The purpose of living with a host family is to provide an immersive language experience. A good host family understands what it means to learn a language even though they are not language teachers. They speak to you first in Spanish and only when absolutely necessary (and only if they know English) do they speak in English. Otherwise, much gets left unsaid or is misunderstood but, oh well. Usually it’s not critical except on my first afternoon. Olga felt she had to pantomime, twice how I was to lock all the doors when I left and always, always take my keys. She’s since stopped asking me if I have my keys when I go out. I think I’ve passed her test by not once locking myself out of the house. I can’t tell her that I need a new towel because mine stinks without some pantomiming myself, but I know for locking doors.
William speaks a little bit of English with a very thick accent and Olga, not at all. Yet, they are not trying to learn English, from me anyway. They speak slowly and simply, until they don’t. But they are excellent at detecting glazed over eyes accompanied with a blank stare. At that point, they start over from the top, slowly, and generally with more gesticulating the second time around.
More important than speaking simply and slowly is that a great host family engages with you. The last time I did this, Scott (my ex) and I lived with separate but related families who lived next door to one another. That was convenient except that the families were feuding. I don’t remember if we ever knew why but I lived with a young couple and their two-year-old. They were very quiet, didn’t join me for meals, and left me alone. At night, I’d hear Scott and his much larger family whooping it up. They’d be laughing and playing cards and probably, drinking. He was the center of attention and they loved his goofiness. All I really learned from my family was, “Venga Susana!” (“Come Susana!”) That command wasn’t for me, although I snapped to whenever I heard it. Instead, it was for their two-year-old who shared my name and was always wondering off. Pretty sure Scott learned to swear in Spanish.
This time though, my family is wonderful. Olga and William have hosted many students and are infinitely kind and patient. They genuinely like people. Their house is modest. There are three small bedrooms in the front of the house that they rent to students and travelers (AirBnb). There is a shared bathroom with tepid water on demand if you don’t turn the shower on past a dribble. This time of year it doesn’t matter, though, as I can’t imagine taking anything but a cold shower. So what if the soap never really gets rinsed out of my hair. It is limp and lifeless in this humidity anyway. Besides, the presence of soap makes my hair—and maybe me—smell better.
Olga cooks breakfast and dinner for all of us and we sit outside at a picnic table together to eat. We make small talk (very small talk). As I’ve been increasingly able to put whole sentences together, Olga has become more engaged with me. I flatter her cooking because she is an excellent cook and tomorrow I am helping her make gallo pinto, a national dish eaten for breakfast.
William was in the fish business at one point. Not sure what he did but now he buys fish daily for the small restaurant they are leasing. Their grown daughter bartends at the restaurant and their son-in-law works the desk at the adjacent hotel. A few years ago their son-in-law talked them into advertising on AirBnb so now they get budget travelers coming to the area in addition to students like me. It’s currently the United Nations here as I’m sharing the bathroom with a couple from Italy and a Frenchman and his Mayan girlfriend.
My room is the biggest of the three rooms, but it is small. I can walk between the wall and the double bed. There’s a bedside table and some shelves for my things. There is a large window that looks out onto the back courtyard but I have to keep the heavy curtains closed for privacy. There is no air-conditioning, just one powerful fan mounted on the wall at the end of the bed. At night I turn it on high and hope I don’t get blown out of the bed.
William and Olga work hard, very hard. They are not wealthy but they’re doing okay it seems. Or at least they seem to live at the level of other Quepos’ families. They have cell phones, a TV, good internet but they drive an ancient car. Nobody is wearing fancy clothes. The house is cement block with a metal roof. They sleep in bunk beds in a room at the back of the house with no windows. Their 20-something son, Willie, sleeps in a trundle bed with them when all the front rooms are occupied.
Last Thursday Olga did my laundry. Friday morning at breakfast she told me how pretty my shirts were. My shirts are nothing special but they are more than the simple t-shirts that Olga wears. Living with them is a constant reminder of how much excess I have. I brought 4 pair of shoes. Olga wears the same flip flops every day. William wears ratty shorts and “wife beater” white t-shirts every day.
Yet they couldn’t be nicer and more kind to one another. They have been together for 25 some years and started living together when Olga was just 15. William is 7 years older. They speak affectionately to each other and often laugh together. In the afternoons, Olga makes them coffee and they sit down side by side and dip their cookies into their afternoon coffee.
