Our family trip to Costa Rica

The slog of everyday life hasn't left me much room for inspiration when it comes to this blog, but a family trip down south— way south— sure serves as fodder. It's been a week since we've gotten back and I'm still dragging my feet on writing this up. My blogging began as a glorified photo album, so today I'll embrace that side. After all, a picture's worth a thousand words, right? So here's my Costa Rican novel.

En route to Costa Rica via an overnight in Mexico City, complete with some fabulous guac and tacos

A happy discovery along the ride to visit a volcano: the Starbucks Hacienda Alsacia, where we saw all the steps of coffee production, from seedling to ripening fruit to roasted bean.

Not too far from San Jose, the capitol of Costa Rica, lives the Poas Volcano, an active volcano, at least according to Wikipedia. As far as we were concerned, it might very well have been a quick hike over to a very large fog machine.

The La Paz Waterfall and Peace Lodge Gardens are a private animal sanctuary and resort for wild animals rescued from illegal capitivity that are not fit to be released to the wild. This place was a major highlight of our visit, and definitely merited more than just one collage. Here we've got the birds and butterflies, including the world's friendliest tucan.

The sloths at La Paz merit their own collage.

Monkeys at La Paz!

A few of the "cuter" snakes at La Paz - yikes!

The big (and not so big) cat at La Paz

The frogs at La Paz were unexpectedly charming, especially Costa Rica's iconic and highly photogenic red-eyed tree frog!

Scenes from San Jose, sculptures by the Costa Rican sculptor Deredia, and artefacts from the city's Pre-Columbian Gold Museum.

Finally, we headed down to the Caribbean just north of the Panamanian border, for afternoons on the white and black sand beaches, crisp Costa Rican beers, fruity cocktails, and fresh iced coffees straight from the coffee bean farms.

Our Airbnb in Puerto Viejo was nestled in the jungle just a few minutes from the beach.

Like good tourists, we checked off the jungle canopy zipline tour, complete with the stomach-dropping tarzan swing.

My favorite part of the vacation: the Caribeans chocolate tour. Just outside of the center of Puerto Viejo, we kicked off with some incredibly fresh iced chocolate drinks while waiting on our tour. Wandering into the jungle that hugs the coast line, our tour guide taught us all about cacao farming. As she walked us along the jungle trails and we developed an eye for it, we starting realizing that the cacao fruits were just everywhere around us, in so many different colors from bright yellow to pale green to deep purple-red. We learned about the fungus that's been devastating Costa Rica's cacao farms, destroying over 80% of the crop, a fungus which the locals believe was brought in by the big banana companies, who took over the land when cacao farmers went bust. (I loved how what they called "farms" were basically jungles carefully tended to ensure 50/50 sunlight/shade for the cacao plants.) We learned about new resistant strains that are being bred, to help Costa Rica's cacao farmers make a comeback. We learned that the cacao fruit is shockingly substantial, a white slimy tropical food so yummy that it surprised me that anyone got past it to realize that the bitter inner seed might have so much potential! And finally, we learned to taste chocolate, in an experience surprisingly similar to wine tasting, just without the buzz. We even learned that chocolate mixes surprisingly well, of all things, fresh garlic. And in case that wasn't enough, we got to know a very hardy sloth en route back to the cafe when a crash landing caught us all by surprise.

Finally, back in San Jose, we bid the rest of the family goodbye on an early morning flight, and then enjoyed the wait until our late night departure with a day trip out to Tortuga Island on Costa Rica's Pacific Coast. In a tropical paradise, just the two of us for the day, it nearly felt like the honeymoon we're still planning on getting around to.

Bernie!

The 2020 elections aren't exactly around the corner, but we're already feeling the Bern! And so were 16,000 of our friends in San Francisco this weekend! 🔥

Feel the Bern, San Francisco!

Parades! And other American things

A weekend to celebrate the luck of the Irish! Completely rational if you grow up in America, less so if you come from elsewhere. Never in France do the people across the country come out to spend the afternoon parading around another nation's flag. In fact, never in France do people spend the afternoon parading around, period. So St. Patty's Day was Nicolas's first shot at a proper American parade.

