As a sophomore in college, I realized a dream of mine from elementary school when we learned about conservation in my third grade science class: resting in a harness and attached to a cable, I soared over treetops in a tropical rainforest in Monteverde, Costa Rica.  I was a bird attached to a cable. I could see every dip and rise in the terrain below me, and differentiate between the different types of trees below me by the slight variation in color that had been undetectable while underneath the canopy.
    “The rainforests are disappearing at an alarming rate,” my tall, lanky, mad-scientist-looking teacher explained to us when I was about ten years old. “Many animals are losing their homes, and if they have nowhere to live, they will die and will never come back to live on this earth.” I knew then that I needed to see a rainforest – and before they were gone because, as he had explained, they were some of the last-remaining untouched land anywhere in the world. I didn’t have much longer to get my chance.
    My stomach was where my feet were supposed to be, and my feet were dangling far below that. I felt like someone had been pumping PixyStix through my body. My astonished jaw seemed to have come unattached from my face due to amazement. The fear I had before I was released into the air on the zip lines was hanging in the air near the platform with those who had yet to be hooked onto a line.
    Below me were more trees.

    Costa Ricans seem to recognize the importance of trees. Perhaps it is because eco-tourism accounts for one of the largest reasons people travel to the land of rich coasts. Perhaps it is because the country can feel an immense amount of pride for the tropical dry forests and for its glorious, ever-disappearing tropical rain forests. Or, perhaps, the kind people of Costa Rica recognize the important origin of oxygen, and they want to continue to offer the best breath of fresh air in the world. 
    Whatever the reason, it is clear the country treats its natural world as a high priority. Something like 25% of Costa Rica’s land – which is a sliver of paradise between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans that is about the size of West Virginia – is federally protected. The country is also one of the top twenty countries in the world for diversity of species. And, even within the capital city of San José, every view in every direction inspires awe in its viewer because the mountains and valleys full of mossy bark and treetops are reminders that such a world used to exist in such a pristine form.
    Costa Rica is the best place in this world to be reborn as an environmentalist.
    As a child, I never understood the degradation humans have caused to their home, this planet. Louisville, Kentucky, the city of my birth, has a wonderful park system and I was never at a loss for a new wilderness to explore. I attended day camps, went on rafting adventures, and went hiking with my family. Nature was exciting, entertaining, and exquisite. I didn’t know it then, but what I was experiencing was not really nature. Parks are places to recreate – something that is extremely important to humankind as well – but they are not natural spaces that encourage the continued existence of different species that need habitats. Virgin tropical rainforests are havens for countless species that are quickly losing their homes to one species’ greed.

    While we were driving around the shop-scattered streets of San José, Costa Rica, someone in my study abroad group pointed to three children who were standing in what was supposed to count as their front yard. A girl of about seven with a plait of black hair coming around her shoulder looked up towards our small bus and pointed the Americans out to her brothers, one who appeared to be older, and one younger. They had been playing behind a wall that came up to their waists and continued up with a chain link fence toward what was, to them, the high skies. The gate at the walkway was a decorative wrought-iron piece, and they ran forward to peer out from between the iron bars of the gate.
    We all laughed at their interest in us foreigners. These children were exactly the children who would appreciate our small, red plastic WKU balls that we had been given before beginning our trip. The red towel that was printed on them spun in the air as the balls made their way over the fence and into the older boy’s hands. The smiles on their faces reached all the way back to Kentucky to the people who had sent them in our suitcases. They jumped up and down, cheering their gratitude for the ball, and waved as we pulled away through the intersection. We watched them continue jumping and waving until we could no longer see them.
    Assumingly, the area where their house was located was not safe enough for their parents to allow them to play outside if they weren’t protected by the metal and concrete, but, as a result of the dangerous streets, the children were forced to play their game of fútbol (or, what Americans think they’re playing when they play “soccer”) on gravel and dirt in their very small front yard. Thankfully, I thought, their front yard vista was of gorgeous mountains, which were covered in trees and clouds. Even in San José nature infiltrated the concrete.
But how much longer would those children see mountains from their bedroom windows?
    I worried that, if the deforestation of Costa Rica’s luscious land continues, those children – or perhaps their children – would not grow up knowing why Costa Rica received its name because the coasts will no longer be rich with diverse life. If this happens, the country will lose its identity.

