Stu

Prequel: Ana’s Experiences in Costa Rica

This story was written in the first-person by Ana, with assistance from Steve.

The high-heel shoes stood on the wood floor by the foot of my bed. They were beautiful black, strappy sandals, with four-inch stilettos that seemed to demand one’s full attention. It seemed impossible that these could be my shoes. I had seen such shoes all my life, but always on the feet of other women. Someday, I was told, I would be able to wear shoes like those. And now, incredibly, that day had come.

It was my 18th birthday, and my parents had invited family and friends over to celebrate the occasion. Aunts and uncles, cousins, my grandparents, family friends of my parents, and many of my friends were in the house. I had greeted them as they entered, and spent the early part of the afternoon socializing with them in the living room. Then my mother looked at her watch and quietly motioned me to go to my room. It was time for the next stage of the party, as we had planned. I quietly left the living room, went into my bedroom, and closed the door.

Those steps I took before shutting my bedroom door were the last ones of my childhood.

It felt strange being alone in my room. There were three beds in the room – one was for me, and two for my younger sisters. Very few children in Costa Rica had the luxury of having their own bedroom, and I was certainly not one of them. But mom and dad had made sure that, on this special day, I would have my room to myself.

I had been wearing a simple blouse, plain jeans and two-inch block heels prior to entering my room. This had been my basic attire for the last two years or so, and as much as I had wanted to shed them for something better, I felt sad doing so. But there would be time later for feeling sentimental about such things. I took off my shoes, and unzipped my pants. I hung the pants up neatly in my closet, perhaps for the last time. I then picked up the pair of pants that my parents had folded neatly and left on my bed. They were black, and made of a clingy, polyester-like material. I had never worn such pants before, even though I had long wanted to do so. As I pulled them up, I looked at myself in the mirror, and my heart started to beat a little stronger. The pants were outlining my thighs, hips and waist far more explicitly than anything I had worn in the past. I had studied myself in the mirror countless times, but I had never seen myself quite like that.

With my pants properly zipped, I looked down and turned my attention to the stilettos on the floor. I moved them to the middle of the floor, and eased myself into them, first my right foot and then my left. I momentarily lost my sense of balance, as it felt like the shoes were making me fall forward. I reacted by thrusting my hips out slightly and arching my back. I felt back in balance, at least somewhat. My pants felt so tight, and the shoes had twisted my feet into a semi-vertical position and forced me to assume this strange posture. I turned back to the mirror and fixated on what I saw. My hips and waist appeared curvier than before. I turned to the side and looked at the shape of my cola, which is the Spanish term for rear end. I also observed my suddenly longer legs, and my now-twisted feet. It reminded me of the women I had long admired as they walked down the street wearing their high heels. I had dreamed for years about looking like this, and now that it was happening, it seemed so surreal. It was almost as if I had simply borrowed someone’s body, and that, when the day was over, I would return to the little girl’s body I had known all my life.

This was not the first time I had worn 4-inch stilettos. I had practiced walking in them in the house on several occasions in the past, but never with guests in the house. And I had never worn them with pants like this. I took a few practice steps around my room, and was able to walk comfortably as I had done in those earlier practice sessions. But this was different. I walked to the bedroom door and started to open it, but I had to take one last look at the room, at the little girl’s life I was leaving behind. I would be sleeping in this room tonight, but it would not be the same.

I opened the door and started down the hallway, my heels clomping loudly on the wood floor. I entered the living room. A few relatives saw me, their conversations stopped and they looked at me approvingly. Then my father saw me, walked up to me, and shouted, “Hello, everyone! I have someone that I want you to see. Behold my beautiful daughter, Ana!”

As I walked to the center of the room, relatives and friends that I had known all my life cheered. A few of the men whistled, and I could hear some of the women telling each other how beautiful I was. I stood in the center of the room and turned to the side, sharing with everyone my new feminine profile, enhanced by those magical stiletto heels. The applause went on and on, and it was one of the very proudest moments of my life.

I was no longer a little girl. I had become a tica, a Costa Rican woman. And my life would never, ever be the same.

*** *** ***

When people from the United States express their patriotism, they normally talk about the freedom they enjoy in their country, and its prosperity. The land of the free and the home of the brave. When Costa Ricans express their patriotism, they remind everyone that their little nation is the oldest and most stable democracy in Latin America, and the only country in the western hemisphere that does not have a military. And, in many cases, they say proudly that Costa Rican women are the most beautiful in the world.

The adoration of beautiful women permeates much of Costa Rican culture. I do not know how this began. Many cultures, particularly in Latin America, place a premium on feminine beauty, and at some point Costa Ricans put their own special twist on it. It makes us feel special. Unlike countries like Mexico and Peru, Costa Rica had no great Indian civilizations, and therefore we have no indigenous culture to incorporate into our national identity. Costa Rica was originally settled by small family farmers from Europe who built no great cathedrals, opera houses, or museums. But we have our women, and they are the ones who make Costa Rica special. Whether they are the most beautiful in the world is a matter of personal opinion. But the country operates as if they are.

The nation’s obsession with beauty is focused primarily on single women between the ages of 18 and approximately 25. Life for many of these women can resemble a seven-year-long beauty pageant. They primp and preen constantly, squeeze themselves into tight, form-fitting clothing, and wear high heels almost exclusively. They smile a lot, flirt with men of all ages, and soak up the attention like sponges. And they do get attention. Soccer may be the favorite sport of Costa Ricans, but the national pastime is looking at women. Everyone in Costa Rica looks at women – men and women, the old and the young, even little children look at women. They are all judges in this 24-7 beauty pageant, evaluating the figures and the poise of these women, how well they dress, and how well they walk in their high heels. In part, these young, single women are engaging in an elaborate mating ritual, in which they compete for the attention and affection of young, single men. But the women are also competing for the hearts of other Costa Ricans as well. Every town, village and community in the country takes pride in its beautiful, young women. Costa Ricans are not an entrepreneurial people, and they do not measure their wealth by national income levels, exports, or production of key commodities. As long as there are beautiful women in the streets, they are satisfied that things are going well.

Of course, not everyone in Costa Rica buys into the culture of beauty and femininity. Many young women avoid heels and attractive clothing, and there are even families that prohibit their daughters from dressing or behaving in any way that attract attention. My family was not one of those. We were enthusiastic participants in a culture that worshipped beautiful women, their high heels, and their colas. And I am glad we were.

To be continued.