St. Patty's Day weekend in San Francisco

As an expat, you're always struck here and there by weird surprises the locals take for granted, from the sound of the police sirens to the times the restaurant kitchens close (or don't!). I took the chance to grill Nicolas on the culture shocks beyond the marching bands and dancing horses bearing American flags, now that it's been nearly four months since he became a proud resident of the good old U-S-of-A. In no particular order, here is the list of one fresh expat's American surprises:

• Massive supermarkets
• Food sold in obscene quantities— you'd have to feed a small army to keep it from spoiling!
• Strange products under lock, especially toiletries like deodorants or toothpaste. (I'm thinking this may be a San Francisco/big city thing?)
• Ever-present special offers in grocery stores à la 2 for $5
• Sales tax not included in the price tags
• Tipping! So much tipping! Everywhere!
• Neighbors in our building who don't greet each other when entering or exiting elevators
• Enormous cars (though it was to be expected)
• Free tennis courts
• The struggle to get a local to actually commit and stick to a scheduled time to play tennis (though I'm guessing the laid-back, tough-to-schedule bit is especially Californian)
• Shower heads that don't detach from the wall
• Hugs. Unwelcome hugs.

I especially adore that last one. As someone who had to endure years of the bise, that French cheek-kiss thing, I know exactly where he's coming from. Here's to another four months (and then some) on American soil!

Saying goodbye

How do you say goodbye to someone who you hardly feel you can remember? It's been a struggle this past week since my grandmother finally left us. The woman I'd known as Mom-mom had left us a long time earlier, to be replaced with a frail and confused old lady who struggled to place us. Mom-mom, or Grandma as she preferred, suffered with Alzheimer's for about 11 years. For a third of my life, she wasn't really herself. One of the most painful moments of my understanding this disease came two years ago, when we held our US wedding reception and Mom-mom couldn't be there. That was a harsh reminder of her reality. At times I found myself wishing for a merciful end, years before the time finally came. When a passing arrives that you've hoped for, when the person's departure hardly coincides with the moment you lost her, how do you patch together the words and feelings? There's a sense of relief and acceptance: for her and for all the wonderful family who's struggled through care-taking these last years. There's a terrible sadness that she's gone, a sadness that's been festering for years and can finally be released. And there's the horrible sense, surrounded by cousins telling stories of her that I'd never shared, that I should have better used the years we had. The most heart-wrenching part was Grandpa, that sweet old man, who's eyeing down his own final years, knowing that he'll be walking them alone from here on out. No one in the room could keep as a dry eye as he knelt beside Grandma's casket. I cannot imagine the strength it takes to say goodbye to the person with whom you raised 7 kids and shared over 60 years of married life. In times like these, I'm especially grateful for the amazing family that those two created. The band of cousins rallied together for a special-edition cousins campout, as we do, in honor of Grandma. At times like this, I am especially blessed to have such a big family to lean on.

We love you, Grandma. We always will.

Love you, Mom-mom.

Vesting!

One year under my belt and I am now officially and irrevocably the owner of a little piece of the stealth-mode startup that's staked its claim on my heart and soul. After all the personal sacrifices we made to exercise early, knowing that at least part of those stock options are now officially ours, no take-backs, is certainly cause for celebration! I hadn't expected this much anticipated milestone to be such an emotional roller coaster. Leaving the office tonight, I finally breathed deeply and just let the tears roll. It's been such a ride, an honor and a privilege but also a terrifying, stress-inducing, push-you-to-your-limits sort of role. I thought I'd gotten past that stage of life when I was handed my diploma back in 2009 and beelined out of the capital of IHTFP. (Google it.) Alas, it seems the masochistic #startup lifestyle draws me in like a moth to a flame. Today, one of the major startup stressors—namely the one-year vesting cliff—melted away. So the timing of San Francisco's Beer Week coinciding with my big anniversary was fortuitous, to put it mildly.

One year on the job, and therefore now officially and irrevocably owners of a small slice of my startup!

Here's to another year of wild rides! And this one with monthly vesting and no more immigration battles! Santé !

Our sunny Senegalese Christmas

It's hard to evoke the sunshine of the Senegalese coast from behind a rain-soaked window in the California winter.

