ghost transmissions

As the clock ticked down on our final days in Costa Rica, we could practically visualize the grains of sand slipping through the hourglass. We wanted more than anything to have more time; we were not ready to close the book on our San Jose assignment. The feeling, it turns out, was mutual. Much as we were not ready to depart Costa Rica, the country was not ready to let us go. So, although we will be on U.S. soil by the time this post goes live, we remain inextricably tethered to our past life in San Jose thanks to an unfortunate set of circumstances that have left the last page of our Costa Rica adventure unwritten.

There’s a ghost-like feeling that sets in sometime during one’s last month or two at post. Bumping into friends in the embassy hallway, one gets the sense of becoming threadbare and see-through. “Short-timer,” colleagues mutter, already thinking ahead to the arrival of the next officer who’ll fill the position one is about to vacate. Disappearing from post a day at a time, each completed check-out task effacing a bit more of one’s presence, one feels like a complete phantasm by the time the movers come to crate away one’s belongings. That’s one reason we usually wait until the last possible moment to schedule our packout. The eerie feeling of continuing to occupy an empty house that no longer feels lived-in is almost too much to bear.

On Wednesday, which we thought would be D’s final day in San Jose, he headed to the Claro office to close his local phone account. Within minutes, his number was deactivated and removed from Claro’s network. D was left with a zombie device, able to connect to WiFi but without actual phone service. And yet, when he returned home, the zombie phone sprang to life. WhatsApp continued to function even in the absence of an active phone number; connected again to our home WiFi, D’s phone lit up with responses to the farewell message he had sent to the Ultimate Frisbee community an hour earlier. Ghost transmissions.

Originally, the plan had been for the whole family to fly home on Friday, but then a heat wave hit the United States, and we realized our itinerary was untenable for flying with a pet in the hold. D scrambled to change his flights, our options limited by airlines’ increasingly restrictive pet transport policies and the size of our dog’s kennel. The only workable option appeared to be a Thursday afternoon departure on a Delta flight that would arrive in Atlanta in the evening, with an early morning connection the following day to our final destination. S still had too much unfinished business in San Jose, so she kept our original Friday booking for herself and the kids. Our only chance at relocating our entirely family was to try to depart separately.

Alas, even a 7:30 p.m. arrival in Atlanta proved too early to beat the heat this week. Hotlanta indeed! D spent nearly two hours at the airport exploring potential solutions with a half dozen Delta agents before reluctantly pivoting to Plan B: boarding our dog for two months in Costa Rica and making arrangements to ship her directly to Quito once we arrive in Ecuador. So while the four of us departed San Jose this morning, our furry family member was forced to stay behind. It’s not the first time we’ve been forced to spend time apart from our intrepid dog due to the vagaries of our career — and it’s definitely not the first time we’ve wished that dogs had wings.