A Balcony Seat, a Broken Dress, and a Lesson in Humility

What a week it has been—quiet, reflective, and exactly what I needed. For the first time since arriving, I can honestly say I feel at home here. There’s a comfort settling into me, and after the whirlwind of last weekend, it feels good to breathe, slow down, and claim this place as mine for now.

Classes have officially begun, and my semester is finally in motion. Four courses fill my schedule, with each one pulling me in a different direction. My cultural photography class has me itching to get behind the lens, while my environmental impact class promises the kind of depth I crave. Then there’s my speech and development class for social leaders—equal parts thrilling and terrifying. And, of course, it is the debate-heavy political course, where I realized with a jolt that for many of my classmates, this is their first taste of college life.

That’s because thirty-two freshmen from UNC Chapel Hill have descended on this program. Eighteen-year-olds, in a foreign country, tossed headfirst into both college and culture at the same time. I can’t imagine whose idea that was. In theory, they’re adults with the freedom to drink, explore, and experiment—but in practice, it feels like watching kids wade into water far over their heads. A university in the U.S. already looks different from one here in Costa Rica, and this is another universe entirely.

So there I was, walking into a class built around political debate—a space I’ve navigated for around three years—only to realize I’d be sparring with people who’ve never set foot in a college classroom. Insane. I don’t mean to dunk on them, but it was one of those “what am I doing here?” moments. A room buzzing with clashing perspectives, wild opinions, and the raw chaos of voices colliding. And here’s the twist: some of the most surprising, even shocking, things I’ve heard since being here haven’t come from locals at all—but from other Americans.

One night out (the details aren’t worth a whole story), I caught myself thinking: Back home, everyone would just know not to do that. But maybe that’s the gift of this semester abroad—being constantly poked, prodded, and stretched in what I believe or even how I do things. One of my professors asked us, “What are you willing to un-learn and re-learn about yourself, about the way you live and think?” I’ve been carrying that question with me like a compass. And even if the process comes tangled in debates with fresh-out-of-high-school kids, it’s gotta teach me something...right?

Outside the classroom, life has been sweet in its own way. Anna and I are growing closer; most nights we end up sprawled across one of our beds, sketching or swapping stories from the day. Right now, she’s perched at the foot of my bed, scribbling in her journal as I write this. I respect a girl who writes.

By Friday, Anna (and most of my friends) scattered off for weekend trips, but I decided to stay behind. After Uvita’s wild beauty, I needed quiet. With a special visitor arriving next week, a low-key weekend felt perfect. And honestly? It was the best decision.

I wandered the Central Mercado for hours, letting myself get lost in its maze of stalls. Narrow passageways spilled into open pockets of light where vendors sold everything imaginable—heaping piles of fruit, steaming plates of food, stacks of trinkets, and a million oddities. The air was heavy with the scent of spices and grilled meat, the soundscape layered with chatter, laughter, and the occasional clang of a pan.

At one point, I realized I could have walked away with a dog. Yes, a dog. To my mom, especially: please know it was close. Instead, I left with a painted feather, which I had discovered at a tiny stand tucked into a corner. Two delicate birds brushed across its surface in miniature strokes. It reminded me instantly of my grandmother, Nani. She has a framed feather with a painted Costa Rican town on it, something I’d seen countless times without realizing where it came from. She didn't point it out until right before I left that I was from here in Costa Rica. Holding mine, I felt a thread tugging me homeward. Now we have matching ones.

The Mercado was its own drama: at one point, a fight broke out just feet away from a towering statue of Jesus Christ, while a cumbia band played cheerfully in the corner. I laughed, shook my head, and leaned into the chaos, feeling like I was finally on “Tico time.”

To top it off, I took myself on a solo date to the symphony. Fun fact: in high school, I used to sneak off to orchestra concerts alone just to sit in the balcony and soak it in. So when I bought my ticket to the Teatro Popular Melico Salazar, I knew it was the perfect treat. I put on a dress I’d been saving for the right occasion and walked into a building so grand it felt plucked from a movie set. The high balconies, the ornate architecture—it all made me giddy.

The music washed over me, strings rising like waves, and at one point, I felt myself tear up.

My mom always says she loves watching people do with brilliance the things she can't. That’s where my love of live performances came from—those nights she whisked me off to random musicals at my brother’s high school (no, Zack wasn’t in the play..thank the Lord), teaching me how much beauty there is in watching people do what seems impossible to you. Sitting there in Costa Rica, that same joy washed over me.

And then—because life loves its curveballs—my dress strap snapped. One moment I was lost in the swell of violins, the next I felt the right side of my dress slide toward my waist. In a balcony box, I froze, grabbed the fabric, and thought, Did that really just happen? Did I just flash the symphony?

I shuffled quickly to the bathroom, escorted by an event worker while clutching my dress in the most awkward walk of my life. I locked myself in a stall as fast as I could, and did what any girl would: I called my best friend Rachel. After the laughter subsided, I tied the strap back together in a knot that looked comedically bad—but I wasn’t about to leave. I marched back in, crooked strap and all, and finished the concert. Honestly? It’s a story I’ll never forget, and one I’m proud of myself for laughing through.

Sunday was slow and restorative—spent drawing, crocheting, and preparing for the week ahead. This weekend gave me exactly what I needed: time with myself, a feather to match Nani’s, music that shook me, and even a near-miss dog adoption story. It reminded me, so beautifully well, that joy doesn’t always need a crowd. Even with the symphony mishap, I left feeling lighter, grounded, and so ready for what comes next.

Pray for me, and wish me luck!