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.Reduce the heat to low and cover.The eggs are done when the whites are set but the yolks are still runny.This can take anywhere between 2 and 4 minutes.(But remember, runny yolks are key here!)Once they’re done, place the eggs on top of the rice.Season the eggs with a bit of salt and pepper.Add the broccolini to the plates.Make sure to serve with sriracha.(The best bites include a mixture of rice, egg, broccolini, and a touch of sriracha.)Chapter 9The Wrong, Long PathWhile I was away at college, Mom and Bruce downsized to a two-bedroom condo, and so it was from Bruce’s newly set-up third-floor office where I hesitated for a few minutes before finally purchasing the round-trip ticket to San José, Costa Rica, leaving Pittsburgh in mid-June and returning six weeks later.I hesitated not only because I was going alone but because my plans included nothing more than spending some time in the city, volunteering, maybe making a friend or two, and traveling to the coast.It scared me, but what was scarier was not going.Because if I took away Costa Rica, all I was was an unemployed liberal arts graduate.I arrived in the capital with the bare minimum: a backpack full of clothes, my journal, a Costa Rican guidebook, the address of a hostel, and the phone number of Bruce’s Christian friends.But the minute the taxi dropped me off at the hostel, I knew I’d overestimated myself.The hostel in San José issued me a twin bed, which was part of a bunk bed, which was in a room with five other bunk beds.As far as I could tell, I was the only one traveling alone.Wasting no time, I retrieved the notebook with the phone number of the Costa Rican Christians from my backpack.But when I called, I got a Spanish recording telling me to hang up and dial again.I figured I was doing something wrong, like not using the proper city code.I tried the number again, slightly differently.Still nothing.I tried again and again, finally asking the person working the front desk for help.Still, I couldn’t get through.In the common area, I logged on to one of the computers and sent an e-mail to the address Bruce gave me, explaining I’d arrived and that the phone number I had for them didn’t seem to be working.In the meantime, I tried casually hanging out by the pool with a book in hand, pretending to be OK with the fact that I was there alone, as if I hadn’t just spent an entire semester at college drinking too much in order to avoid feeling a moment of such loneliness.I lasted maybe a half hour.In need of some cash and food, I decided to venture out.A couple of blocks away, I found a bank, withdrew some colones, picked up groceries, and got whistled at by various passengers in cars driving by.Back at the hostel, I ate my dinner by myself and checked my e-mail.There was nothing waiting for me.From the semi-comfort of my twin bunk bed that night, I put together a plan B.According to my guidebook, I could take a bus to any one of the beach towns.I decided that’s what I would do if I didn’t hear anything from the Christians in the morning.After all, if I was going to be alone, I might as well be alone at the beach, right?But in the morning, before I even checked my e-mail to see if anyone had responded, I realized that I didn’t have my bank card.Instantly, I knew I’d left it in the ATM machine.And instantly, I knew the jig was up.Within the half hour, I packed up my things, checked out of the hostel, and hailed a cab to the airport where I paid a 125-dollar fee to change my return ticket to the very next flight out of San José.Of course, I could have gone back to the bank and tried to retrieve my card.I also had a credit card I could have used.Basically, if I’d wanted to make it work, I could have.But that’s the thing.I didn’t.In fact, the relief I felt upon changing my ticket and knowing I was going back home was overwhelming.When I think of the mishap now, I can’t help but think of Freud’s theory on such mistakes, how they are manifestations of unconscious thoughts and impulses.I wasn’t ready to jump to this conclusion at the time, but the truth was that I simply wasn’t the kind of freewheeling, laidback, outgoing person who could travel around a foreign country by herself.I didn’t want to take a bus to the coast so that I could be alone at another hostel even if it was near the beach; I didn’t want to volunteer with Bruce’s Christian friends even if they did get in touch with me.The truth was that I didn’t want to be there, period.At the Pittsburgh International Airport, I called my mom from a pay phone.It was late, and I could tell from the way she answered that I’d woken her up.I tried to sound sick.I told her I was in Pittsburgh, that I hadn’t been able to get in touch with Bruce’s friends, that someone from the hostel must have stolen my bankcard, and that I’d gotten food poisoning.I told her I hadn’t known what to do so I’d gone to the airport and gotten on the first flight home.“So, you’re here? In Pittsburgh?”“Yes.”“OK, I’m coming,” she said.“See you soon.”Epic failure that it was, the trip was still my graduation gift from my mom and Bruce.And now that it was over, it was time to properly introduce me to the real world.The day after I arrived back home, Bruce knocked on my bedroom door.In his hands were my car insurance and cell phone bills.Two things that were now mine.By midsummer, I’d gotten a job waiting tables at Aladdin’s Eatery, a casual Middle Eastern restaurant located in what is referred to as downtown (suburban) Mt.Lebanon
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