costa Rica is so bad, so absolutely intolerable, that they have no choice but to flee.

Even if it’s not true and the real number hovers lower than 30%, most expats, whether they live in Costa Rica or elsewhere, know someone who has thrown in the towel and gone home. Usually, culture shock is what does it — in Costa Rica, many cite unexpected crime rates, infuriating bureaucracy, racism, or some combination of factors that make the adjustment more trouble than it’s worth.

Of course, my opinion is that Costa Rica is completely worth it. Because what, if not our wildest dreams, merits our hard work and perseverance? Too often, we get caught up in the 9-to-5 daily grind, working to fulfill someone else’s dream, and stop pursuing our own. When did we forget that things aren’t always easy, or that the things we want most deserve (and often require) the biggest efforts?

Costa Rica isn’t for everyone, of course. We do have crime, the government has made an art out of pushing papers (even if it is ugly, paint-splatter art), and foreigners are the subject of racism. But there is no country, no place, not even a tiny town in this world that doesn’t have several cons to balance out its pros. If living in Costa Rica is your dream, pursue it. But do so wisely.

Dreams are valuable, and they deserve patience. Don’t rush toward the reward before carving out a path to your goal. I admit, I am meticulous in this regard — I take days, weeks or even months to flesh out each idea, decide if it’s viable, and then chart each step toward its completion. Call this the logical, practical and even boring side of wish fulfillment, but it’s a necessary part of almost any goal.

In my case, moving to Costa Rica required planning, research and then more planning and research. My advice is to forget the glittery guidebook prose and read about real expats in Costa Rica — there are many online resources, including blogs, internet groups, and informational websites. We love to complain. Read about the annoyances and assess the risk. Use your imagination, and put yourself in those situations — would you, could you tolerate these conditions? Be honest with yourself. Costa Rica isn’t perfect on paper, and it’s even more flawed in person.

The road to happiness is bumpy, especially in Costa Rica. (Have you seen the potholes?) You may have morose days, petulant moments, and weeks of monumental frustrations, but if this country is right for you, you’ll find that it is all worth it. Which brings me to my point: though I fully intend to reboot this blog and get back to my writing roots, I also want to provide a resource to those interested in Costa Rica living.

Let’s talk about life in Costa Rica. Let’s talk about what pisses us off. Let’s talk about what makes us happy. Let’s talk about it all. For a bit of fun and a preview of what’s to come, there’s a short list I like to call…

You know you’ve adjusted to life in Costa Rica when:

-Eating mashed potatoes, fried yucca, and rice all in one meal is completely normal. In fact, the first two count toward your daily vegetable servings, even on that weird, new pyramid.

-You’re not surprised that a new 3 bedroom home costs only $40,000 more than a 1990 Toyota.

-You know that “Tico time” is a euphemism for “I’m going to be at least an hour late,” and you make plans accordingly.

-You hear somebody say “de nada” and wonder what country they’re from. It’ll always be “mucho gusto” to you.

-Spiders, cockroaches, scorpions and tarantulas don’t belong inside, but no longer cause you to run screaming from the room.

Over the last few months, I’ve thought about whether to continue this blog — it hardly seems fair to call myself a blogger when it’s been so long. But there’s a tiny voice inside my heart, and it’s telling me that it doesn’t want to quit. I love to write; I want to write. Chronicling my experiences has been a thrilling and gratifying exercise — it’s a way to never forget, to hold yesterday’s events forever in the palm of my hand.

So I’m awake. This time, I make but one promise to myself. I will write. I will remember these moments, because I’ll only get to live them once. Every day, every smile, every revelation is important — I will record my memories, my experiences, my thoughts. The good days, the funny stories, the extraordinary experiences and the light-bulb revelations — I will share them.

I began to blog in order to remember what my Swiss-cheese brain would otherwise forget. I am sorry for being selfish these past months, but I write this entry with renewed vigor and recommitted purpose. If wanting to be better is the first step to self-improvement, then I am on my way (again). Thank you for sticking with me.

That said, I apologize for having disappeared into the nothingness. I do have thoughts bumping around in my head, things that I wish to discuss. Such as my theory that tico culture is inherently passive-aggressive. Or the homesickness that has crept up on me… I miss the smell of autumn! And the peacefulness that I’ve found in my life, largely thanks to a simpler and slower lifestyle. There are so many things, but I currently lack the energy or drive to write them. Sometime soon, I hope to revive this blog (if there’s anyone still reading, of course), but I first need to knock down my writer’s wall, block by block.

In the meantime, I extend my apologies to all, and thank you for your patience.

There are four basic phases of culture shock. The first is called Euphoria, a.k.a. The Honeymoon Phase. As new arrivals or tourists, we are full of enough hope and excitement to cloud our vision and make cultural differences seem unimportant, even fun. However, after a few days or weeks, we move into the second phase, Irritation and Hostility. This stage is actually what many people refer to as culture shock – homesickness and frustration enter our daily lives, we get angry over little things, and experience depression. This second stage is usually the “make or break” stage, when expats either adjust to their new country or decide to go home.

