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The Legend of Ca Papa, Pura Vida

        This language barrier is much more challenging than I ever anticipated. As we sped into San Jose City on the freeway, we’d pass a sign before I could fully comprehend it. The taxi drivers here, as with most cities, are homicidal. When I saw a sign saying, “Hotel Intercontinental,” I thought to myself, I’m quickly picking up this language. Then I realized the sign wasn’t in Spanish.
        Following breakfast, I asked Brandon how he was and if he had a good time going out the night before.
        “Talk to me in Spanish, I don’t understand any English,” he said.
        I looked at him confused.
        “Talk to me in Spanish,” he says again, his accent thick. “I don’t understand any English.”
        It takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English and I know the meaning of the words coming from his mouth.
        “Ca papa,” he said.
        “Ca papa,” I repeated.
        “Ca papa. I talk to you. You talk to me.”
        “Ca papa. I talk to you. You talk to me.”
        “No, papa. Ca papa.” He laughs.
        I turn to Fernando, who is the house manager on duty. “I’m not sure what he’s saying.”
        “Well, papa is daddy, but used in that way, it’s a form of affection. It’s like, ‘Hey, Dude.’ It describes mutual friendship.”
        “Ah, ca papa!” I said.
        Armed with “ca papa”, we hit the streets of San Jose. The taxi driver dumped us at a restaurant Nuestra Tierra, which post a sign in English, “Welcome to the most typical place in town.” We sat down at a table next to a window open to the street. Two men tapped out music on a xylophone, it’s tropical sounds festively filling the air. Antique tin cups hung from the timber rafters and walls, and baskets hanging upside down have been made into light shades. Historic photos of San Jose have been lacquered to the tabletops.
        I read the menu and found palmento, which was translated into English right there, “heart of palm.” Even in English, I didn’t know what heart of palm was.
        I made an attempt to order my lunch in Spanish, miserably butchering the words like the sirloin I ordered. Having grown up in Oregon, gone to school in the Midwest, lived in the South for ten years, and living again in the Midwest, it’s very hard to know the proper pronunciation of anything. Layer on a foreign language and not even cue cards can help me. Coca-cola is the only thing I could say without murdering some culture’s grammar.
        When at an impasse, what is best described as gibberish flew from my mouth. It was a blend of English, mis-pronounced Spanish words, and broken German phrases, reverting back to two years of high school German. Constructing phrases together, I had general confusion as to the origin of the words coming from my mouth.
        I was certain I had a learning disability.

* * *

        Across the street from Nuestra Tierra is Plaza de la Democracia and the Museo Nacional. Museo Nacional sits in the former Bellavista Barracks abandoned by the military when Costa Rica abolished their military forces in 1948 in favor of educating their citizens, giving the money to teachers and their schools. The building now serves as a museum, interpreting the story of Costa Rica’s colonization. Plaza de la Democracia was constructed in 1989 as a tribute to President Oscar Arias’s involvement in the Central American Peace Plan. Ironically, the plaza is now marked with threatening graffiti. While we couldn’t figure out exactly what all the graffiti meant, we did sense a few anti-American under tones.
        Bordering the plaza was a market of artisan stalls, that looked a little like a county fair, where we sensed no anti-American sentiments walking from booth to booth admiring jewelry, artwork, dishware, pottery and clothing. We stepped over a sleeping dog as Tony and I stopped to admire a contemporary rendering of Jesus on framed cardboard.
        “I give you best price for Jesus,” an older man said.
        “What price?” I asked.
        “Forty dollars.”
        “Gracias.”
        “I need the space. I give you a deal.”
        “Gracias.”
        We walked to the next booth.
        “Better price, same Jesus.” The teenage boy had watched us negotiate with the man next to him. “You like Jesus, I have better Jesus.”
        He pointed to a drawing of Jesus on a cross.
        “The baby Jesus hanging. Beautiful. I give to you. Thirteen dollar.”
        “Tony, what do you think about having the Last Supper hanging in the dining room?” I pointed to a picture hanging on the side of his booth.
        “I give to you. Fifteen dollar.”
        “Ten Dollars,” Tony said,
        “Thirteen dollars. I wrap for you.”
        “Gracias.” I said. “Serve up the Last Supper to go, please,” I said. Tony paid the man with American bills; he gave us American bills for change, wrapped the picture in newspaper, and handed it to us.
        “Gracias.”

