How to Cross the Street in Vietnam

1. Look both ways
2. Stay calm
3. Disregard everything your mother told you, wait for a big bus or car (they're rare) to pass
4. Walk
5. Resist the urge to flinch, run, step backwards, or scream. Keep moving forward with consistent pace.
6. Ignore every motorbike that looks as if it's going to hit you. If it does, you ignored number 5 above.
7. Do not put your guard down when you get to the other side. Motorbikes are also common on sidewalks.
8. Go back to your regular heartbeat

Monkey Island, Halong Bay, Vietnam
March 14, 2013

Chris and I just marked week two in Vietnam. It is both nothing and everything I expected it to be. It's incredibly crowded, fast,and signs of growth are all around. Quite frankly, I have been surprised as what was described to me as a "third world country" seems nothing like that at all. Ho Chi Minh (saigon) and Hanoi are bustling, extremely modernized gigantic cities, with everything any foreigner could ever want available. Language barriers prevent me from asking locals if they feel the same. Hanoi, the more international of the two, is covered with parks and lakes and tree lined boulevards. Tourism infrastructure is plentiful, in all budget classes.

We began our journey in Saigon, taking in the vibrant bustle of this Asian megalopolis. Impossible to see even a tiny fraction, we focused on what was nearby. Chris, who has never really been anywhere, was stymied by the traffic, and that we could be staying in a hotel in a small alley, a stones throw away from what we were told is the busiest intersection in Ho Chi Minh, and couldn't hear a thing. A highlight of visiting Saigon was watching the sunset from the Saigon Skydeck, 49 floors high, with windows around the entire floor. Once the sun went down, the city lights were on display. No ordinary city lights, but bridges with light shows, tall buildings with floating messages up the side. Truly remarkable.

After four nights in the bustle, we headed for a two day tour of the Mekong delta. We lucked out by booking a tour that left on a Sunday. We expected a giant tour bus to be picking us up. Instead, it was our guide, Thien, and our driver, in a small sedan. A personalized tour, on accident. Here, we visited craft makers villages, tropical fruit gardens, and a traditional floating market- one that actually wasn't designed for tourists. We saw how different foods were made, and stopped for tea about five times. The people of the Mekong were very hardworking, many living and working on their boats and rarely coming to land. So many things were reminiscent of the Mississippi. Down to some of the houses we saw along the riverside, where French influence is apparent, both in new and old architecture.

We then flew to Hue for a few days, taking another river trip to see the old citadel, similar in design and purpose of the forbidden city in Beijing, the tombs, complete with a motorbike ride, something I swore I would never do. From here we took a four hour bus rise to the tourist mecca and UNESCO heritage site of Hoi An, where we treated ourselves like kings. The ancient city of Hoi An is so atmospheric, especially by night. The city is along a small river, and a beautifully lit bridge connects different parts of town. The entire town is covered with glowing lanterns, and in the evenings, adorable children sell candles in colored paper bowls to float down the river, where you can take a small canoe through the beauty. Hoi An is also a place to have clothing custom made for you. Tailors dot every street, from handmade leather shoes, to wedding gowns and everything in between. We both ended up buying more than we thought, and left extremely satisfied. From here, we booked a flight to Hanoi but were delayed by one day so we decided to check out Danang, home to the famous China Beach.
A large city without a true town center, we weren't particularly impressed. But the city is definitely progressing. Two gorgeous bridges are being built, and beachfront hotels are up and running at a rapid pace. In ten years, maybe this will be a place to be. But not yet.

Hanoi is busy like its southern city, but far older, cooler, and more international. At the moment, we are sitting on the beach at monkey island, in halong bay. We took an overnight cruise on a boat, with an extra night here on the island. Halong bay is beautiful, though crowded. This morning when the sum rose, I looked outside and saw about 25 ships, almost exactly like ours, docked in the bay with sleeping passengers. It was kind of like our own floating city.

We are getting ready to leave Vietnam, to spend a week in Luang Prabang, Laos, and I look forward to seeing something different and being in a Buddhist area. Vietnam is a surprising mix if religions, and it's cultural heritage being influenced by so many different places. We have found people here very kind and warm. They seem over eager to please, and methinks its because of TripAdvisor. It becomes so important to be on the top of that list. When we check out hotels, we are immediately asked to post a review. Move over, Lonely Planet, there's a new kid in town!

There's no place like home

Especially when home is New Orleans.

Old, rickety yet decadent, history and booze laced, New Orleans can be overstimulating. Intoxicating. Utterly exhausting.

