I lived in Miami, United States, for twenty years. It was a wonderful chapter of my life. I made lifelong friends, learned a new language, found love, had a child… and developed a whole new way of being in the world.
I remember the very first phrase in English that I learned and mastered there: “Are you leaving?” It was in the context of parking lots. My friends would be driving while I sat in the passenger seat with the mission of finding an available parking space. I think it’s funny that this was the first phrase that stuck. Among so many words and expressions, this one became a constant. It shouldn’t be surprising because in the United States, comfort is a priority—something that is constantly pursued and deeply valued. It seems to be the default definition of what constitutes a good life. And yes, finding the closest, widest parking spot at the supermarket counts as a small but satisfying achievement.
You may have air conditioning everywhere, rely on insurance for countless aspects of your life, end up with a kit for every experience, attend themed parties where the products and expectations have already been curated for you. You may high-five yourself with joy after finding the closest, widest parking spot at the supermarket, answer with enthusiasm the questions, “What do you do for a living?” and “What are you up to?” You may feel safe walking through ghost neighborhoods with no one in sight, no movement except American flags flapping in the air, crowning empty porches framed by perfectly symmetrical flower beds.
All of this was available to me, and I lived it. But despite coming from the chaos of Cuba, what many consider comforts eventually began to suffocate me.
I longed to feel my body move and sweat on my way to the supermarket. I longed for some uncertainty, where spontaneity could bloom. I wanted to see dirt on the vegetables I was buying. I wanted to stay home when it was pouring rain instead of driving on a fast, dangerous expressway. I also missed seeing people sitting on their front porches, chatting over coffee or sharing a cold beer—and, even more, being spontaneously invited to join them.
Most importantly, I knew with certainty that I wanted to offer my child a life closer to an untamed natural world, where she could contemplate Life without the excessive imprint of human intervention.
After two trips to Costa Rica, we decided this would be our new home. We packed our suitcases, sold everything we owned, and left.
I’ve come to believe that extremes often resemble each other. The lifestyle of highly developed countries can be just as dysfunctional as that of developing nations. In one, you have too much; in the other, you lack almost everything. Costa Rica seems to rest somewhere between those two extremes, and that is precisely what makes it so appealing to me—and to so many others who have chosen this land as their home.
Today, I live in what I call the semi-jungle. My home has many comforts, but my surroundings remain wild. Monkeys feast on bananas and seeds just a few feet away, while snakes occasionally sunbathe on the deck.
For me, this isn’t about escaping civilization. It’s about leaving room for the untamed.
