We came home bleary-eyed last night around 2:00. The last train out of Boston was an Ashmont, so we had to ride to Fields Corner and pick up the 210 bus, which let us off at the base of Beal Street. We walked the deserted streets of Wollaston, hunched under our backpacks, wondering just how we got there, and where the monkeys were.
Coming back from a trip is never easy. Most times maybe I'm not happy, but at least resigned to coming back. This time, though there are a lot of good reason to be here, I could have spent an indefinite amount of time wandering Central America. Two days ago I would watch troops of monkeys cross the road on telephone wires. They tried to break into our hut. I'd pass a couple of easy minutes talking to Rastafarians, some of the nicest people I've ever met. The cranky Australian who ran the grocery store simply elicited my curiosity. What could possibly make you so cross? There's nothing in the world that important.
And the heat.
I understood why writers seclude themselves in the jungle, or on a beach, or in the case of Costa Rica, by both, to write in the early morning hours. You don't think in that heat. That particular intellectual pursuit transforms into a dream state. It just bubbles up. Oozes in your skull and runs out your ears. It makes perfect sense, until you try to explain it to someone or put it on paper, and you can't figure out how you made that leap.
So, four hours after coming home Sue was primed with coffee and off to court. A hot shower was a delight, as sweet as a Popcicle is in July. And I was back to my house husband routine, which I actually like. Washing three weeks of stink out of my clothes, picking up the mail, making bread, picking up our little boy who we both missed so much and still made the jokes with which we always tease him. Fart Blossom was the least of the name-calling.
Pura Vida is the life in Costa Rica. But it is here, too. You just have to look a little deeper.
Showing posts with label Costa Rica. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Costa Rica. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, September 10, 2007
CAFTA...and free trade
At the beginning of October, Costa Rica will be voting on CAFTA, the Central American Free Trade Agreement. I’m not sure what “free trade” is. I’d be willing to bet the name’s a bit misleading. On the surface it’s a treaty between Costa Rica and the United States to do business without tariffs. But there’s a lot more to it than that. If it were that simple it wouldn’t have the intense debate that seems to be swirling around it.
I just heard about it last week, so I’m not going to pretend I know anything about it.
But, a few things: When the United States embarked on free world trade, we didn’t vote on it. Congress, or the president—someone or somebody; see I don’t even know who—just said this is the way it’s going to be. Costa Ricans get to vote on it. Score one for the Costa Ricans.
Another thing: Last week I was in Costa Rica working with a company that builds Web sites for the agency I work for. There are about 150 people working at the company, 150 jobs that aren’t in the United States. I’m not grousing about the loss of job. I only point that out because at a company like that, one that clearly stands to benefit from CAFTA, or TLC as it is known by its Spanish lettering in Costa Rica, there are opponents to the agreement. Doesn’t make sense, does it? You’d think these people would see the clear benefit of such an agreement. More jobs offloaded to Costa Rica from the U.S.
But maybe they know something others don’t know.
Way back when, when the so-called paradigm shifted in corporate America, corporations said they could no longer guarantee a lifetime job, but what they could provide was training and growth, and when it was time to move on, workers could take that training and growth to their new companies. This could keep corporations competitive, lowering costs and overhead. Workers thought this was a deal, the old what’s good for GM is good for America. (Imagine they swallowed that old chestnut!) The big thing was, American workers had all of their money tied up in stocks and 401(k)s. So, basically, American workers opened up a vein to keep the Dow Jones pumped up and so they could have money when they retired. What they missed was there was a whole lot of living to do before they retired. There were cars to buy and fix and mortgages to pay and college tuition bills to absorb. But those jobs corporate America promised weren’t there. They were in India and obviously places like Costa Rica. So they couldn't afford cars and houses and education. We know, said all the big, fat, white men is suits, let's come up with free trade, since no one can afford our stuff here in the U.S., let's come up with a way to sell it in other countries. (See, the middle-class, which traditionally bought all the stuff America produced was shrinking, so corporate America had to build another middle-class somewhere else.)