    It is an understatement to say that everywhere I looked while I was zip lining there were trees. These trees really need a different word than “tree” to be accurately described because they were so drastically different than the skinny, developing sticks of bark that many cities in the United States plant on sidewalks or in community gardens. These trees were pieces of history. They had been growing in one spot for centuries. They might have been there before our recorded history begins. They had seen forest fires and extinction of species. They have watched as human beings built roads in place of their friends, and every day they watch tourists fly over, under, or between them on cables.
    They tell Costa Rica’s story better than a trained folklorist can interpret the ancient tall tales of the region because they are still alive to tell it. As the forests are being depleted through methodical clear cutting, so are the stories. The only way to hear the true sounds of Costa Rica – birds whistling in the overpowering wind and the steady sound of falling water – or to recognize the true beauty – the lichen plants that cover the moss that cover the bark of almost every single tree or the unmatchable morph butterfly with its brilliant blue wings – one has to fly above the treetops oneself and hear the birds with one’s own ears and see the countless butterflies with one’s own eyes. It is the only way to discover the real story. (1244)

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     It was barely past dawn when I woke up to the sound of shouting.  Our overbooked bus had lurched to a stop for no apparent reason in the rural countryside of Tamil Nadu.  After a few minutes I heard the story from the people in the seats at the front: the driver had gotten angry at a truck for passing him, and after a honking contest and brief chase, both drivers stopped their vehicles and got out to throw some punches.  Incidentally, they’d parked directly in front of a police station, and both men were now being held in custody.  The packed passenger bus was stranded.  As the travelers filtered out, wondering how they would continue their journeys from this point – there weren’t enough auto rickshaws or taxis in the small farm town for this many people – my friend Jon told Tara and me that a guy who he’d been sitting next to on the floor of the bus had invited us to his parents’ house for the holiday.  It was October, and the three of us were traveling together for the ten-day break from school during Devali, a major Hindu festival.  Having quickly picked up on the unpredictable nature of traveling in this country, we hadn’t made many concrete plans.  Now, stranded in the middle of some farms without a bus driver or even a clue exactly where we were, we were glad to take up the invitation.
     Vinodth was the name of our host.  A friendly twenty-something who worked at a call center for a computer company in Bangalore, he was thrilled at the opportunity to befriend three young Americans and give us a personal tour of the area around his hometown.  After a series of taxis and a two-hour ride on a train that was just as overbooked for the holiday as our bus had been, we arrived at the doorstep of the house he’d grown up in, to warm welcomes from his parents, sister, and cousins.  Despite the fact that Vinodth had only just called them from the train station to tell them he was bringing three guests, they greeted us like old friends, and had a huge delicious lunch and hot baths waiting for us when we got there.
     Studying abroad was, without a doubt, one of the most intense and rewarding things I have ever done.  Of the many experiences during the semester I spent in south India that significantly broadened my mind and transformed my perspective, one of the most enjoyable was the experience of Indian hospitality.  Americans are very oriented toward the individual.  We emphasize and are concerned with the lifestyles, activities, and interests of our personal selves more so than the idea of community engagement and entertaining others.  During the four months I spent in India, I was continually astounded by the eagerness of Indian people to welcome me into their homes, talk with me, and feed me.
     In America, we don’t expect relatives, friends, or neighbors to stop in for tea whenever they feel like it.  This would be considered intrusive, an infringement on our time and space.  We might think, Can’t they have the courtesy to call ahead, to set up a time and place to meet, instead of expecting me to just drop whatever I’m doing and entertain them?   It’s not necessarily that we just wouldn’t like to welcome and accommodate unexpected guests and visitors – it’s that we don’t have room in our schedules; we are expected to be places on time, to stick to commitments of work or meetings.  In India, things are flexible, because the worldview of the culture values relationships between people more than industrial punctuality.  It’s true that coming from an American perspective, India is disorganized.  But its warm sense of hospitality, in my experience, more than makes up for any inconvenience caused by the lack of order.  There’s something to be said for the sense of humanity, of openness and generosity, that is actively practiced in the way people live there – something that I now believe American culture could well benefit from.
     The three days we spent with Vinodth’s family were unforgettable.  They fed us traditional home-cooked meals, took us to a hillside temple where you could view the whole city (and where Vinodth’s parents had been married), and shared their favorite movies with us.  They also took us around visiting to all the nearby family members, and at each home we were served tea and sweets and welcomed like kin.  I remember in one of the houses sitting in a back room with all the women and children while the men socialized in the living room.  Everyone was sprawled across the bed and floor in their nightgowns, chatting, laughing, combing each other’s hair, and fawning over the baby.  These women interacted in a casual and relaxed way with me, and although I was a stranger who didn’t even speak their language, they made me feel included.  How different, I thought, from the competitive way girls in America treat each other.
     On the night of Devali (“the Festival of Lights”), everyone dressed up in their nicest clothes.  Vinodth’s sister, in a gorgeous new coral and gold sari, rubbed our hair with warm coconut oil to make it shine and decorated our foreheads with jeweled bindis.  Vinodth gave Jon a spiffy new button-down shirt to wear.  We ate a huge dinner with the family, and then everyone proceeded to the roof of the house for fireworks.  As far as the eye could see in every direction, there were explosions going off on the rooftops and streets.  Vinodth’s cousins had secured an ample supply of roman candles, bottle rockets, and other types of firecrackers for the celebration.  What followed was a good three hours of laughing, lighting rockets, and dashing back and forth across the roof to view (or avoid contact with) the fireworks.  The cousins made sure we took at least fifty group pictures that night – snapshots of the whole family gathered together, sitting happily on their roof with three American kids who the morning before had been strangers.
     On the last evening of our stay at their home, Jon, Tara, and I sat in the house’s one cozy bedroom with the whole family.  They shared with us their insights on Indian culture, and bashfully sang traditional Tamil hymns.  Tara and Jon returned with American songs, and we all talked about the frustrations and joys we’d encountered in our initial culture shock.  Vinodth said he’d like to move to the United States, and we told him about some of the cultural aspects to our country that would surprise him coming from an Indian perspective.  Vinodth’s mother didn’t speak English, but she still found ways to communicate to us that she’d enjoyed our stay.  We tried our best to communicate our gratitude and appreciation for her delicious cooking.  The entire evening had a subtle note of farewell to it, because although we’d all enjoyed each other’s company and promised to welcome each other at any time, we knew that our paths were going in separate directions, and we’d almost certainly never meet again. 
     Looking back even now, over a year later, I am overwhelmed by the kindness and sincerity with which these people treated us.  In India, that welcoming attitude was by no means unique.  During the four months I spent in Bangalore, I quickly lost count of the times that acquaintances or strangers sought out opportunities to host and entertain my friends and me.  We were invited for dinner by teachers, neighbors, friends-of-friends, and workers from the local shops.  When we traveled in more rural areas, people would see us walking along the street and wave us into their homes, where they’d offer us tea and show us family photo albums – often when we couldn’t even speak a word of the same language.  People we met on the trains or buses would promise us a place to stay if we ever happened to pass through their town.  Even on the plane ride to India, before I’d set foot on the country’s ground, the woman in the seat beside me was offering invitations to come stay with her or her sons and daughters in cities across the nation.
     Certainly there were many lessons I learned and new ideas I was exposed to during my semester abroad, but out of all of them, I definitely won’t forget how heartwarming it was to be immersed in a culture whose worldview recognizes every person as a part of something divine, and finds privilege in every opportunity to welcome guests as if welcoming a god.  So integral is this sense of hospitality to their culture that it isn’t considered something that one goes out of their way to do, but rather as expected civil behavior for people to support, help, and welcome one another.  Whenever we’d say “Thank you” to our hosts for their generosity, they’d reply, smiling, “Don’t say thank you -- I’m only doing my duty.”