If we safely make it through, we arrive at the Gradual Adjustment phase, where we begin to adapt to our surroundings and function normally in our new culture. We make efforts to fit in, to actively accept new things, and appreciate the differences of our new culture. Finally, after months or years in stage three, we graduate to the final phase, Adaptation. We are bi-cultural, able to function in both our native and adopted cultures without a problem. We have a strong command of our new language, and many of our old habits are replaced by new, one culture seamlessly folding into the other.

At least, that’s the theory. In real life, culture shock is a much more personal, individual experience. My euphoric phase was marked by an appreciation of the mountains that surrounded me, an amusement at the crazy drivers, and a sense of awe that I was finally here. By phase two, I still appreciated the mountains, but those crazy drivers were assholes, and my only wish was to be able to curse well enough in Spanish to give them a piece of my mind the next time one blew threw a red light as I crossed the street. There was no dulling sense of awe or wonderment anymore, I no longer woke up in the mornings congratulating myself, “You live in Costa Rica!” I was often frustrated by being stereotyped as a gringa, spoken to in English, and ripped off at every opportunity. If I had been just a little less mature, I would have stomped my feet and hurled myself to the ground for a good, cathartic temper tantrum. Every day.

For several months, I grappled with being a minority for the first time in my life. I wondered if the bus driver had given me incorrect change on purpose. I secretly raged at strangers who spoke to me in English, even though I spoke perfectly passable Spanish. I was angry. I wanted to know where all the nice ticos had gone. I wanted sales people to leave me alone, instead of breathing down my neck. I wanted people to just say “no” instead of “puede ser,” show me brutal honestly instead of feeding me white lies. But then, slowly enough to not warrant my own notice, the “want want WANT!!! turned into a gentle acceptance of my surroundings. All things tico started to make sense, without my consciously making sense of them.

Phase three is a happy place – I’m comfortable and calm, learning something new everyday. Like a child, I learn through observation, mimicking my tico friends in everything they do. Instead of using a finger or head nod, I see them use their lips to point out a location, and then I practice doing the same. They say “mae” every other word, and like a parrot, I say it, too. I’m learning how to time the traffic, and I cross streets without [much] fear. When it’s necessary, I know how to stop most errant drivers dead in their tracks with a few well-chosen palabrotas (bad words) and an icy stare. And about those mountains… they are still forever beautiful.

In many ways, I’ve already hit the fourth phase of culture shock, adaptation. But I don’t want to. Like in love, I don’t want my relationship with Costa Rica to ever feel stale. I never want to be so perfectly adapted that I take my surroundings for granted. It’s a vicious cycle – Costa Rica is not my native home, and so if I ever grew “used to” being here, I would never achieve cultural fluency. The day that I accept my Spanish as “good enough” will be the day that I stop improving my accent and vocabulary. If I ever stop questioning exactly when I should snap my fingers in disbelief or place them all together to indicate that something is full, I will always be on the dusty outskirts of tico culture. Without questioning and wondering about everything around me, I will never be able to discover all the amazing nuances of my new home and language.

May I never grow complacent and merely accepting of unique gestures, rolling mountains, artistic churches, perfectly laid stone fences, incredible forests, and linguistic idiosyncracies. Because to me, phase four — Adaptation — is apathy. It’s the acceptance of everything around you to the point of feeling so comfortable that no further effort is needed. But my love affair with Costa Rica is special, enduring, and for that reason, I hope to never adapt.

My divorce left me relieved and happy with my newfound freedom, but it also left me broken. What had been a hopelessly romantic girl had given way to a slightly jaded woman, and it was evident. Ripping my heart off of my sleeve, I stashed it away in a soundproof vault and began to believe in things like “the only person that will ever look out for me is me” and “no one ever loves someone just as she is.” It never occured to me that this could be my heart’s defenses clicking into place; instead, I thought that I had finally discovered a Universal Truth.

I think there’s a process that every recently-single person goes through: First, there’s anger and rage toward the person you no longer love, and a spiteful satisfaction that you don’t have to tolerate his presence anymore. Then you graduate to the insecure phase, wondering how much of the breakup is your fault, and eventually convincing yourself that you are completely unlovable and will never walk hand-in-hand again. During these first phases, there is much introspection and self-discovery, and it can be excruciating. But when we allow ourselves to deal with our inner demons, we emerge as happier, healthier individuals. We move into the final stage of self-acceptance where we’ve come to terms with our past and are willing to move into the future, ready to love and be loved.

Those first two stages were hard for me, tossing me around like a kayak that had been carried into the Bermuda Triangle by a tidal wave, only to be welcomed to that maritime hell by a class-5 hurricane. But after confronting and dealing with each one of my fears, I knew that I would love again. And I was certain that our love would be perfect enough to make Aurora, Cinderella, Ariel, and all the rest of them absolutely green with jealousy.

I was single for 28 months before I met the last man I will ever love. For the first few weeks, I showed him my wildly confident, slightly flirtatious side. I was so convincing that I think I scared him a bit. But on the inside, I was terrified, and had no idea what I was doing. But with a good dose of humor and a generous serving of patience, we made it through the awkward first encounters and became a couple.

