I’m standing in line at a supermarket in San José. In front of me, a woman is pushing a cart with a massive box inside: a television. When it’s her turn to pay, she smiles and says to the cashier: “It’s great that Black Friday now lasts all of November.” As she walks out, a triumphant aura seems to float above her head.
I keep thinking—not only about her enthusiasm, but about what that device seems to represent. Perhaps that TV will ease a routine, or maybe it’s a gift for someone she loves. It could be. But her comment reveals something deeper: the aspirations of many people now fit inside a cardboard box.
Increasingly, free time is no longer reserved for going to the park, traveling, or sharing moments with friends. It’s about arriving early to catch the sales and feeling—even if just for a few minutes—the illusion that we’re in control. More and more, we rely on these quick “shots” of instant happiness.
Consumption has ceased to be an activity and has become the centre of our schedules. I wouldn’t be surprised if next year someone proposes that Black Friday should last until Christmas. I’m sure the country would celebrate—as if we had qualified for the World Cup. Or almost. We’ve invented a new national pastime. Why camp under the trees if we can do it next to the cash register?
From the Theatre to the Showcase
This obsession with consumption didn’t appear overnight. At some point in recent history, our world began to shrink. Little by little, our priorities shifted. One clear example proves it: Costa Rica’s most important construction at the end of the 19th century was the National Theatre; at the end of the 20th century, it was the Mall San Pedro.
That comparison allows us to make a cultural diagnosis. We went from building a temple for culture to one for consumption. It’s not about glorifying the first or condemning the second. The concerning part is that the shopping mall gradually took over the symbolic space once held by education, health, and culture.
Apparent material prosperity brought a spiritual decline. Each person became an island. As long as we have money for home security systems, private health insurance, and private schools for our children—why worry about what happens across the street? Our sense of community has dried up.
“He was so poor that he had nothing but money,” sang Joaquín Sabina. Today, that line stops sounding like poetry and starts looking like a social profile. The popularity of aggressive political discourse—indifferent to public health, education, or culture—confirms it: the only thing that matters is the self. When a society locks itself in, its windows become smaller—and eventually, they are covered with bars.
A Republic of Consumers
But we weren’t always like this. Costa Rica was built by people who believed in collective effort. Our grandparents and great-grandparents founded institutions that protected public health, guaranteed access to education, and imagined a country where one could live without fear. They didn’t have wealth—they had ideals.
I think of Mauro Fernández fighting for public education; of Carmen Lyra defending childhood; of Emma Gamboa understanding pedagogy as a social act; of Rodrigo Facio dreaming of a public university committed to the country. And of so many others who held onto a simple yet powerful idea: the common good was greater than individual gain.
They too faced crises and divisions. What set them apart was their broader vision—their commitment to the future—a shared ethic.
Today, however, we risk becoming a republic of consumers: citizens who look for discounts instead of opportunities, individual comfort instead of shared well-being. That is how the world slowly turns into an enormous supermarket. And when that happens, life itself is reduced to a shopping list.
Perhaps it’s time to turn around—to widen the world once again. To recover those spaces that sell nothing—parks, classrooms, theatres, public squares—because that is where what cannot be bought is cultivated: freedom, health, and empathy.
It’s not about denying consumption. It’s about asking ourselves what we want to organize our dreams and aspirations. Because if the only relief left to us is waiting for the next Black Friday—or a Black November, or a Black Year—then we will no longer be living; we’ll just be hunting for discounts to fill a void that cannot be purchased.