Under Grumpa's Hat

When we moved to Atenas, Costa Rica, we were ready for toucans, different types of monkeys, and the occasional gecko doing parkour on the walls. What we weren’t ready for were the cicadas… not to be confused with Neil Sedaka, although… Big. Loud. Persistent. They don’t just make noise, they announce their presence like a rock band doing sound check in your backyard… with broken speakers.

I had heard about them before, but I had no idea they were actual flying alarm clocks with wings the size of cocktail napkins. Their favourite time to start their concerts? Exactly when you sit down to relax. Or talk on the phone. Or think. Basically, they have a sixth sense for when you’re finally at peace and decide to ruin it with the audio equivalent of a dental drill.

Now I get it, they’re part of nature. They serve a purpose. But there’s something almost theatrical about the way they crash into everything. They don’t so much fly as they launch themselves through the air like miniature helicopters with faulty rotors. If there’s a wall, they’ll hit it. If there’s a light, they’ll fall in love with it. And if there’s a human in their path, chances are they’re landing in your hair, confused, buzzing, and just as surprised as you are.

The first time one hit our patio light, I thought a drone was under attack. The second time, it hit me in the chest and I nearly spilled my Imperial. By the third time, I started naming them. That one was Carl. Carl was not a strong flier. He also couldn’t take a hint. He kept returning to the same outdoor lamp like it was the moon itself and he was a hopeless romantic with no sense of direction.

These guys spend most of their lives underground, sometimes up to four years, just biding their time, sucking on tree roots, and waiting for the big moment. Then, in what can only be described as the insect version of a mid-life crisis, they emerge, shed their exoskeletons like old yoga pants, climb up a tree, and start singing as if the world has been waiting just for them. It’s loud, it’s intense, and it happens in groups. Because if there’s anything worse than one cicada yelling outside your window, it’s thirty of them, all trying to out-sing each other like contestants in a tropical version of The Voice.

To be fair, they are pretty fascinating. The males are the only ones who sing, and they do it to attract mates. Which, in human terms, is kind of like blasting Barry White out of a boom box at full volume in the middle of a grocery store. It’s bold, it’s desperate, and somehow, it works.

They are drawn to light, especially at night, thinking it’s the moon. I’ve seen them bash their heads into our porch light over and over, completely convinced they’re flying toward the stars, when really it’s just our energy-saving LED bulb. Romantic, yes. Smart, not so much.

At our home here in Atenas, our walls are 8-foot windows. So when you turn a light on inside, those big buggers turn into a constant tang against the windows, sounding like a burglar trying to break in… leaving us wonder if they’ll eventually be successful!

They don’t bite, they don’t sting, and they won’t hurt you unless you count emotional damage from being startled half to death by a flying brown-green beast slapping into your window like a confused chicken nugget. Still, I can’t help but admire their enthusiasm. They don’t have long above ground, just a few short weeks to scream, mate, and leave their mark (usually on your wall or light fixture).

So here in Atenas, we’ve embraced the cicadas. We don’t love them, but we’ve come to respect their hustle. They are noisy, awkward, terrible at flying, and romantically misguided, but they are also proof that Costa Rica is alive and buzzing in ways you just don’t get back home.

And if you ever come for a visit, bring earplugs.

You’ll thank me.