Beer with breakfast and anachronistic regression

It’s been 10 days since we moved into our new house, with our new family, and I’ve got to say that I’m still adjusting. Before, for everything that we lacked, we at least had an abundance of privacy. In the old place, if I wanted to go to the bathroom with the door open, I could. If I wanted to walk around the house naked (not that I ever did), no one would complain (except for Heather), and if I wanted to make a turkey sandwich, I didn’t have to waltz my way past three people in the kitchen. Conclusion: privacy cannot be overrated.

In our new place, for example, the only place I ever get any privacy is during my eight-minute shower (before the hot water runs out). Every other room in the house is a bustle of comings and goings, Spanish and Italian, food and dishes. The mom of the house, Doña Nora, always seems to be doing something around the house; the dad, Don Marcelo, usually splits his time between his seat at the kitchen table reading obscure books and sitting on the couch watching the Discovery or History Channel; and their two daughters, Anita and Natalia, are in and out, hiding out upstairs, or hang out with us in the living room. All that, plus a family friend, Don Maximo (in the running for coolest name ever), is currently visiting from his home in Venice, Italy. He’s usually drinking a beer by the time I get up, and his strange mix of Spanish and Italian leaves me baffled most of the time, but I’m sure I’ll be a little disappointed to see him go.

Apart from my lack of privacy, just about everything else in my life has changed as well. Now, no matter when I wake up, I have breakfast and coffee waiting for me on the kitchen table. Now, instead of taking my laundry to the local lavandería, Doña Nora collects and cleans it every day. And now, for dinner, there’s no more worrying about what to make or how long it will take to do the dishes: Doña Nora takes care of that too. Basically, it’s like I’m 16 all over again and all I have to worry about is going to school and getting good grades, or, in my case, dealing with my ever-expanding work schedule and making sure that the magazine meets the expectations of the people at Sotheby’s.

Speaking of work (that’s what we in the biz call a segue), I’ve been getting freaking slammed lately. The notion of this being a 20-hour-a-week gig has long since left the building. It’s much closer to full time, which puts my hourly earnings somewhere around half of the current federal minimum wage. To say I’m not exactly raking in the bucks would be putting it kindly. (Thankfully, we get our room and board, plus high-speed internet and cable TV for $250 a month, per person. Third World living baby!!!!)

But, as with my living situation, the perks and experiences of my job still outweigh my pittance of a salary. Last week, for example, I arranged for a photo shoot at a home in Playa Bejuco, a beautiful stretch of coastland about three hours from San José. To get there early enough, in order to catch the best light, I had to drag my sorry behind out of bed at 4:30 in the freaking morning to meet my photographers on the other side of the city to begin our journey. I was tired as hell all day long, despite numerous cups of coffee, but the payoff was worth it. I spent all day in a multi-million dollar home with stunning views of the forest and ocean, making phone calls, editing articles, and helping out the photogs when they needed it.

I even served as the model in a few of the shots. Not that it went to my head or anything, but if those turn out well, I’m thinking about leaving the world of journalism behind and joining my fellow beautiful people in the fashion industry.

Next stop: Paris!