The Dancing Dress

  N, Costa Rica
Thursday, August 9, 2007

Well, I made it back to Costa Rica and I spent the first days unpacking and re-organizing my room. I seemed to have acquired an inordinate amount of THINGS. I honestly don't understand how that much STUFF came out of my two suitcases. You know what I'm talking about, the things that creep into your life, cluttering your countertops and dishevelling your drawers. But I managed to tame it all and cram the majority of it back where it belongs. In my suitcases. Under my bed.
 
The first few days, my room was a war-zone. Girl against Mess. My host dad waved a flag of truce and managed to pull me out of my room to crash a wedding. Technically, we didn't crash it as my host mother was invited, so by virtue of proximity, we were invited, too.
 
I threw on the Caroline dress.

The Caroline Dress

That was my second mistake. The first was deciding to go and brave crowds of Spanish speaking Ticos (my Spanish was atrocious after a month of dis-use. Which only goes to prove the adage, "Use it or lose it.") I really love this dress, despite my inhibitions donning two years ago to go to Mass. For those of you who remember that fateful Sunday (Kira dressing in color for the first time that semester...) Thank you, again, Caroline, btw.
 
Most people have a signature outfit or an article of clothing that will always be associated with them in the memories of friends, acquaintances, and strangers who stop to stare and point. And being a Peace Corps Volunteer, having essentially two suitcases worth of clothes, the whole world becomes intimate with your two pairs of holey jeans and three ratty t-shirts.
 
I'm aiming to imprint this dress upon memories related to Kira the Volunteer. It stands out. It makes statements. It is bright. It is colourful and there's no way you can forget this dress once you've seen it. It's wonderful!
 
Anyhow, so my host dad and I walk boldly into the dance hall. It didn't help that the entrance was at the front of the hall. I felt as if the entire wedding party, every guest and all the onlookers had immediately tuned into us, The Uninvited. My dress must have a flash mode. But seeing as how it was a typical Costa Rican wedding, the more the merrier and really, no one minded, except yours truly.
 
My host parents got up to dance. They invited me. I rather reluctantly stood up and slowly walked over to them. Smack dab in the center in front of the stage where the band was playing. There are several basic dance steps that one needs to learn in order to not make a fool of oneself in such situations. Unfortunately my feet failed me upon this occasion. You might have heard that gringos can't dance. Well, instead of breaking down this cultural barrier and stereotype, I fully defined and embraced it.
 
The kindest way to describe what my feet were doing was shuffling in place. As for my arms and hands, well, perhaps they were perfecting 45 degree angles. To top it off, the song lasted for about 7 minutes. I was in shame. As soon as the song ended, I slunk back to my seat. There's a reason why I don't dance. People need to respect that. Ticos don't really understand that, unlike them, I was not born with an internal rhythm. Curse them and their Latin groovy-ness.
 
Anyhow, to wrap things up, I managed to sneak back home with what was left of my dignity a bit after the food was served. My host mother looked disappointed that I declined to stay for dancing after dinner.