My obsession with the city waxes and wanes, but my love never wavers. I love her most when I can't decide if I'm ready to be here forever, or if I think I should leave tomorrow. Or next week. Or maybe after jazz fest.

That's the thing. New Orleans gives and gives, a series of events strung together, beckoning people to be part of the festivities. It doesn't matter who you bring or don't bring, as the entire city is at the same great party. Even when they don't know it. It's not uncommon for people to visit New Orleans for an event like Mardi Gras, and cancel their flights and stay through Jazz Fest. Or move to the city indefinitely.

I fell in love with New Orleans during my second visit from California. The slower pace, and social ease resonated well with me, as did the incredible music scene. I was there for my spring break, and contemplated staying an extra week for French Quarter Fest. As a teacher, of course I couldn't. But when I returned to work that first Monday, hearts still floating out of my eyes, I had a speech prepared for the following year's Jazz Fest.

The speech went like this:
Me: How was your trip to Paris?

Principal: It was so fantastic (insert romantic details about a lovely symphony here). How was your trip to New Orleans?

Me, in exactly one breath: It was amazing and I want to go to jazz fest next year, the whole 12 days and I know it's right before testing so it's a bad week to take off but I will make sure the kids are prepared and the sub knows exactly what to do, what do you think?

Principal: I think we can make that work
**note- most principals aren't this cool, and it helps to ask when said principal is on a romantic vacation high!

Unfortunately, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans five months later. This changed my plans.

It changed everyone's plans.

When Jazz Fest rolled around again during the spring of 2006, I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to go. I asked my friend, an evacuee who I had housed for a while in the fall through moveon.org, what he thought. And he told me exactly what I already knew after the horrible Asian tsunami the year prior to Katrina.

Go. Spend money. Spread it around. Enjoy it.

I did. We did. It was an extremely difficult time for the city, and signs of the storm were still everywhere.

But those little cartoon hearts were still flying out of my eyes. That was the last weekend of April. I was back in June. Twice in July. Once in August, and back again in September signing the papers on a note for a condo just outside the French quarter. In hindsight, I probably should have sublet an apartment for the summer. But committing to this sultry city didn't seem plausible then.

Six months later, I came to New Orleans for two months. It's been five and a half years since then.

You can see how that worked out.

The city has changed a lot since I moved here. NOLA's greatest supporters will complain about the change, while simultaneously encouraging friends from different places to come and be part of it. Locals sometimes naysay the out-of-towners moving in. Locals who mainly came from somewhere else, at some other time, when others were complaining about them moving in from far away places changing what was then New Orleans. Though change is a bit slower in these parts, it is inevitable, and I believe New Orleans will always be different than the rest of the USA's cities. Tennessee Williams wrote years ago "America has only three cities: New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. Everywhere else is Cleveland."

Both Caribbean and European aesthetically, linguistically, and culturally, one often feels it is not a part of the United States at all. We still have fruit peddlers driving down the dilapidated one way streets, bellowing through a megaphone out the window, "I've got watermelon. I've got corn. I've got eatin' pears. I've got the mango." A woman walks down the roads with a rolling crate full of pies, singing, "pie lady pie lady pie lady!" Social Aid and Pleasure clubs, a remnant from the benevolent societies in the 1800's, have second line parades every Sunday from Labor Day through Memorial Day with brass bands and people dancing in their finest fines, for miles and miles. If that isn't enough, twice a year we are blessed with Super Sunday, devoted to the Mardi Gras Indians parading themselves in their beautifully handcrafted and intricate beaded suits.

New Orleans is a feast for all senses, and the first place I've lived where I feel a sense of loss when I leave. I never tire of the colorful architecture, the incredible culture, the creative people. Every year I learn more and more, and unravel yet another layer of this mysterious and fascinating place.

I quit my job this year and rented out my condo to go have some epic adventures around the globe. They've been delayed and organized a bit differently than I imagined, but amazing nonetheless. For about three weeks I was certain I would be leaving for a job in Africa, so I booked a few days back home in Nola just as the more local Mardi Gras events were starting. Both the travel abroad and the visit home gave me such pleasure in knowing I had chosen the right city to call home. I think I cried at least five times, knowing I was, indeed, leaving again. When I used to deal with homesick children at sleep away camp I would tell them that it was ok to miss their moms and still have fun at the same time. And that their moms loved them and missed them, too, but were so happy they were enjoying themselves at camp. I'm operating on my own advice. It's ok to miss New Orleans and enjoy some time away from it at the same time. She knows I love her, and I know she loves me. After all, home is where the heart is, and I'm lucky enough to have heart in many many places. So until I return it's ok to miss her and continue on my adventure.

