We can only hope they don’t.
WARNING: PG13 RATED COLUMN, MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN OR PRUDISH BUSYBODIES.
The school is a single room concrete block building up in the hills behind Santa Ana in Costa Rica. It’s poorly lit and cheaply furnished in the Costa Rican style. I spend four hours a week there teaching a few of the locals how to speak English. My students range in age from 14 to 64. A small core of about half a dozen are my most dedicated, . . . → Read More: Nurturing Cultural Intercourse and English Language Dignity
When we moved to Costa Rica a year and a half ago, the prison-like façades that faced the streets of San Jose appalled us. Steel security bars and razor tape are everywhere. We were delighted that our first house was safe enough in the middle of a large coffee plantation that it needed neither bars nor wire. The five big, not-that-friendly dogs and attentive longtime employees provided reliable security.
A move across the valley to a suburb . . . → Read More: Security Aesthetics
My baby sister Megan was nearly young enough to be my daughter. She was only two when I left home for college. We never lived under the same roof again. I never thought a sister whom I hardly knew would have so much to teach me about living and dying.
Yesterday she went the final round in a ten year brawl with cancer. She was 42. In those ten years her spirit rarely flagged. Grace and good humor teamed with anger and maternal ferocity in a heroic struggle against disease. Through it all she raised her kids . . . → Read More: Do Not Go Gentle
The day breaks on August 2 here in San Jose, Costa Rica with brass bands blaring and fireworks booming. The pilgrims who have filled the roads for the last few weeks have mostly arrived by now in Cartago, a city about 15 miles east of San Jose.
Cartago has three times been destroyed by the volcano that looms above it and three times rebuilt, most recently with one of the finest churches in the land. . . . → Read More: Acts of Faith
Danielito is just over three feet tall so he travels light. In this climate you don’t need much. Ten degrees north of the equator it’s never cold, wet sometimes, but not cold. He wears an orange and blue striped soccer jersey, number 14, denim shorts with pockets, dark blue low cut tennis shoes, one brown sock, one red. His hair is cut like mine, buzzed down short. You can’t see scalp through his. Danny’s eyes are too black to make out pupils. When he walks he pops up on his toes before each step and his arms spend a lot . . . → Read More: A Thousand Toys
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