Twittering

A Placeholder As We Are

        The stupid American in me is easily overwhelmed in a foreign country. It started with the immigration and customs paperwork that we completed on the airplane as we began to descend into Valle Central where we’re making our first stop in Costa Rica’s capital, San Jose. It’s one simple question tripping my stupid American ways; How many people in your family are traveling with you?


        Reading that question is like taking a blow to the chest from donkey hooves. No matter how I calculate, the answer is zero. To answer any differently would be to lie and possibly open myself up to the sort of questioning tripping one up in the customs and immigration process generally reserved for segments on Dateline. I drew the universal placeholder on the form indicating I have no one in my family, and wonder if that simple act diminishes the importance of Tony in my life.
        I have one person in my family, but my government doesn’t recognize that. In fact, my family is illegal in several states of the union. Unconstitutional in my former home, Georgia. We have the equivalent of a license in Vermont, but it’s just a scrap of paper anywhere else.
        If I were to be true to myself, I’d mark the number one, and I’d explain that my government doesn’t recognize my family. I’d explain we are together, and have been saving up frequent flier miles and money so that we could take our first vacation to a non-English speaking country. But how do you explain that in Spanish?
        So on the occasion of completing an official form to enter another country, I’m nothing more than a single man traveling with a friend.
        “Just trust me and Google and we should be fine.” Dan pulled a Web page printout of a map of Costa Rica indicating regions with Malaria risk. Dan and his family of zero, Sean, have made the trek to Costa Rica to properly toast Tony as he enters his fifth decade. Together, we’re four independent families of one. I had called Dan in the middle of the night the evening before and had told him about my run-in with the Sea Turtle girl at REI and her foreboding malaria warnings.




        Much as Costa Rica is considered an oasis of political stability the midst of a turbulent region, we must find spots where we know we are safe in a world that often appears to be more hostile towards us, as our leaders speak out against us. We have put a lot of trust in Google, the Internet guiding our itinerary as we move from one gay oasis to the next, where four independent families can safely relax as the two we like to recognize and honor. Goggle led Dan and I to the Canyon House, a gay bed and breakfast in San Jose, that not only looked and sounded like paradise, but the staff offered to pick us up at the airport.
        Figuring out the scene at the airport was overwhelming. Immigrations and customs was like a cattle stock yard where we mimicked the person in front of us, not really understanding what we were doing at any particular point in the process.
        A scene of commotion erupted in Spanish amidst an afternoon tropical rain shower when we walked out of the terminal. There was a barrage of drivers holding signs with names of those they were looking to transport. We had to push through the crowd, as people grabbed our luggage out of hands. I wasn’t sure what they were saying, but I assumed they wanted to help carry our luggage. We found a young man holding a “Canyon House” sign, and were able to connect through a variety of modified gibberish and hand gyrations, and learned his name was Brandon. He had a diamond earring that sparkled along with his relaxed smile. A rosary hung around his neck. In the pocket of his jeans was his cell phone and a can of mace.
        Brandon and another gentleman took our bags and led us across the street to a parking deck. A gentleman wearing a safari cap was sitting on the hood of a baby blue Toyota Land Cruiser.
        “Canyon House, welcome,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Herolf. Which one is Anthony?” We introduced our selves while Brandon and the other gentleman loaded our luggage into the back of the vehicle.
        “Tip,” the nameless gentleman said, and it occurred to me he wasn’t with the Canyon House, but was just an opportunistic freelance skycap.
        “Tony, this guy needs a tip,” I said. He opened his wallet and paid him what Tony felt was a sufficient tip, and then the man turned to me. He was looking for me to tip him as well.
        “He tip.” I pointed to Tony. I wanted to explain to him that we’re together. He tips. He carries the money. I figure out the theme and agenda. He handles the details. We’re a family unit. But I didn’t know how to explain this with my rudimentary restaurant Spanish skills, and if I could, I don’t know if my family would be recognized as more than a zero.
        The four of us and Brandon hopped in the back of the land cruiser. Our bags were piled between the two benches lining each side of the vehicle.


        Brandon sat across from me. He pointed to my Queer Republic t-shirt and straightened it to read the front. “Trick-O-Matic: Just Add Booze.”
        “What?” Brandon’s smile sparkled. I didn’t know how to say it’s a funny shirt. He laughs, I’m sure because--in the absence of a language to communicate--I’ve become completely speechless.
        Herolf drove us through the streets of San Jose. The route was confusing as we bounced in the back of the vehicle. There are no seatbelts, and we are easily thrown on top of our luggage and each other. I’m not sure we would have ever been able to find the Canyon House on our own. Nor could we have ever explained to a taxicab where we were going. As he drove, Herolf handed us printed driving directions to give to a taxi when we’re out and about. On the bottom are instructions in English on how to call the Canyon House collect if we need to.
        Herolf turned down a gravel road of non-descript homes where cows graze on the front lawn amongst clothing hung on laundry lines. Barbed wire and security fences keep the animals in and I assume the wildlife out. Dogs, chickens, and roosters patrolled the streets, and they welcomed us by running alongside the car.
        We arrived at the Canyon House, where a tropical courtyard greets guests. We walk through the house onto a portico overlooking a pool and a balcony. The windows and doors are all open. Rattan furniture rests under palm trees. We are sitting on the ridge of a tropical canyon. The sound of whitewater rapids cutting through the forest echoes in the canyon below and birds sing out and soar back and forth over the treetop canopies.




        “Make yourselves at home, boys,” Herolf said. “Be sure to let us know if you need anything.”
        “Your English is good, Herolf. Where are you from?” Dan asked.
        “I’m from Norway, but my boyfriend is from L.A.” He pointed to the bookshelf with a picture of the two of them. “We’re married in Norway, but that doesn’t mean anything in the United States. We wanted to find a place that we could live, where it is warm and beautiful, and where we could be as we are.”
        We had found a place where we can speak few words and our family is more than a zero, and we can be as we are.