(CR!S) A very different reality, this Costa Rica when it comes to couple relationships and resolving issues. I am going to relate you a personal story, very similar, but occurring in two different countries, two different cultures, two decades apart.
It all started one night, a discussion over the purchase of my latest toy, a Mazda sports car. This decision, without consulting my ‘American wife’, led to an argument to her calling the police for spousal abuse.
It never happened, but, as the gentle police officers in Toronto explained, “we have to act – that is remove you from the house – in case something really does happen after we leave”. They were covering their asses, not mine.
The story of the false accusation ended in my arrest, court appearance, lawyer costs to defend myself and get back in my home (after she moved out, of course) and cleaning out of our joint bank account (while I was in detention and waiting my court appearance).
Years later, a similar situation, this time, with a Latina living with me. We later married.
The source of the argument I cannot remember fully except for my making some disparaging remark about her mother. The lesson here I learned is that you can call a Latina any name, insult her sister(s), denigrate her father, brother(s), but, never, never, ever the mother.
The police arrived, she swears she didn’t call them. I was detained on fer false statement. There was no evidence, especially since when the police arrived they found me calm, collected and outside in the condo courtyard.
“The crazy woman is inside,” I told them.
This is Costa Rica. I am a foreigner. I am being accused of assault. Not witnesses. No evidence. Only her statement.
“We have to take you in, señor,” was the decision of the officials responding to the call.
“Oh, wait a minute guys, she stole from me. Stole my money,” I tell them.
“That changes everything, you both have to come with us,” is their response.
Very different from my Canada experience, eh?
At the local police station, a small building no larger than a outhouse, on the west side of San Jose, the officials were sincere with us, they saw no evidence of any assault or robbery and though I was within my rights to file a complaint … I didn’t. She did.
Off to the courthouse, across town, on the east side. It was now the middle of the night and we were both being transported in a police vehicle, me in the prisoner box, she in the front as the complainant.
A couple of hours later, after she signed the formal complaint and me being told by a judge to stay a away or have any contact with her and to appear in court some weeks later, were both escorted back home. My home. A home we had shared for almost two years. A home, as in the first case, I paid for, furnished, etc. etc. But still considered “my” home.
Now both in the back seat, divided by one of the officials, the same officials from the first call, we rode, I would like to say in silence, but, the furious Latina had to get a few – actually a lot – more words in.
By now, you must be thinking, this is more of a coincidence and the common dominator is me. Of course. Well almost. You see both women shared one very important personality trait: they were both hot and passionate women (yes, American women can be hot and passionate, but come have their lawyer’s number on speed dial) and without a question in love with their man.
Back at the home, remember, we were getting a police escort back, I played dumb and asked the police officials if, given that I am to stay away and have no contact with her and that the apartment was mine, “my home”, if something were to happen to her, would I be in trouble?
“Yes, of course,” was the expected answer.
“Ok, so I don’t want her in my home,” I told the officials.
The officials looked at each other and told her she had to go, no way she can stay there. Very different than the first, right? Similar circumstances, in one (the former) I was out of the house, in police lock up, while in the latter I was in control my home.
The officials helped her pack a bag, it was now the wee hours of the night and escorted her outside the gate. “Sorry, baby, told you should have not signed the complaint. That is what you get when you lie,” were my last words to her. For that night. She was back in my apartment within a few weeks. She dropped the complain, we eventually got married and then divorced some year after that.
More than a decade later, this woman is still in my life, my best woman friend, despite we’ve both moved on to other partners, are both in a long-term relationships. As to the American woman, our love turned to a passionate hate.
You have to love Costa Rica. You have to love Latinas.
How can you not?