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23 de mayo (May 23)
Maybe he just doesn't want to initiate a conversation because it’s an eight hour flight from Miami to Buenos Aires and wants to sleep.  I guess I'll try to sleep too.  However, the flight attendant came around with customs papers for everyone while he went to the bathroom,
so I told him (in english) that he needed to get them. Oh, está bien, está bien (that's fine, that's fine) I say to him as he informs me that he doesn't speak english.  And thus, a conversation is initiated despite my setbacks in the spanish language.  Surprisingly enough, it all came back once I started talking with him.  Miguel and I discussed politics, traveling, drugs trafficking, work, school, family, geography, the environment (that was chapter 10 last semester), airplane food, miami people watching, and taxi fares... all in spanish.

The plane lands in the wee hours of the morning.  Miguel gives me his card and stresses I should not hesitate to call him if I need anything while in Buenos Aires.  I thank him as we make our way to baggage claim.

Customs.  Uneventful, which is a good thing.  A surprised face looks up from my US passport because I spoke in spanish.

Then came the tricky part - finding a legit taxi.  Hmm... no, no, no, okay.  I agreed on a price to go to the hostel (70 pesos, about $23 USD) which was a bit pricier than I had expected.  Miguel assured me that for where I was going, it shouldn't be more than $15-18 USD.  Be that as it may,  at five something in the morning, walking into a city of 14 million, I was tired and in a submissive mood, definitely not a haggling one.

Bag in taxi, door slams shut, and to my surprise an old man (not the one who told me the price) plops down on the driver's seat.  From the stingy odor to the lax technique of all things driving, I could immediately tell that this was going to be an adventure - a grey hair inducing one at that.

Ahh, and of course, he's a viejo verde (a perverted old man), but still seems harmless and nice enough.  His name is Ernesto.  He’s from Buenos Aires and has lived here his entire life.  He was an interesting fellow.  We spoke in spanish because he too didn't know english.  It was difficult to focus on what he was saying though because he never, not once the entire 30 minute drive, stayed in his lane.  The gas light remained illuminated for the duration as well.  I quickly learned that the swerving significantly increased when he could see me in his rearview mirror, so I tried to move over, out of sight.  At one point, I was slammed into the other side of the back seat because of a near miss.  This launched our discussion on the differences between the driving in Kentucky and the driving thus far here in Buenos Aires.  I assured him it's un poco diferente (a little different).

