Love is in the House

After three buses and one taxi, I arrive at my Costa Rican home from last summer. My mama tica calls everyone over, and before I know it, the house is packed--padres, hermanos, tios, abuelos, amigos. I think it genuinely takes me half an hour to circle the room, falling into hug after hug--strong embraces, embraces that last so long they should be awkward. We sit around talking, filling each other in on what's happened during the past year. Roy, mi papa tica, making gay jokes about me again and chanting every English profanity he knows; Andoni, mi hermano, punching me and calling me "feo;" Rosi, mi mama, telling me stories and jokes and laughing so hard she can't breathe; Dillon, mi hermano, performing magic tricks and explaining how he finally got that girl Helen that he had been chasing last summer; and Glori, mi hermana (see photo on right), whipping out those Uno cards and making me dance to Lady Gaga with her. The house is packed with joking and laughing. My tia Juanita says things only she thinks are funny, her husband mutters some form of Spanish I never quite understand, and mi abuelo Papón recounts the glorious history of Costa Rica and his family. Love is in the house, and the house is packed. I hate my watch for flashing 9:00 and yelling at me to leave, but I have two hours of buses to take. Everyone makes me promise to come back next week, that they'll throw a real party next time. I begin my 30 minute lap of hugs around the room again.