I know that milestones carry far too much significance for me, but that knowledge never stops me from caring. Last Sunday was no different, as I “celebrated” my one year anniversary of arriving in Costa Rica.

Individual days seem to have passed slowly enough, but last January 6th merely feels like a distant yesterday. I distinctly remember the smell in the air, the [relative] heat, and the jittery excitement that coursed through my body that day. My first views of the Central Valley and its beautiful mountains are gloriously haze-free in my mind’s eye. I can still feel the terror of speeding along my first Costa Rican road in 7 years, with a taxista who seemed afraid of nothing at all. And seeing my apartment with my own two eyes, instead of through the photos I had poured over for months, is a moment that I will never forget. Indeed, the details of that day are as clear to me now as they were when I woke up on January 7th, 2007.

But no matter how well I remember that day, no matter how close it seems to me, I cannot deny the changes that a full year has brought. I came back to Costa Rica not knowing how long I would stay, having little idea of what awaited me, and very unsure of my Spanish, my self-sufficience, and even myself. Though I doubt that anyone ever knows herself entirely, I can state with certainty that I am much more self-aware than I once was.

There are few things that would test my character more than moving to a new country, throwing myself into a foreign language, and jumping head-first into a different culture. In many ways, my background in anthropology and Spanish helped my adjustment, but they also created a sense of false confidence. Though I was likely more prepared than many who make the move, every moment in my new home taught me something new. Most of these lessons were novel and exciting, grounds for funny stories I would tell in the future, but some truly tested my patience and fortitude.

On the lighter side, I now know how to make worm-free cas juice, I can effectively remove a tarantula from my home with only a Tupperware container and a few sobs of fear, I know to automatically translate a tico’s “puede ser” as a polite synonym for “no,” and I can throw a coherent, quite effective tantrum in Spanish. But I know also the frustration of being on the receiving end of prejudice - how it feels to be taken advantage of, charged gringo prices, hated for something my president did, and outright ignored because of an ugly stereotype.

A lesson I’m currently learning is how to not let this affect me. Racism, hate, and prejudice exist the world around and letting these attitudes hurt me only gives them momentum. On a good day, I remember this. On a bad day, my Spanish tantrum skills come in handy. As with everything else that I’ve learned here, this lesson is having its ups and downs, its struggles and victories. This one will take awhile, and in the meantime I do what I can to have power over my own situation.

Despite the downs, in actuality, I feel more tica than gringa now. Of course, there are things about me that will likely always remain gringo, but everyday I feel a slightly weaker tie to my U.S. roots. Spanish rolls off my tongue almost as easily as English, and some say my accent is hardly noticeable (though I don’t believe them). I toast my tortillas on the stovetop and I think it’s funny when tourists eat gallo pinto for anything other than breakfast. I think cumbia music is awesome and the way that ticos dance it is far better than the traditional Columbian style. Throwing toilet paper in the toilet is weird, though there’s nothing strange about washing my dishes in cold water.

I used to doubt that I’d adjust enough to feel truly comfortable in my tico surroundings, but with 367 days under my belt, I know that I’m well on my way. In fact, in perhaps the biggest indication of my shifting identity, whenever the mercury dips below 23 degrees, I get so cold that I swear my toes are going to fall off.