CR And Shit.

There is a sense of danger on the streets here. Everyone keeps their belongings close and no one wears anything in their back pockets. Fare for the bus is taken out ahead of time, so one isn’t caught looking through a purse in the presence of strangers. It is recommended that no one go out at night—I don’t agree. The sidewalk, even when well lit, has a sensation of suspicious activity. One is constantly being watched, and no one seems to think otherwise. The homes, as secure as they can be, have bars on the windows and alarms set to kill. Each house, no matter the neighborhood, has a fence encasing it scantily clad in barbed wire and spikes. It must be hard to be a teenager in this country. Not only would it prove difficult to sneak out of your bedroom window because of the metal bars, but surely the roof of the house directly next you ones would not appreciate the weight of an escapee. For a lot of places, there is literally no yard. Homes might as well just share spices kept on their respective spice racks and not bother with dry wall at all. Sound travels easily here, as no one makes any; safe for the children and the dogs about, they all feel it is rude to be noisy at night (less so in the morning). This would make having an underage drinking party especially difficult considering all they want to do is drink, dance, and screw. What else do they have to do?

It seems that wherever I go, I get stared at for standing out just a little. Whether it be my gaudily stripped t-shirt, or my rolled up, Capri-like skinny jeans. People are always staring. Oddly enough, most of the males have either a Mohawk or a rattail hanging from the back of their heads. That is what they should be concerned about. If you thought boobs were big in Utah, you should reconsider the thought. They are huge here, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Women wear tight fitted clothing (like everywhere) and some kind of support system that makes their chest stick out like a male erection. Finally, women are on par! Only kidding.

No one seems to mind that there is so much graffiti on the buildings that line the roads. Maybe they do mind, but no one seems to bother covering it up. I have to say, a lot of it is really impressive. Chelsea has been taking pictures of it, so if you’re interested, refer to her photo albums on the Faus when she uploads them. Art does exist in this culture, but not how one would think. There are a lot of places in towns that sell painted souvenirs and handmade bracelets (beautiful!), in addition to the evasive paintings on the walls of abandoned homes. There are galleries, but I doubt people attend them. I’ve visited the National Theater in downtown San Jose and there are some really pretty statues. The theater holds orchestras but as far as I can tell, no live theater. That is a bummer.

It is perfectly normal to see someone just laying on the sidewalk trying to catch a few hours of sleep before waking up to their life without many privileges. In addition, there are people who are trying to sell their different things (pork rinds, tortilla chips, cell phone cases, newspapers, etc.) in the streets—I don’t know how well it works, but if it works for them it works. There are also the select few who have to neat talent of being able to either ride a unicycle or juggle bowling pins. I’ve only seen two performers who can do both. These people also work on the streets, showing off for the cars that are stopped at traffic lights and collecting any money they can.

Costa Rica is a strange place. I like it here, but I’m ready to come home.