So then I thought, “finally! now is when it gets easy!” Wrong again. Opening up to F — letting him into the confines of my soul — was anything but easy. Because when we finally let someone in, we give him the ability to hurt us. As I whispered my secrets and ground him a copy of the key to my heart, I felt vulnerable and fragile. And that is the opposite of easy.

But fear is no excuse to hold back. If we never risk, we never gain. And that it is why we must do the very thing that stands to lose us the most: open up and give of ourselves. With baby steps, I began to confide in F and tell him my past, show him dreams, and share confidences. And with each little test I gave him, he proved that he was worthy. And knowing that was worth far more than 28 lonesome months.

My relationship would not work for everyone, but for me, it is the best union that will ever exist. With confidence that he will always love and accept me, I can share my laundry list of fears, mistakes, insecurities, and sins. I know that he will not always agree with me, but that his love will never waver and our relationship will strengthen, not weaken, from our complete, naked honesty. And this is why, someday, F will know everything that there is to know about me.

Sharing yourself with someone will never be easy. In fact, I think it’s the most risky and frightening thing that we can ever do. But if you start small and open yourself up like a flower in bloom, you’ll find that this leap of faith is the best one you’ll ever make.

Culture shock, and its ensuing frustrations, is a right of passage and a growing experience. In exchange for living in a country as beautiful and varied as Costa Rica, we have to adapt and relearn how life works. Of course, every expat takes a different journey, but when we come out on the readjusted end of the tunnel, we are changed. And our reaction to this change is a likely indicator of our staying power in Costa Rica.

I truly believe that everyone, regardless of location or situation, is constantly learning life’s gentle lessons. But living here puts us on an accelerated path, and we decide which streets to take. When presented with the clash between old and new, each expat will in turn recreate himself, fine-tuning a mixture of what we grew up loving and what we are now learning to love.

Fourteen months into my move and several huecos in the road later, I have finally given myself up to this country. For over a year, its culture has tugged on my heartstrings and urged me to step out of my shell. Gone are the days when I worried about the Joneses’ latest acquisitions or dreamed of a home with a separate wing for visiting family. In their place, simplicity and gratitude have taken root: my one bedroom loft apartment is not small, but rather “easy to clean”; a sixteen-hour bus ride is well worth the savings of a few hundred dollars in airfare; a soul is washed clean by a breathtaking view and a gulp of mountain air.

I don’t want to oversimplify my fears and frustrations, so I admit that everyday is an effort. On the bad days, I just want to put my head in a pillow and scream until I lose my voice. On the really bad days, the only thing to assuage my feelings is a good stomp around the city, letting the world feel my wrath. But on the good days — most days — I continue in this self-exploration, challenging myself to build a better Erin. I feel so lucky to be here, cultivating the culture of Me. And now, more than ever, I feel like a true gringuitica.

Street noise haunts my dreams, and the local motorcycles like to wake me up every night on their 1 a.m. jaunts. Pollution from the city’s huge bus fleet and myriad drivers invades my lungs and irritates my eyes. During rush hour, it takes 30 minutes to cover a distance of a kilometer or two. This comes part and parcel with the city life, but every once in awhile, a girl needs a break.

On top of city frustrations, the past few weeks have been busy and exceedingly stressful for both F and I, and we were in need of a getaway. But with too much work and no vacation time in sight, we weren’t able to take off for the hills of Turrialba or the beaches of Manuel Antonio. And as nice as it is to hole up in the house, crawl under the covers, and refuse to let the outside world in, that plan of attack just wasn’t going to massage away the stress.

So instead of wallowing in the doldrums of irritability, we opted to be tourists in our own town. Rifling through my Costa Rica guidebooks, I crossed out all the museums we’d been to, parks we’d picnicked, and opted for something new. What we found was so tranquil, so beautiful, that I almost don’t want to mention it. We plan to return many times and my biggest fear will be to find our secret paradise teeming with people, just like the dirty streets of San José.

Lucky for me, my blog readership isn’t large enough to make such a dent, and since a guidebook hasn’t ruined this urban Shangri-La, I figure I’m safe to tell you. The Spirogyra Butterfly Garden is secreted away into a section of Goicoechea (Guadalupe) best known for its loud music and party scene. Just blocks from El Pueblo, the gardens are so quiet and peaceful that we could almost forget that we were in the heart of the city. And as I meandered through the gardens, zooming in on every butterfly I could find (and there were many), I felt some of my pent-up stress begin to dissolve. By the time we had finished the garden’s beautiful Contemplation Path loop, I was convinced that we’d fallen down the rabbit hole into our own version of Burnett’s secret garden.

The rest of the weekend was spent on other stress-relieving activities, like visiting the Parque Zoologico Simón Bolívar, which has greatly improved its conditions over the last few years, walking the streets of Barrio Amon and the pedestrian-only paths of downtown, enjoying iced tea at a tiny café, and wandering the sidestreet maze of our own part of town. It was more activity than we’d had in awhile, and yet we both felt more relaxed and refreshed than we had in a long time. It was the perfect weekend, just what we needed, and we’ve vowed to do it all again (at new locations) this weekend. And while it may seem odd to declare this at 24, I think I’ve finally discovered what weekends are for.