There it was, staring at me – the shiny tin full of hot dogs. All piled one on top of the other, skin on skin. I quickly dressed one in a bun to cover up the nakedness for my own comfort. Moving down the buffet line, I added one of each condiment to show my gratitude for those serving me: a layer of coleslaw, a layer of potato chips, and a red sauce that I wished would have been ketchup. This is how they do it here, I told myself taking a deep and falsely consolatory breath, appreciate the culture.
At twelve years old, I watched a video on how hot dogs were made. I’ve never been a fan of the horror genre, but that video made “Silence of the Lambs” look like a children’s bedtime story. The problem was the reality of it; this meat paste of blended who-knows-what was something I had consumed. It had been five years since I had eaten a hot dog. And there it was, sitting on my plate, staring at me in all its wholesome glory.
It was June 6th in Costa Rica, my first day in “SI headquarters,” a small, mud-colored building guarded by barbed wire. Twenty-something strangers surrounded me – some local and some American. The Costa Rica versus America World Cup game played on the television, the perfect occasion for a welcome party. Everyone wore their country’s colors for the game, but little did we realize both countries are red, white, and blue. In an effort to celebrate the start of this trip, locals cooked us a classic American favorite, the hot dog. I shuddered at the idea of coming 3,000 miles to Desamparados just to become more “American.”
Sitting lifeless on my plate, the hot dog was getting cold. I picked it up, holding it gently in two hands like a grenade – I acknowledged the bad decision and accepted the consequences of eating it. The condiment concoction was unsatisfactory, but it covered the taste of the meat paste. The chewing also diverted the introductory conversations I was desperate to avoid.
“Where are you from?”
“Why did you choose this mission trip?”
“Are you close with God?”
Yep, desperate to avoid. Conversation buzzed through the room, full of questions, Spanish, laughter, and chewing. The summer heat laid stagnant in the air with a warm breeze every ten seconds from the oscillating fan on the window sill. Girls cackled, adults compared airport experiences, dogs barked, and every few minutes a boy yelled “GOOOOOOAL!” As the chaos grew, the room shrunk, smaller and smaller until I couldn’t breathe.
I stood to get another hot dog because eating meant I didn’t have to talk to people. I looked at the dwindling tin of hot dogs, just as erroneous and inappropriate as I was. The plan was ingenious. If I was chewing, I didn’t have to talk, so I continued to eat hot dogs for the rest of the night. I was not antisocial, I was not unfriendly, I was eating.
A few hot dogs later, the game ended and the conversations quieted.
“Thank you to everyone who came tonight!” A man who looked important spoke. “It was great to meet all of you – ”
Almost all of you, I thought.
“Now would be a good time to walk home before it gets too dark – ”
It is pitch black outside.
“Walk in pairs and carry nothing in your hands. Getting mugged is not uncommon in this area.”
I breathed deeply knowing my host family lived a half mile away. I stuck my phone in my sports bra so my hands were empty. You knew about this, relax, everything will be okay. One step out of the building, I began to cry.
The important-looking man drove me home. Once secure in the home that had bars gating the front porch, I sang One Direction with my host family, named the lizards who were scurrying in the walls, and vomited in the bathroom until I fell asleep.
I woke up to a breakfast of eggs, rice, and a cut up hot dog.
