San Jose

The flights pass mostly without incident. Airborne, the animosity between the children seems a distant memory. Of course, that is because they are seated separately and can exist in their own pods. It occurs to me - not for the first time - that this is the way forward, that I cannot allow myself to lean into the urge to force one child to parent another in the manner I was lead to parent mine. 

By the end of the journey, hours later, we arrive and the detente is firmly off. A brawl at Immigration spills over to baggage claim and the youngest's rage is explosive, egged on by his sister's instigating.  

I am speechless and my immediate impulse to grab them both by the scuffs of their necks and shake them into submission is checked by sheer overwhelm.  In the last two months sleep is a much missed commodity.  I stand still. Close my eyes. Breathe so deeply, I can feel the breathe in the arches of my feet. There is a rustling near me, then soft fur pressing against my hand. 

A drugs dog has come over and is leaning his weight into me, not barking, not agressive, just...learning. 'He does not do this if you have drugs. I think he knows you need a hug.' The enforcement agent looks baffled at the dog, at me, at the two kids now in a standoff. I would be embarrassed but I don't have the capacity for shame right now. 

It's our first holiday as our own unique unit in a place none of us have ever been and that hasn't involved Death & Co in some capacity. There are no belongings to sort, no funerals to plan, no houses to sell, no family members to transport to hospice. This is uncharted territory for me. I lean back into the dog. 

The officer nods again, pulls on the dog's lead.

'You do not have drugs. He only does this when people need comfort and hugs.' 

San Jose feels readily accessible. Familiar but not. There is a staidness, even to the most frenetic moments I've witnessed, a buttoning down that I normally associate more with parts of Spain that with Latin America. 

Built mostly on a grid, the Calle numbering feels familiar (NOLA's time under Spanish control obviously resonating). The first day in country, we walk the length of downtown, through the national park and around the government buildings, where I notice a stencil with the image of a young woman and the name Viviana Gallardo, a young communist who was murdered in her police cell on 1 July 1981. She was 18. 

Later we make our way to La Sabana, trying to find a conventional playground for the youngest. This will become a point of contention the next day with our guide who is frustrated that I already know the Central Market and have questions. Apparently, questions are not the way forward, obviously a memo I did not get.