The view outside my window today

Less than two weeks ago, we lifted off for our first foray into sub-Saharan Africa. Senegal is an excellent place for a trial run of exploration in this continent. Though the trip could have used a few more tourist attractions, it wasn't without some valuable experiences. And it may have been exactly the slowed pace we needed after the year we'd just endured.

We arrived after dark on Christmas Eve, haggled our way into a taxi, and eventually made our way to the coast line where we found ourselves a skiff (think glorified motorized canoe) to take us over to our Airbnb on the N'Gor Island, just off the coast of Dakar. This venue turned out to be one of our better decisions, an artist's escape mere miles yet a world away from the noise and pollution of the capital city, where the only sounds to lull us asleep were from the waves crashing against the cliffs.

Our Airbnb on N'Gor Island off the coast of Dakar

A maze of packaged dirt trails weave across N'Gor Island, past high walls and decorative doors that enclose the private residences and show off their inhabitants artistic talents.

One well-planned day is really all you need for Dakar, unless you plan to venture deep into the heart of the city's markets, not a place for the weak or soft-hearted. As a toubab, or white person, you'll be incessantly stopped in the streets of Dakar by locals trying to sell you something. The Senegalese never bother getting straight to the point of what they're vending, instead striking up endless friendly conversation, which makes them that much harder to shake and that much harder to turn down when they finally hit you with their wares. Needless to say, a bit of wandering through the streets past some of the major monuments, under the heavy heat a few blocks beyond the reach of the ocean breeze, was enough for us to decide that the markets were out of our league. 

A few highlights of Dakar, mostly its colonial buildings. Much of the city was so nondescript, either dilapidated single-story structures or characterless high-rises, that I didn't even realize I'd forgotten to photograph it until writing this blog post. I did, however, enjoy the nod to my dear leader (bottom right) propped up, quite appropriately, next to a trash heap on the side of the road.

After a half-day in Dakar spent dodging salespeople, haggling your way to a deal or two, eating freshly caught fish, and perhaps relaxing over a mint tea, a local speciality, it's worth spending an afternoon at Dakar's top tourist draw and Africa's first UNESCO World Heritage site, Gorée Island. Boats only leave every hour or two, so it's important to plan ahead and to come prepared. A visit to this island not only requires exact change for the fare but also a passport or other form of government-issued idea, something we were lucky to have had on hand. Honestly, the island in and of itself isn't much to see. What matters is what its simple buildings have seen. Gorée Island, located off the coast of Africa's western-most city, was a major point of departure for slave ships headed to the New World. About 33,000 of the approximately 15 million slaves traded over four centuries were held prisoner on Gorée Island before leaving for the New World, and plenty others couldn't hold on long enough to ever leave the island. One surprisingly historical tidbit I learned during our visit was that métisse women on Gorée held high social status. These women, referred to as signares, were often integrally involved in and personally profited from the slave trade, quite the opposite of the fate that would have awaited them on an American plantation. Gorée has become a sort of pilgrimage site for those seeking roots lost to the history of the slave trade, a destination for anyone from locals to the pope and US presidents. 

Gorée Island, Africa's first UNESCO World Heritage site and a place of pilgrimage for those commemorating the horrors of the trans-Atlantic slave trade.

Consciences thoroughly racked, we were ready for destination number two. A five-day trip is hardly enough to properly see the country of Senegal. We'd been forced to choose between a venture northward to the colonial city of St. Louis and southward to the finer beaches and fishermen's villages along the Petite Côte. Opting for the latter in search of a more authentically African experience, we hopped into a taxi on to Toubab Dialao, about an hour's drive south of Dakar. 

Sights along the route from Dakar to Toubab Dialao

It didn't take too many minutes on the road before the over-crowded mini busses and taxis started sharing the lanes with horse-drawn carts, and traffic slowed to avoid the goats and cattle wandering alongside it. It was fascinating to see so much development happening alongside such modest shacks where locals sheltered from the sun under corrugated tin roofs draped with spare fabrics. The city of Dakar has been undergoing rapid expansion. Only a year ago, the local airport had to close, with the city rapidly encroaching upon it, to be replaced by a larger and more modern facility well beyond the ever-expanding city boundaries. It will be fascinating to see what becomes of this country over the next few decades, if they continue to manage to keep the Islamic extremists outside their borders.

