“Happy”
Delaney Vail

Later I found out that the taxi didn’t come because my Internet was down, so I never confirmed the ride. But I didn’t know that, so I sat and waited on my host mother Mamatica’s porch, looking out through the dark bars and metal gate that clanged at the slightest touch, standing sentry over the driveway. Sliding out of the darkness, a frail but groomed tabby wound his way through the bars and around my legs. I decided to call him Selva, and spoke in Spanish to him so that people walking by would think that he was mine. Protected from San José by the bars and my cat, I leaned against the cold door, and convinced myself that I was sad there was no taxi. Trying to feel how I thought I should, I recounted in my head all the stories I’ve heard about the excitement of Costa Rican nightlife. It was my friend’s birthday, which was the only reason I’d agreed to go out in the first place, so we’d go to some club, I’d get to have amusing conversations with the locals, learn to salsa dance, and it’d be great. Internally I rearranged my thoughts, twisting them up so that even I couldn’t determine exactly how I felt. But when I finally left Selva in the chilly night air and went inside, all that twisting unraveled and I breathed freely. It was dark inside since my Mamatica didn’t enjoy small talk and went to bed at 7 each evening, which thankfully left me with no choice but to go upstairs and read. I wasn’t a good traveler – I should be feeling sad, not relieved.

At the research stations we were all on an even playing field. It didn’t matter that I didn’t make close friends easily or couldn’t dance. The fourteen of us Biology students spent every moment with each other, living in run-down cabins mid-renovation. I didn’t have to try to be friends with them, it just happened. We all could joke about the freezing showers and crazy things our professor did in class. I remember one of our research projects involved sitting in a steaming room on damp smelly sheets with two of my friends, as we timed how long frogs could jump. Yet those hours passed easily, bonding over how one of our frogs jumped for an hour straight or laughing until it hurt at the PLOP sound of one frog making a bid for freedom straight into the dish of paint. I loved those times. But things changed in the city, and it felt like all of a sudden I was coming in with a lot fewer cards on the table than I thought. I had the 2 of “slowly making friends” and the Jack of “long conversations”. I looked everywhere, but I just couldn’t find my Ace of “having energetic conversations with complete strangers”.

In the beginning of our homestay, we banded together because we knew nothing else. I was glad to not be the only person looking around in ill-disguised surprise at the lack of traffic lights, fruit vendors calling prices in our ears, and the imposing office buildings overshadowing the fast food restaurants with Spanish menus that littered the sides of the roads. Soon though, my classmates recovered from their city shock. Within a few days the city-goers in our small program were already making plans to go salsa dancing. They had heard about a great club while chatting with some guy at the bus stop, and were figuring out outfits and taxis. Just the mention of these plans made my stomach clench. My brain started whirring with ideas, and by the end of the day I always had my excuse ready. I could always blame it on my poor dancing without them knowing that really all I wanted was to either be home alone or hang out with just them. No strangers. No new friends that you probably wouldn’t keep anyways.

Eventually though, my excuses dried up and I agreed to go out with everyone to a bar one last time before we left the city. This time the taxi came, and I scrunched into the leather seats with my friends as our driver narrowly wove in and out of the crowds of Ticos that no time for crosswalks and instead roamed all over the road. I had already mentally counted and recounted the money we would need to pay him, retrieved it and my passport copy from my money belt, and carefully rearranged my loose shirt so that the belt was once again invisible.

Outside the bar, the sign blazed unforgivingly down on me, staining everything around it with red neon light. Looking around, I almost forgot I was in Costa Rica. The street felt exactly like downtown Austin on a Saturday night. Girls in high heels and leather pants walked in large flashy groups or arm in arm with guys wearing band T-shirts and black jeans. Spanish words I probably should’ve understood after six years of classes cut back and forth across the street, fading away in the mixture of salsa and pop music tumbling out of the club doorways and open windows, each with their own unique neon light flashing its beer labels to the street.

The Ticos ignored us as we waited in line outside. They were used to awkward tourists; this country lived and breathed ecotourism. Still, I tried not to meet anyone’s eye and continuously checked the clock on my phone, my back to the street. As we walked inside, I focused on looking normal, casual, like I knew what I was doing.

That red neon light was inside the bar as well, casting itself across the walls and floor. It had followed me, challenging me, asking me why was I there. The light sliced through the traces of smoke that hung in the air, unwilling to leave. After looking around the crowded bar for a few minutes, my friend found a small table, and we all pushed into the seats, sipping from our overly large beer bottles. I began to relax and hadn’t checked my phone for some time when my friend left and came back with four Ticos. Introductions were made, and I learned that Hanna had met these guys during my friend’s birthday night, gotten their numbers, and decided to meet up with them again. Just like that. So simple. So easy.

Soon I needed to go to the restroom and when I came back I found that I had lost my prime spot, where I could sit in the middle, listen to everyone talk and generally look normal while not having to contribute unless someone talked to me; I was too busy feeling uncomfortable to add my own comments. I edged into a chair at the end of the table, cupped my beer tightly in both hands and took fake sips just to do something, glaring back at the red light that bored into me off the reflective glass. I don’t like beer. Why did I even order it? Once in a while I would switch one hand to my phone to check the time.

I entertained myself by looking at the Ticos at the other end of the table and wondering who they were and what they did, making up stories in my head. And this was all fine until I made eye contact. One of them motioned for me to come over and pulled up a chair. He had stringy blank hair almost touching his shoulders that framed a smiling face and was capped by a baseball hat with some Costa Rican beer label branded onto it. There was an excitable demeanor about him as he fidgeted with his glass. The first question he asked when I sat down was, “Qué pasa? And why so unhappy?” I shrugged and told the truth, that I was never good at situations like these.

“Well that’s stupid. You have to experience! Me llamo Warren. Want to practice Español?” Most Ticos just speak in defeated English to tourists, accepting that we probably don’t know Spanish, but Warren blended both languages easily for me.

Refreshed by this change of pace, I poured my concentration into speaking and understanding. I learned that the Warren had studied computer science and wanted to be an engineer, but if I understood right he was currently a professional hacker. Javier worked as a chef. Pablo did something. The last guy wore a purple shirt, and I didn’t want to ask for his name again, but he surfed. They all surfed actually, but not as much as Purple-Shirt. I told them about our program, conveyed in broken Spanish a few random facts about myself. We went back and forth asking questions with a lot of translation on Warren’s part; foreign language was never my best subject.

I’m not sure how much time passed, but eventually our group decided to head home. Warren wrote his full name on a red napkin so I could find him online and said we should talk more, be amigos. I smiled and automatically said, “Yeah, definitely!” because that’s what you’re supposed to say.

I tried hard not to jangle the lock as I stepped through the gate into the protection of my Mamatica’s house. Feeling something brush my legs, I looked down and saw Selva there, welcoming me home. Back up in my room, I took off my coat and found the napkin in a side pocket. Without a second glance, I threw it away. I hated that I did it, but I also knew that I had no regrets. Thinking back on it, I still don’t know why I tossed it. And why it was so easy for me to do. It was a fine night and I’m glad I went out. Warren was a fun person. He wanted to be my friend. But I had no desire to talk to him again. I can chat with someone for a while, but make a real friendship? That’s a different matter.

I wished I were willing to make friends as easily as Hanna. I wanted to want to fully embrace San José nightlife. And yes, I really wanted to make friends. Just not that way. Not the way that involves red lights and beers bigger than my face. Instead, I was just glad to be home, packing for the next research station and chatting online with my friends back home. Away from that neon glow, I really wished I wasn’t happy. But I was. I was just happy this way.