* * *

        Up the street from Plaza de la Democracia is Plaza de la Cultura and Teatro Nacional, the national theatre. The plaza serves as a central gathering place in the heart of San Jose. Opened in 1897, the national theatre is a tribute to the performing arts for Costa Ricans’ – or Ticos’ – love of performance. We paid three dollars for the tour, and the guides arranged and English speaking guide, Alexandra. She walked us through the theatre explaining how the people of Costa Rica wanted the very best theatre in the world, so they imported all the materials from around the globe where they make the very best. As a result, the marble features, gilded cherubs, and fresco paintings look more European than Costa Rican.
        Even the subject matter was influenced by the European artists, the most famous mural in the building created by a painter from northern Italy. While it celebrates the coffee harvest, it features Italian-looking women dressed more for high society than for picking coffee, which appear to be cranberries and not actual coffee beans. The scene is set on Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast where the coffee is pictured growing in the sand, and not in the high altitude soil where it achieves the best flavor. Despite these flaws obvious to Ticos, the painting is celebrated and is featured on the five colòn note. The entire building stands as a monument of pride built by the coffee barons.
        “In Costa Rica, everything has a legend,” Alexandra explained. “And our theatre is not without a legend. Do you believe in ghosts?”
        “Of course we do,” Tony said.
        “Well I’ve got a ghost story for you. Let’s sit down here and you can listen.” We sat down in the Minister of Culture’s box. “They say a theatre is not a theatre without a ghost, and this theatre has a ghost they say. They say the ghost looks like a tour guide.”
        There is an awkward pause and she bursts out laughing on cue as she twirled her long, curly brunette hair around her index finger.
        “I scare you for a moment?” She laughs again. She speaks English well, and she was following the script with precision, however her dramatic and comedic timing got lost in translation.
        “Anyway, they say the guy who was painting the squares on the ceiling, he lost his balance and he fall way down and hit his head first on the floor. The workers who were making the chandelier were down on the level and they got scared because the painter fall and hit his head right next to them. And so, as with most things in Costa Rica, life goes on, and people started making fun and it is now a legend.”
        She laughs as if she’s delivered the final punch line in a stand up comedy routine.
        “That is the end of our tour. But before you go I have one more thing to tell you.” She clasps her hands as if a schoolteacher revealing the secret of third grade. “In Costa Rica, we have this saying, ‘pura vida.’ It means everything is good. All is good, in order, and it means it’s from the heart. From the soul. So when you see someone from Costa Rica, if you want to pay them the highest compliment, tell them, ‘Pura Vida.’”

* * *

        At the Canyon House that night, Brandon sat down on the sofa with me. Another guest, Hector, from Denver had checked in and he was fluent in Spanish. So over the course of the evening, I was able to learn that Brandon is 25, he’s married, and has a two-year-old boy. His wife lives in Guapiles, and he sees her and his boy once a week. He works at the Canyon House because he’s paid well and it’s much better work than he could find at home. He brought a digital camera and paged through photos of him, his boy, Brandon Junior, his wife, and friends. He inherited an island on the Pacific coast and is currently trying to sell it so he can buy a new car, but the federal government is making it difficult.
        I grabbed my laptop and opened it. “Photos my su casa,” I said. He grabbed the laptop out of my hands to get a closer look. I started up Google Earth and entered the address for our new condo.
        “My su casa.” I pointed to the bubble arrow as it zoomed in to a satellite view of our new condo.
        “This your su casa?” He drew a box around an entire city block.
        “No. Uno unit. Mucho mucho units.”
        “Ah.”
        I pointed to the block next door, home to Harpo Studios. “Oprah su casa.”
        “Oprah?”
        “Oprah Winfrey su casa.”
        “Ah! Oprah Winfrey! Oprah Winfrey su casa.”
        I scrolled over to the Sears Tower and pointed. “Sears Tower.”
        “World Trade?”
        “No. World Trade Center, New York. Sears Tower, Chicago.”
        I typed in San Jose, Costa Rica and the program zoomed out, refocused to Costa Rica and then zoomed in quickly. His eyes lit up with excitement and he called the other workers over to take a look.
        “Guapiles! I show you my su casa!” I typed in Guapiles, Costa Rica and the program re-centered and zoomed in to his hometown. He pointed to his house.
        “Muy bien,” I said.
        I took him to Barnes Place.com, and showed him pictures of Long John, Buster, and Sheleata Kanatuna. Sheleata’s name did not phase him, and he says, while making a motion of a puffy stomach, “Gato?”
        “No. Just big bones.”
        He was amused by Buster and Long John. “I have, ah, boxer and don’t know how to say it. Big dog. Like Marmaduke.”
We moved to photos of parties. He pointed to a photo of friends. “Gay?”
        “Muy gay.”
        He pointed to a photo of Dan. “Dan?”
        “Yes. Muy, muy gay.” He laughed.
        We looked at a wedding in Southern California, scenery from Oregon, and subdivisions in suburban Salt Lake City. We spent a couple hours paging through the digital images on my computer and on the Web. When it was time to say good night, I closed my computer.
        I turned to him. “Brandon, ca papa. Pura vida.”
        He smiled, grabbing my hand. “Ca papa. Pura vida. Buenos notches, Tim.”