Production (jobs) went off-shore and we started down that road to being information-driven. The U.S was going to strategize. Ideas were the only thing we’d manufacture. Information would be the only product the U.S. ultimately produced, while the rest of the world actually made the hard product itself. The advice here was change…change jobs, the way you think, the way you work. Hell, change your underwear, as long as you changed something. But it doesn’t always work out, because there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Exactly how many MBAs do you need to write a marketing plan?
The only reason I bring this up is because any time rich businesspeople float an idea past you, you can be certain the first people who are going to benefit from the idea is them.
I just heard about it last week, so I’m not going to pretend I know anything about it.
But, a few things: When the United States embarked on free world trade, we didn’t vote on it. Congress, or the president—someone or somebody; see I don’t even know who—just said this is the way it’s going to be. Costa Ricans get to vote on it. Score one for the Costa Ricans.
Another thing: Last week I was in Costa Rica working with a company that builds Web sites for the agency I work for. There are about 150 people working at the company, 150 jobs that aren’t in the United States. I’m not grousing about the loss of job. I only point that out because at a company like that, one that clearly stands to benefit from CAFTA, or TLC as it is known by its Spanish lettering in Costa Rica, there are opponents to the agreement. Doesn’t make sense, does it? You’d think these people would see the clear benefit of such an agreement. More jobs offloaded to Costa Rica from the U.S.
But maybe they know something others don’t know.
Way back when, when the so-called paradigm shifted in corporate America, corporations said they could no longer guarantee a lifetime job, but what they could provide was training and growth, and when it was time to move on, workers could take that training and growth to their new companies. This could keep corporations competitive, lowering costs and overhead. Workers thought this was a deal, the old what’s good for GM is good for America. (Imagine they swallowed that old chestnut!) The big thing was, American workers had all of their money tied up in stocks and 401(k)s. So, basically, American workers opened up a vein to keep the Dow Jones pumped up and so they could have money when they retired. What they missed was there was a whole lot of living to do before they retired. There were cars to buy and fix and mortgages to pay and college tuition bills to absorb. But those jobs corporate America promised weren’t there. They were in India and obviously places like Costa Rica. So they couldn't afford cars and houses and education. We know, said all the big, fat, white men is suits, let's come up with free trade, since no one can afford our stuff here in the U.S., let's come up with a way to sell it in other countries. (See, the middle-class, which traditionally bought all the stuff America produced was shrinking, so corporate America had to build another middle-class somewhere else.)
Production (jobs) went off-shore and we started down that road to being information-driven. The U.S was going to strategize. Ideas were the only thing we’d manufacture. Information would be the only product the U.S. ultimately produced, while the rest of the world actually made the hard product itself. The advice here was change…change jobs, the way you think, the way you work. Hell, change your underwear, as long as you changed something. But it doesn’t always work out, because there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Exactly how many MBAs do you need to write a marketing plan?
The only reason I bring this up is because any time rich businesspeople float an idea past you, you can be certain the first people who are going to benefit from the idea is them.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Making a splash in Costa Rica
I'm not sure how it happens because I tend to think of myself as more the quiet type, but I do make a splash now and again...good first impressions, or rather memorable first impressions.
Just this past weekend I drove down a sidewalk at Allison's new college. Well, it was going in the direction I needed to go and it was a big sidewalk although I thought it was more a small road.
And tonight, I get to my room kind of late, call Sue and we chat for awhile and when I hang up I call room service for a burger. Then I opened my second beer and start wailing on the guitar. I'm right in my rendition of It's a Heartache (you gotta hear it; it really cranks) when the phone rings. WTF, I think, I don't know anyone in Costa Rica, at least anyone who would call me at my hotel at this hour. It's the front desk. The guy from room service had been standing outside my room and I couldn't hear him knocking because I was playing and singing so loud. A little embarrassing.
But there's more...
I'm putting my tray outside my door after I've finished said burger and beer, when the door swings shut. Click. I'm locked outside my room.
Barefoot, wearing jeans with my shirttail out, I slap my way down the stairs on the tiled floor, thankful I wasn't in the shower and wearing just a towel, across the lobby with all of these people dressed up. The guy behind the front desk didn't even crack a smile. C'mon mae, get a sense of humor.
