In 2007, after finishing my studies, I moved to Costa Rica for almost six months. I lived in an illegally built corrugated iron housing project in the middle of San José, situated on a hill. Bordered on one side by a long railway line without any barriers, which regularly endangered children playing around, as the tracks also served as a "playground." Bordered on the other by a small, contaminated stream into which the housing project's wastewater was discharged. I lived in a very small space with a family that owned almost nothing: barely any space, barely any education, and barely any money. The ancient refrigerator was almost completely empty. The main meal for all of us was beans and rice: for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But what they did possess was their greatest treasure: joie de vivre and a big heart. They welcomed me, a completely foreign young woman from a seemingly different world (light blonde hair, different language, different clothes, etc.), into their home – without any ifs or buts – and even shared the limited space with me. Although I had long since grown up, I was treated like another daughter and called that same thing: mi hija - my daughter. I came to this place to help a little: to teach children and adults English, to help with homework in Spanish, and above all, to be there with a listening ear and an open heart. At the same time, I was also helped, on many levels and often almost unconsciously. I learned that my "right" or "wrong" is not automatically "right" or "wrong" for everyone. I learned that often those who have the least are able to give the most and most generously. However, my stay wasn't always positive; there were also many moments of doubt: disinterest in my offers of help, experiences within the community that deeply moved me, and, along with that, sadness and, at times, helplessness regarding the question: "How could I have been so naive as to believe that I could truly do anything good for people here in the long term?" My stay in San José has now been 15 years ago, and I'm still in contact with "my" family. A few years ago, they managed to leave the illegally settled area, acquire a small piece of land in a housing project, and build a small house on it – in a rural area, far from the dirt and sewage stench, the noise, and the many dangers that come with such a slum. Eight years ago, there was another one of their regular WhatsApp messages – luckily, they could afford a cell phone. They had good news, the message said: they were expecting another child, a girl, and they wanted to tell me what her name would be: ANNETTE. I was absolutely speechless. Annette is my name too. And a name they had never heard back then – in 2007 – when I arrived. They chose this name simply because they are open and accepting of strangers, and they simply gave me their hearts. And I give mine to this family, so special to me. Between the seemingly luxury problems that sometimes plague you irritate me in everyday life, hardly a day goes by when I don't think of them at some point or another, for all sorts of reasons. Thank you for this warm feeling in my stomach, which was and is only possible through openness. Thank you, dear Yessenia, Javier, Patricia, Albenis, Leonardo and Annette ---- Object for the exhibition, in case the story is of interest: there are several possibilities: - a cheerfully colourful wooden cross that the family gave me as a farewell gift and which is supposed to look after me - a photo of the family, printed on a T-shirt that they sent me in a package - the aforementioned package with letters, the T-shirt, a small photo album and other small gifts. The only package that they ever sent me because it was very expensive for them and which I guard like a treasure. The T-shirt has never been worn because I'm worried that washing it would ruin the print of the family portrait.