Although Senegal is a Muslim-majority country, about a quarter of its residents are Christians, a fact which doesn't seem to perturb the locals in the slightest. To the contrary, they generally enjoy celebrating each other's holidays.

Christmas wishes along the Dakar coast greeting those hopping onto the skiffs for N'Gor Island

Plenty of restaurants in Dakar were closed on Dec. 25 (to our chagrin) and many other buildings had little Joyeux Noël signs, Christmas trees, and garlands hung. And when the calls to prayer rung out from the mosque just next to our hotel in Toubab Dialao, the locals on the beach would hardly bat at eyelid as they continued sipping their afternoon tea. It's refreshing admidst all the horrible news you'll see these days to get to immerse yourself in such a warm, kind, and reasonable society where extremism has no foothold. The Senegalese we met were all adamant that such attitudes had no place in Senegal, which each local explained with what is clearly a broadly-used Senegalese expression, "On partage tout sauf nos femmes," literally translated as "We share everything except our wives." It's their way of saying what's mine is yours, mi casa es tu casa, and it's an expression of "teranga," the Senegalese national value that's tough to translate. Teranga basically means that you should treat everyone you meet with a warm and welcoming attitude. Teranga is pervasive throughout the culture. It likely goes a long way to explain why we didn't spot many homeless or visibly underfed people on the streets of Dakar, and it's also why we found it so tough to try to figure out how to avoid getting trapped by those kind but persistent salesmen.

In Toubab Dialao we ran into the first real snag of the journey: a serious shortage of ATMs. Senegal is a cash-based economy. It is an uphill battle to try to get your hands on small-denomination bills, which can seriously dampen your haggling game. Apparently, once you leave the capital city, simply getting your hands on any sort of cash becomes an uphill battle. Upon arriving in Toubab Dialao and discovering that there were no ATMs within even a half hour's drive of the city, we found ourselves budgeting out the second half of our stay, booking a taxi, and paying $50 for a round trip to the airport just to find ourselves an ATM. (Did I mention that taxis are hardly a bargain, even after the haggling?) Having blown through a much bigger chunk of our journey's budget to date on various painfully pricey taxi trips, we tabled any further excursions beyond the beach-front cultural center where we'd booked our final two nights. I will say, there are worse places to spend a couple of days of forced relaxation.

Our home away from home in Toubab Dialao, Sobo Bade's chambre droit, where we spent our last two nights in Senegal under a charming thatched roof with arguably Sobo Badé's best views.

Out and about in Sobo Badé

Sobo Badé is an arts and cultural center founded in the '70s by a Haitian immigrant and artist who moved to Senegal in 1964. It is an assembly of two compounds that include guest rooms, a restaurant, a small theatrical performance area, artist's and musician's workshops. The architecture style is something along the lines of Gaudí meets Disney's interpretation of Africa. It was utterly charming. Sobo Badé hosts daily concerts and cultural events, and is home to a small army of local cats who gleefully visit the diners despite the efforts of the waitstaff and their handy water spritzers. 

A sampling of Sobo Badé's small army of cats

We felt so at home that we enjoyed all our meals inside Sobo Badé, even treating ourselves to the best meal of our trip, a Thieboudienne, basically a fish and rice dish served with a stew of tomato sauce, onions, carrots, cabbage, cassava, and peanuts. It may have looked like a giant brown mess into which a full fish had been dropped, but the taste was fantastic: warm, cozy, flavorful, rich, and well-spiced, made all the more delicious when eaten in the cool salty night air, accompanied by the sound of the waves crashing below us.

Meals with a view, and even an unexpected lunchtime guest

Sobo Badé's local beach, and a view up onto Sobo Badé from it (top left)

Five days go by before you know it. We sipped our last mint tea, bid my newest feline friends au revoir, and rolled our suitcases out to the taxi, airport-bound. I didn't want to leave.

What it took

I started this blog with two questions: 1. After a decade abroad, how do you come back home? And 2. What does it take to bring a foreigner with you? I'm pleased to say that we're finally answering question #2. On October 4, Nicolas's green card was approved. After that, the days seemed to crawl by, waiting for the final milestones to get ticked: Nicolas's 30 days notice. My roommate swap that finally took me from a the living room to a proper bedroom with walls and a door. The goodbye parties. The packing. The flights.