Carry on.

Fronteras

When I was a child, my parents took me and my brother to Lake Tahoe a couple times a year. Only a four hour drive from the San Francisco Bay Area suburb we lived in, it was worlds away. We had (still have) a time share in Incline Village, Nevada, about 15 minutes north of the stateline at Crystal Bay.

Crossing state lines was a huge adventure for us. Like holding our breath through tunnels, it had its traditions also. We lifted our feet and held our breath and made a wish- all at the same time. The five-year-old's version of multitasking. Sometimes we would stop at the CalNeva hotel and go for a swim in their pool, which had a thick black line painted at the bottom of it, indicating the border of the two states. We would stand in the pool with one foot on each side, confused at how this was possible.

One of these road trips to Tahoe was taken in a pretty big rainstorm. I was about 8 years old. Weather reports said it would rain for three days in California- that's what my dad told us. I pictured the shape of the state that I had drawn in school, and imagined a giant raincloud hovering over it. Over the Bay Bridge it rained. Through the foothills of the east bay, it rained. Across the Central Valley? Rain. When we started climbing up the Sierra foothills it was still raining. As kids, we didn't necessarily have a concept of four hours, but because of the terrain, we knew when we were getting close. Those gigantic silver rocks and the immediate quiet that comes with them told us we were almost there. So did the popping of our ears and dad telling us the story of the Donner Party for the umpteenth time. Over the summit, it was still raining.

"I can't wait to get to Nevada so it will stop raining," I said.

I'm not sure if anyone heard me. If they did, they didn't answer.

Taking the turn from Truckee to the Lake, it was still raining and I wondered if it would ever stop. We were getting awfully close to the border, it had to at least lighten up. I imagined how it would look crossing the state line- pouring rain in California, dry and sunny in Nevada. Would it be like driving through a waterfall?

I got really excited when I saw the CalNeva in the distance. Surely there would be a V-shaped line where the sun would shine, like the V-shaped border on the east side of California where the lake is -the one I drew in class. We saw the gold miner on the sign saying Welcome to Nevada- The Silver State (which confused me even then). My brother, Devin, and I held our breaths, lifted our feet, made a wish. I even closed my eyes hoping when I opened them and we were in Nevada it would be warm and sunny. Of course, when I opened them in Crystal Bay, in Nevada, it was still pouring.

I was so confused.

Crossing the frontera between Nicaragua and Costa Rica was sort of like that. Terry from Canada drove me to the Nicaraguan side. I had to first walk to the exit counter and pay the exit tax, then to the stamp counter and pay another tax, and then there was a hot dusty mile of No Man's Land between the exit of Nicaragua and the entrance to Costa Rica. Usually there is some sort of a tuk tuk or a guy with a bike or a wheelbarrow to shuttle you or at least your luggage across No Man's Land. Not on this day. I walked it with my stupid bag I purchased without wheels or a back strap and I daydreamed about the Mecca that would greet me when I got to the border, knowing that Costa Rica was much much wealthier and more stable than it's northern neighbor. Clean bathrooms, clean food, would I see vegetables? Green ones? I remembered my first visit 15 years prior, and the lush lush jungle. Nicaragua was so dry and brown, I imagined walking into Eden.

20 minutes later I arrived at the Costa Rican entry. There were bathrooms and boy were they clean! There was a soda (cafeteria) inside the waiting area with what looked like delicious food. There was even a luggage X-ray machine! But, of course, the landscape was exactly the same as it had been a mile north. It wasn't Eden.

It wasn't even Modesto.


With the amount of time I spend pouring over maps, you'd think I would have figured out that political borders often have nothing to do with physical ones. But sometimes, I'm still 8, with the imagination and excitement that comes with it. I think I'm ok with that.

Maybe Jesus Has a Wedgie

E: what's that over there?
L: that's Jesus overlooking the city
E:Jesus? You sure it isn't San Juan? He should be the patron saint.
L: no, it's a statue of Jesus. A personal gift from some rich guy
E: interesting. How come he only has one arm?
L: one arm? Oh, you just can't see the other one at night.
E: where is it? Is it behind his back?
L: I don't know! Maybe Jesus has a wedgie!

Conversation while had in the car on the dirt road from the expatriot subdivision to the tiny very hip downtown of San Juan del Canada. I mean, San Juan del Sur.

It's nice here at the beach. Especially after some hard travel in Nicaragua. My inner Princess and the Pea has invited herself to my Central American adventure. I'm not proud of this. But I can't seem to shake her.

