From the feelings of a casual vacationer to the powerful reactions of a new expat, the term “culture shock” explains away our experiences of cultural rejection and eventual assimilation, turning them into theory and process. But can an academic explanation of a very human experience really describe our feelings? As an anthropologist, I’m trained to say “yes,” but as an expatriate myself, I wonder.

There are four basic phases of culture shock. The first is called Euphoria, a.k.a. The Honeymoon Phase. As new arrivals or tourists, we are full of enough hope and excitement to cloud our vision and make cultural differences seem unimportant, even fun. However, after a few days or weeks, we move into the second phase, Irritation and Hostility. This stage is actually what many people refer to as culture shock - homesickness and frustration enter our daily lives, we get angry over little things, and experience depression. This second stage is usually the “make or break” stage, when expats either adjust to their new country or decide to go home.

If we safely make it through, we arrive at the Gradual Adjustment phase, where we begin to adapt to our surroundings and function normally in our new culture. We make efforts to fit in, to actively accept new things, and appreciate the differences of our new culture. Finally, after months or years in stage three, we graduate to the final phase, Adaptation. We are bi-cultural, able to function in both our native and adopted cultures without a problem. We have a strong command of our new language, and many of our old habits are replaced by new, one culture seamlessly folding into the other.

At least, that’s the theory. In real life, culture shock is a much more personal, individual experience. My euphoric phase was marked by an appreciation of the mountains that surrounded me, an amusement at the crazy drivers, and a sense of awe that I was finally here. By phase two, I still appreciated the mountains, but those crazy drivers were assholes, and my only wish was to be able to curse well enough in Spanish to give them a piece of my mind the next time one blew threw a red light as I crossed the street. There was no dulling sense of awe or wonderment anymore, I no longer woke up in the mornings congratulating myself, “You live in Costa Rica!” I was often frustrated by being stereotyped as a gringa, spoken to in English, and ripped off at every opportunity. If I had been just a little less mature, I would have stomped my feet and hurled myself to the ground for a good, cathartic temper tantrum. Every day.

For several months, I grappled with being a minority for the first time in my life. I wondered if the bus driver had given me incorrect change on purpose. I secretly raged at strangers who spoke to me in English, even though I spoke perfectly passable Spanish. I was angry. I wanted to know where all the nice ticos had gone. I wanted sales people to leave me alone, instead of breathing down my neck. I wanted people to just say “no” instead of “puede ser,” show me brutal honestly instead of feeding me white lies. But then, slowly enough to not warrant my own notice, the “want want WANT!!! turned into a gentle acceptance of my surroundings. All things tico started to make sense, without my consciously making sense of them.

Phase three is a happy place - I’m comfortable and calm, learning something new everyday. Like a child, I learn through observation, mimicking my tico friends in everything they do. Instead of using a finger or head nod, I see them use their lips to point out a location, and then I practice doing the same. They say “mae” every other word, and like a parrot, I say it, too. I’m learning how to time the traffic, and I cross streets without [much] fear. When it’s necessary, I know how to stop most errant drivers dead in their tracks with a few well-chosen palabrotas (bad words) and an icy stare. And about those mountains… they are still forever beautiful.

In many ways, I’ve already hit the fourth phase of culture shock, adaptation. But I don’t want to. Like in love, I don’t want my relationship with Costa Rica to ever feel stale. I never want to be so perfectly adapted that I take my surroundings for granted. It’s a vicious cycle - Costa Rica is not my native home, and so if I ever grew “used to” being here, I would never achieve cultural fluency. The day that I accept my Spanish as “good enough” will be the day that I stop improving my accent and vocabulary. If I ever stop questioning exactly when I should snap my fingers in disbelief or place them all together to indicate that something is full, I will always be on the dusty outskirts of tico culture. Without questioning and wondering about everything around me, I will never be able to discover all the amazing nuances of my new home and language.

May I never grow complacent and merely accepting of unique gestures, rolling mountains, artistic churches, perfectly laid stone fences, incredible forests, and linguistic idiosyncracies. Because to me, phase four — Adaptation — is apathy. It’s the acceptance of everything around you to the point of feeling so comfortable that no further effort is needed. But my love affair with Costa Rica is special, enduring, and for that reason, I hope to never adapt.