Since I'd already booked a flight to visit Nicolas for Thanksgiving and his family had all reserved the date to celebrate, we realized we had to put up with a few weeks' more than the simple 30-days' notice period. It made most sense for me to still fly out and then take Nicolas home with me after Thanksgiving. Those November days crawled by. Eventually, about three weeks ago, I boarded the plane that finally ended out nearly-11-months of long distance. It wasn't exactly the celebratory homecoming I'd anticipated on the other side— Nicolas had a dentist appointment that ran over, and I wound up napping on a bench outside his apartment— but it was a fitting end to the dark comedy that has been the trajectory of our marriage thus far.

En route to Paris, Nov. 22-23, 2018. The end of a nearly 11-month saga of forcible separation due to immigration.

One nap and two t-shirts later, we were ready for Nicolas's going-away party, titled "Nicolas Part Pour Trumpland." Though to California's credit, he was hardly headed for the heart of it.

Dressed on point for Nicolas's going-away party.

No time for jetlag: the following morning, we were up and at 'em, and soon headed off to Versailles, to crash Nicolas's sister's kitchen for the frenzy that is the Thanksgiving preparations. The task was significantly eased thanks to my father-in-law, who'd spotted a Blue-Apron-esque offer for a Thanksgiving meal, which he had the foresight and generosity to pre-order after passing it by us. All the ingredients were conveniently waiting for us in the right proportions, with recipe cards in both English and French. (It was no secret that this deal was marketed to a specific Parisian expat community.) Several hours, bumped elbows, and piggy-back rides later, the table was served (and the kids strictly instructed to stop climbing their Tonton Nico).

The French family around the Thanksgiving dinner table

Thanksgiving 2018, a (hopefully) new Kouzan family Parisian tradition

The next week rolled by in a blur of jet lag and remote working, punctuated by a few wanders across the Marais and the highlight: a trip to the Salon des Vins, one of my favorite Parisian past-times. It's an event with effectively free entry filled with literally thousands of French wine makers lined up to serve you more wine, Champagne, and cognac than you could possibly consume, all for free. Why more people outside of French haven't caught on to this event, I'll never get.

The magic of the Marais, Pierre Hermé, and the Salon des Vins. A week in Paris spent working remotely (me) or not remotely (Nicolas).

Finally, without much of a proper visit to Paris and hardly a moment to relish our reunion, we were packing Nicolas's bags and cleaning out his dad's apartment where he'd had the good fortune to spend the past 11 months rent-free. With just a quick pit stop for a cascara infusion at Caféothèque to humor his beleageuring wife, Nicolas said goodbye to Paris and headed off with me to Orly Airport for what would be the longest flight that either of us have ever taken, direct from Paris to San Francisco. After a brief detainment at customs, we were free to go and finally resume our life together, hoping for better luck on this side of the planet.

Nicolas's big move to SF, complete with a celebratory beer at our local Beer Hall.

Since then we've been settling in to life in San Francisco, checking out local bars and ice cream shops and enjoying coming home to each other each evening. With the price tags hovering over this city, we haven't been treating ourselves to much out on the town, but it's often enough to just settle in to a beer and a Netflix episode on our futon in the mini-living-room I've built under our lofted bed. It's been surprisingly easy to settle back into our routines.

Us beginning our new life together in San Francisco!

Still I've avoided answering the question: what did it take?

• 322 days living on different continents, punctuated by just two trans-Atlantic visits
• A guesstimate of about 100 hours of video calls
• Adjusting to a nine hour time difference, meaning never being on the same wavelength when we did electronically connect
• Countless texts and photos shared, most especially of meals gone unshared
• 3 moves (on my end) into and within San Francisco
• About 500 pages of paperwork providing various US government agencies with every possible shrapnel of proof that we're legit
• Mad admin skills (+1 for the woman whose held non-tourist visas in 4 different countries and tourist visas in a handful more)
• Resilience
• Trust
• Patience (still not my strong point)
• Open communication

You'd think I'd have a better answer after a year to think about it, but that's what it took to bring Nicolas to America. Now a better question might be how this foreigner and I will adapt to life in a country that doesn't quite feel like home. But first we've got another adventure on the docket: Senegal. T-8 days.