The Taste of Freedom
I had completed my course requirements in December, a semester early, to earn my bachelors degree in journalism from Howard University. I was scheduled to begin law school in August of the following year, so I had a semester’s worth of time to spare. It would be my first taste of freedom: time away from school and home, no papers to do or applications to complete.
The media company, Knight Ridder, had granted me a partial scholarship toward my undergraduate degree (I’d spent a summer working for one of their newspapers: The Philadelphia Inquirer and Daily News.) Because I had completed my coursework early, I needed to return the remaining funds or to attempt to use them. I called to ask if I could keep the money, and that money - $2500 - financed my study abroad.
It was the late 90s in Alajuela, Costa Rica, where I arrived at the home of a woman and her five-year old son who would be my host family. My $2,500 scholarship would not go far, so I was grateful that they allowed me to live in their home. As typical for the area, the home had bars that stretched like an awning over a courtyard that led up to the front door. Bars also attached to every window. The house had concrete floors and a small bathroom which received water for only about one hour in the mornings and sporadically, certainly not reliably, late at night. I’d live with this family and walk up the street about 300 meters to board a public bus - a yellow school bus - to my Spanish language school each day. I attended classes until mid-day and explored the town squares, churches, and coffee farms until sunset. It was the first time I actually felt free. I knew no one, and no one knew me. My clothes weren’t fancy - I looked like I just stepped out of a camping store no matter where I went. I wore no makeup and only sported the most comfy and practical shoes on my feet. No cell phone. No television. Just me.
I slept in a cozy twin bed in a small room off the kitchen with two windows and sheer pink curtains. In the morning, the sunlight and breeze flowed gently through the window screen and across my face. I stepped into the kitchen where my hostess offered me homemade bread and coffee. I wasn’t a coffee drinker, but I was too self-conscious to attempt to reply with the little bit of Spanish that I knew at the time, to inquire with the woman about any other options, like juice. So, I’d accept whatever she’d give to me. She placed a plate with a slice of bread and a brown, glazed, earthenware mug in front of me. She then place a small burlap bag into the mug along with two scoops of ground coffee beans that she had retrieved from a zip locked bag. She had been heating a kettle of water on the stove which she poured into the burlap bag. The bag worked like a filter that funneled the water over the ground coffee beans into the mug. It was my first cup of coffee, which I’ve now come to know as a “pour over.” It was my first taste of Arabica beans from a local farm in Costa Rica. I felt grown. I felt free, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Today, I continue to meet new people and place my self in unfamiliar situations because that this is where growth happens. It’s ironic that my career eventually led me to Starbucks Coffee Company, the company where I learned that culture, values, and fit is everything.
Me in Costa Rica with my new friend Lone who was from Denmark.