The boiling water of the morning

The toilet had been clogged for three days, and no one noticed. I decided that this morning was finally the day I tell the host, a older, Hollandese woman, that the bathroom needed attention. Sheepishly, I practiced in my head explaining that I did follow the instructions for not flushing toilet paper, and the cause was something else. The host is a tall woman with blue eyes and a wild flame of silver hair flowing from the top of her head. She is wonderfully silly and whimsical. She says delightful things like, here is the bathroom, but you will be attacked by limes, referring to the overgrown lime tree guarding the entrance to the outhouse.

Her boyfriend is a older Tico man who lives with her. They quietly eat dinner together, but he often removes himself from attention when guests are around. They receive directions and beach recommendations in bright, rapid, sharp, square sounds of English. He introduced himself once to me and I remained distant, distant with suspicion, as I am suspicious of older men.

In the house, he does not seem to expect to be noticed and makes himself useful around the farmhouse. There is much to do.

One morning after the rain, I found my motorcycle carefully covered in a tarp. I had to search for my helmet in frustration. I was in a hurry. Everything felt urgent then. Maybe I was in a bad mood. I found the helmet by the side of his bed with the other helmets. His bed was also half porch and garage. Many of the house rooms don’t have divisions or walls and double as something else.

This morning I woke up very early when it was barely light, as I always do. I sleep lightly. I think I have the nerves of a butterfly. When it is light, I can feel it through my eyelids. Lately, I feel so translucent and beautiful and willfully alive like this.

I used the bathroom again thinking, this can’t go on. It didn’t flush. And the smell was unbearable. Leo, the boyfriend, was the only one also awake. I put hot water on the kettle and went upstairs to pack while I waited for Saskia to wake up.

After some time getting lost sorting my two most important belongings, my clothes and my books, the most difficult to sort which to bring and which to keep behind, I realized I had left the stove on. I jumped up and ran downstairs. The stove had been turned off by Leo. I touched the kettle handle to see if the water was still hot and good for drinking.

Muy caliente, he said.

I was so grateful he turned it off.

I said yes, very openly and generously. I was being hard on myself, still learning to forgive myself for forgetting the stove.

I wanted to ask him to fix the toilet, but I had never interacted with him before. And it seemed unfair to start now because something needed to be fixed. It would be less embarrassing for me than asking Saskia and definitely would be accommodated. I really wanted to ask him because now it would also regulate the awkwardness and discomfort I felt not knowing what to say as I stood in this stranger’s kitchen. It would certainly calm me and momentarily place me in a position I’d become comfortable with, a foreigner, a guest, someone accommodated to.

I patiently made my cacao and waited for the host to wake up. While Leo disappeared, his coffee had started boiling, loudly and overflowing, spilling into the fire below it, turning it from blue to a bright orange. I turned off the stove and announced,

cafe está listo.

He ran over, momentarily embarrassed or startled by my loud voice, then saw that I had helped him in the same way he helped me earlier, no more and no less. He became delighted by this, being treated equally.

Enthusiastically, he commented on the mango I was eating. It’s mango season and the mango trees are dropping all over the house.

Rico mangoes, he said.

Si esta mejor frío,

I said, pointing to the fridge where I had stored mangoes overnight to cool.

He became more delighted that I responded to his comment with casuality, but more than that, a calibrated equality of status, a normal conversation, not a conversation between a foreigner and a paying guest and an ethnically mixed black tico.

Delighted and bound with new energy, he began to bounce around the kitchen, completing various tasks and humming happily. He seemed to disappear around the corner while I ate mangoes, still resisting the urge to ask about the toilet, especially when he walked by.

A few moments later, he returned with a nearly worried look on his face. Gravely, he asked, he explained to me, the avocados were also in season.

En serio,

I said, taking it seriously.

He said, yes, it’s a great time to buy them.

I was at a loss for how to reciprocate this. I simply said,

gracias.

His smile returned, sure that it was real. He was being seen and respected as an equal to me. He calmed down, no longer humming, just doing his chores with more purpose and confidence.

A few more moments, he walked by nervous, watching me. I peeled my boiled eggs with precision, without looking up, without making a fuss. Inside, I could feel the anxiety from him, from having been looked out without privacy, of being asked to do many things, and the times he was afraid and confused if he was truly acting from his will, confused if he was being accused or trapped. I felt all of that while I carefully pinched the salt onto my egg, without looking up, without reacting to his fear that I now felt inside. And I continued not to look, and he continued with himself, recovering from this morning’s moment of being seen without demand.

And when finally Saskia woke up, I told her about the toilet. She tried to fix it, and yet comically tore off the entire sink faucet, walked out of the outhouse, holding the faucet like a trophy, showing it to Leo to examine.