Upon arrival to the hostel, I have a hunch that I got my first lesson in what perhaps may be the "typical Argentinian man" I've heard of - luring one in with charm to inevitably get what they want by making you feel guilty.  Ernesto became all business and bumped the price from 70 pesos to 80 because of the tolls along the road.  Okay, fine.  I try to hand him 80 pesos, but it's in 10 peso bills which was unacceptable for him.  He wanted a 100 peso bill, but I didn’t have one.  Then he wanted me to pay in US Dollars, and I told him I didn't have any cash (all I had was a $100 USD bill and I wasn't about to give it to him).  I insisted that I only had credit cards and 10 peso bills.  He was becoming angry.  I offered to go in to the hostel to see if I could trade my smaller bills for a 100 peso bill, but that would not do at all.  He guffed and furrowed his brows even tighter and spoke more indiscernibly.  In the end I gave him 100 pesos for the taxi ride ($10 USD more than I had originally agreed on) but it's really hard to be a determined hard ass about money in another language.  More specifically when it involves haggling with an old man who looks as though he's going to have a stroke because I only have small bills... especially when moments ago, he was a smiling, harmless, sweet old man.  His discontent with me continued as he tried to push my backpack out of the front seat once I opened the door.  If I hadn't have been so exhausted, I would have been appalled as he sped off.  But my being tired prevented the rational part of my mind from caring or speaking up.

I crossed the street, rang the hostel, and a young che (an Argentinian guy) opened the door.  I got to the tiny dormitory, quietly climbed into a squishy mattress of a top bunk in the corner, shoved my fleece under my drowsy head for a pillow and fell fast asleep - still in travel clothes and all.  I know, yuck.

14 de junio (June 14)
Fervent wind blasts my curled body and grips my face.  It soars through the streets, framing canals between the buildings and pressing upon me.  It’s bitter.  My lip cracks as I hold tight to the softness of the scarf Mimí made.  From the surface of my eyes, moisture is whisked away, streaming behind my glance.  It’s piercing, but perhaps even this I shall miss.

It’s beautifully chaotic here.  ‘Tis the norm for intersections to lack stop signs.  It’s a fierce game of chicken every block.  Even when there are stoplights, one must be weary, because after midnight, no one pays any mind to them anyway.  And don’t even think of running a red... no, not even a yellow light here.  The front lines are antsy and watch the lights with the same intensity with which they drive - which is a lot - and right before the light changes to green, they’re already a third of the way into the intersection.

Crossing the street can be dicey as well... not recommended to mix with downers.  One needs to be alert.  And if there’s a taxi within a block, you might as well wait.  I think they take the pedestrian point system seriously here.  A pedestrian intensifies the amount of lead in a taxista’s (a cab driver) right foot.  It’s as though they’re the predator and foot traffic becomes the dangling prey.  The roads are absent of true lanes.  It’s much more of a big, messy marathon race rather than a nice and tidy 4x4.  Cars, bikes, motorcycles, pedestrians, dogs... it’s just kind of catch as catch can when it comes to space on the road.  Ha, I can hear Grand Bob’s commentary now...

In contrast to the impatience I have in the States at stoplights, I cross my fingers with the hope of being stalled by one here.  Once the light turns red, out they come.  “Thing on a string”-ers and jugglers and stick throwers, oh my.  Before the light turns green, a tip is collected and then they wait for the red light for their next performance.  It’s fantastic.

Ahh, Latin America - where laws abound, and yet are rarely obeyed.  Public places here, including bars and taxis, are “non-smoking” but that never stopped an Argentine.  Horses-drawn carts are prohibited and yet still are there in the middle of bustling city traffic.  Cars are constantly parked directly in front of no parking signs.  It’s incredible.  One of the reasons as to why a decent public trash collection system is lacking is because people steal the large dumpsters allocated for each block.  Exactly how someone steals a dumpster... well, I’m still in the dark about that one.

24 de junio (June 24)
I am going to miss sharing space at the heater with Chiqui (the dog), the maté (strong tea), the dulce de leche (similar the caramel), the panqueques (pancakes), the dogs, the sounds of the men selling churros, the people watching in the park, the constant consumption of coffee and tea, the alfajores (type of cookie), the noises of this house, Mimí’s laughter, Juliana’s realism, the rapidity with which Lucas speaks, the sporadic needy-ness of Chiqui, the way in which María Eugenia can suddenly go into teacher mode, the wonderful openness of Susana, the stick-shift buses, the walk to classes... damn.  My heart speeds up at the thought of Wednesday afternoon. I don’t want to leave.  I feel as though I only just got here... but at the same time, it’s as though we’re old friends already.  It’s that kind of warmth.  That kind of ease.

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