Just this past weekend I drove down a sidewalk at Allison's new college. Well, it was going in the direction I needed to go and it was a big sidewalk although I thought it was more a small road.
And tonight, I get to my room kind of late, call Sue and we chat for awhile and when I hang up I call room service for a burger. Then I opened my second beer and start wailing on the guitar. I'm right in my rendition of It's a Heartache (you gotta hear it; it really cranks) when the phone rings. WTF, I think, I don't know anyone in Costa Rica, at least anyone who would call me at my hotel at this hour. It's the front desk. The guy from room service had been standing outside my room and I couldn't hear him knocking because I was playing and singing so loud. A little embarrassing.
But there's more...
I'm putting my tray outside my door after I've finished said burger and beer, when the door swings shut. Click. I'm locked outside my room.
Barefoot, wearing jeans with my shirttail out, I slap my way down the stairs on the tiled floor, thankful I wasn't in the shower and wearing just a towel, across the lobby with all of these people dressed up. The guy behind the front desk didn't even crack a smile. C'mon mae, get a sense of humor.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Gatos y perros
My God, I forgot how it can rain in the tropics. And the locals take no more notice to it than they do the sunshine. We were sitting outside under an awning eating lunch, needing to raise our voices from the pounding of the rain on the awning, and lightning cracked and thunder boomed just off, and no one took notice. I couldn't help but looking to the side in amazement at all that water coming out of the sky, so suddenly.
The glamour of business travel
Long day yesterday, 11 hours, and here’s where people don’t understand about business travel. The grind. The long hours. Rarely do you get downtime to relax. Except for yesterday at lunch when Juan and Carolina took me to this local outdoor restaurant I’ve seen the inside of a warehouse and a Marriott. And the local neighborhood. I hired a taxi driver to take me to work everyday. Today he took a "better" route. We wound through neighborhoods which I love to see...even the squalor...that's what's real.
Which brings me to the Marriott. I sat at the same table at breakfast as I did yesterday, and started to itch. The mountains are off there. The lushness that surrounds the hotel is manufactured; a quick taxi ride outside the gates will tell you that, and I start to feel that uneasiness I’ve always feel in places like that, the feeling of being trapped by all of the politeness and luxury. Today the coffee wasn’t that good; it was watered down. The service was very poor. And what am I suppose to do? Complain like a spoiled American? I’d rather go get my own coffee. Or make it myself. Serve myself. I don’t need or want servants. I don’t like being coddled or served or cow-towed to. I don't like it when things are kept from me. Let's build a wall of lush greenery and gates and walls so we can't see the outside world. What's real out there..
Everything at the Marriott is manufactured to please someone’s warped idea of sensibility. The hotel is designed and decorated like a Spanish hacienda. Except the problem is, it isn’t a hacienda. It’s like Disney World all over again. Like a theme park or a carnival ride. All fake and contrived. And it wears on a person. It wears on me, that’s for sure.
Which brings me to the Marriott. I sat at the same table at breakfast as I did yesterday, and started to itch. The mountains are off there. The lushness that surrounds the hotel is manufactured; a quick taxi ride outside the gates will tell you that, and I start to feel that uneasiness I’ve always feel in places like that, the feeling of being trapped by all of the politeness and luxury. Today the coffee wasn’t that good; it was watered down. The service was very poor. And what am I suppose to do? Complain like a spoiled American? I’d rather go get my own coffee. Or make it myself. Serve myself. I don’t need or want servants. I don’t like being coddled or served or cow-towed to. I don't like it when things are kept from me. Let's build a wall of lush greenery and gates and walls so we can't see the outside world. What's real out there..
Everything at the Marriott is manufactured to please someone’s warped idea of sensibility. The hotel is designed and decorated like a Spanish hacienda. Except the problem is, it isn’t a hacienda. It’s like Disney World all over again. Like a theme park or a carnival ride. All fake and contrived. And it wears on a person. It wears on me, that’s for sure.
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