TICO TALES
An Unexpected Gift
When a Tico smiles at you, the sun comes out
Today was the day to run a few errands in town, pay my facturas (utility bills), hit the ATM, and grab a few groceries. It’s always a fun adventure, no matter what, and I always look forward to whatever surprises may befall me.
I was not disappointed this day.
Because it was Friday and close to the first of the month, there wasn’t a parking space to be had at any bank. The elderly parqueo attendant waved me away, with a huge smile (Is he flirting with me? I wondered), and it felt like he was inviting me to “come back later.” I giggled to myself.
So the next surprise was having to negotiate jam-packed one-way streets for about 30 minutes until I could worm my way two blocks over to the CoopeAgri for a kilo of Epsom salts for the garden (known in Costa Rica as sal inglaterra, or English salt. I have no idea why it’s called that). Again, no parking available.
By now I should know better than to come to town on a Friday morning. After circling a few more times, I gave up and decided to park behind the Aeropost/DHL office, where the friendly attendant sports a yoga-ball stomach and struggles to lift the gate to let me in. “Buen día, señora!” he smiled, grinning and staring a hole in my brain while handing me the little ticket with 10:45 scrawled on it. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back, responding, “Buen día! Cómo estás?” Thankfully, there was a line of cars behind me waiting to enter, and I was spared a more lengthy conversation.
While I was in the neighborhood, I stopped at the DHL office to see my rep Jordi, the most precious young man I’ve ever encountered, except for every other precious, adorable, handsome, smiling Tico guy in town. “Hola, Jordi! Cómo estás? I’m embarrassed because I lost my ID card and don’t remember my DHL address!” His smile was a beacon of sweetness and delight at seeing his favorite customer again (I’m sure this is true). “No problem! Let’s get your account updated.” My heart was pounding, wanting to be just a little closer to his heart.
Leaving the DHL office, some random elderly Tico stopped me on the street to say, “Pura vida!” Yeah, right. They see my blond hair and think I’m a sucker for a friendly greeting. Then he asked me if I spoke English. “Yes,” I said. “Y hablas Español?” “Sí, un poquito.” In Spanish, he peppered me with questions—where are you from? where do you live? it’s good that you are learning Spanish because you live in a Spanish-speaking country…. “ And more. Always with an expression that looked like he was barely able to keep himself from hugging me.
And that’s when I realized I had been speaking in Spanish with him — an actual conversation without even thinking about it. With smiles and solid eye contact. We said goodbye and walked away grinning, feeling good, and loving the pura vida.
Never, back in my home country, had I ever experienced anything remotely like this. Yet, this is normal behavior here. And I love it! I wallow in it.
Next stop, the pulperia, to pay my gas and electric bills. Joaquin, the proprietor, has been slow to warm up to me, and he speaks no English whatsoever. But he will try to stifle a grin when I massacre his language, and I keep trying because he’s my milk and beer guy! Today I sensed a breakthrough. I told him that I needed to pay my facturas, and I also needed una caja de huevos (literally, a box of 15 lovely brown eggs).
This is how it went:
ME: Buen día! Cómo estás! Necesito una caja de huevos, por favor, y pagar mis facturas.” I prided myself on my correct pronunciation, but now I know that I shouldn’t have felt that way. Not at all.
HIM: “Huevos?” (Like, “what’s that?”)
ME: “Si, huevos, por favor. Una caja.”
HIM: “Ah! Huebos!”
At last, a breakthrough. He was trying to show me by pursing his lips just so that I needed to hit that “V” sound with a bit more lip, to sound more like, but not exactly like, a “B”.
And then he laughed, wished me pura vida, and I left the store grinning like a drunken sloth.
When I arrived back in my own driveway, I was still grinning. Grinning BIG. I can’t describe the feeling, but it’s partly being welcomed — as an immigrant, as (an elderly?) woman, being treated with curiosity and respect, feeling hugged without ever being touched. Even by strangers. Let me tell you, it’s a beautiful thing.
Ticos have this remarkable gift, and it seems to me that they are constantly on the lookout for someone to give it to, or at minimum, to share it with. All it requires is for one to notice the gift is being offered and to accept it by looking deeply into the eyes of the giver and simply smiling back.
It’s electric. To make a connection like that with a perfect stranger is thrilling and uplifting. The only meaning is “I wish you pura vida and happiness forever and thank you for sharing this brief moment with me.”
And here’s the thing: Having been brought up by a “Christian” (Southern Baptist) mother, expressions of that nature were deeply frowned upon, touted as improper and borderline sinful. My culture “back home” seems to fear any direct expressions of “Hey! I appreciate you! Thanks for entering my life for this moment!” Nope. Just not done.
Thankfully, when I was a teenager, my father taught me how to give and, most importantly, how to receive this gift. Although he called it “flirting,” it was just his way of giving that same beautiful gift that Ticos give us every day. Here’s how my beloved father did that for me:
The French Lesson
One taste of that frothy cappuccino at Maxim’s that April afternoon changed her life.
Her father had taken her there to teach her how to flirt properly.
“The very next woman that passes us by will fall in love with me,” he predicted.
“Observez-moi, ma petite.”
Their eyes met. He smiled. The old woman flushed, straightened, smiled shyly, touched her hair, and moved past us with grace.
“So, my dear, now it’s your turn.”
Author’s note: Thank you for being here! Stay tuned for so much more Pura Vida!