Maybe it's the nights being eaten by mosquitos. Or the lack of power and running water on more than a few occasions. Maybe it was the Star Wars sheets and Harry Potter pillowcase. I don't know. But she's here and she's really bugging me. I want her to leave the same way I want to get away from 22 year olds playing drinking games. But I'm stuck with her.

The final straw was in Ometepe. I hitched a ride with aforementioned 22 year olds in a collective taxi for the two hour drive on dirt roads back to the port. I should mention Ometepe is an island made of two volcanoes perched in lake Nicaragua. Stunning. We are on the base of the smaller of the two volcanos. Much farther than I imagined was possible from the ferry port.

There were 7 of us. Room for 9. In Central America, room for 14. Two more wanted to join. It was the right thing to do. We were in a remote area, quite expensive and time consuming to get back to 'civilization'. Stupid couple didn't want their oversized backpacks on top of the van. A surprise coming from stupid couple bragging about the year they are spending in Latin America, and stupid couple that didn't agree on a price before we all piled in the van. They won't budge. And they are being quite rude about it. I WANT to be passive aggressive, and say that I will stick back with the extra two and share a cab with them. But Inner Princess can't imagine another two hours at this hole of a hotel. Inner Princess wants everyone to be happy and get in the effin van. So that everyone can be where they need to be- the exact same place, in the exact same car for the exact same price.

Things works themselves out and I am thrilled to be complimented on my small backpack. Carry-on size to be exact.

We end up at the port but I can't leave for another day so I book myself a hotel in "civilization". With hot water, even. From the wall, not the electric contraption hanging on the shower head that could be misconstrued as a suicide attempt if not wearing rubber soled shoes in the shower. No AC, which I hardly notice anymore, but Inner Princess is still quite pleased. Especially because there's a laundry lady next door. This is the first time in over three weeks that I've seen a laundry lady. It's been sink laundry for a bit which was fine until my amazing trip to Río San Juan where I caked my belongings in rainforest mud. Quite a souvenir.

I'm told there is even a dryer! A strange concept in, well, most countries in the world. This means my pants might fit for the first time in a month. Inner Princess is pleased. I take a chicken bus journey to some supposed to be amazing hot springs that takes me almost three hours and involves holding a baby in an overcrowded bus- even by Central American standards- while I listen to the bus helper swear at the backpackers insistent on wearing their packs in the bus (a theme apparently) not realizing how this affects the locals. Remember them, backpackers? The ones that live here and just worked all day for a dollar and need to get home to their families?

By the time I arrive it's almost time to leave. Fortunately there is a trio walking out as I do and I am bold. "Hey, did you all drive here?" I ask, in English, and the words roll around in my mouth like rocks.

Yes, they drove. And instead of dropping me at the fork in the road, I'm driven the entire hour back to "civilization" by a Managuan living in North Carolina, visiting home for the holidays.

I walk back to the hotel, inwardly excited at being able to pick up a truly clean load of laundry. I bring it back to my room with hot water. It's folded beautifully, my very small bag of clothes. I inspect my pants and there is absolutely no sign of mud. So I put them on. And suddenly I feel like I'm 7 and start yanking them off of me.
They stink.
I know this smell. It brings a memory of being in Yosemite, stuck in Yosemite because of the forest fires.
And then I want to gag. Because I know this smell. It's the toxic smell of burning trash, plastic trash. My clothes weren't put in a dryer. But they were hung outside over a fire- over burning trash- to dry quickly to appear that they indeed use one.
I'm immediately deflated. And Inner Princess isn't pleased. She wishes I was more of a girly girl and had more than the carry-on bag that I was so proud of several hours ago. Just for today. I take a shallow breath, as a deep one may make me sick- and seal them very tightly in a plastic bag.

The next morning I take the ferry back to the mainland where Terry from Canada, a friend of a friend, is waiting for me. He takes me to his beautiful home in San Juan and Inner Princess is appeased. The first thing I do when I get there is put on my bathing suit and wash every single cloth item in my backpack, in a proper washing machine. I notice almost immediately how I have come to use the word 'proper' on this trip. Grocery stores, beds, wash machines, wifi, showers. Proper. Is this like the word 'torch' or 'holiday'? Am I picking up European travel words, or am I just being high maintenance?

Originally San Juan del Sur was not on my list. Touted as a touristy party town, I just didn't see the draw vs price tag. My Kiwi friend Sophie, who I met my very first day on this trip in Guatemala, came here weeks ago planning on a three night stay. I found out later that afternoon that she was on night 15, and I could sort of understand why. Especially after a few hard weeks traveling in the second poorest country in the Western Hemisphere.
There's surfing. A lot of it. And yoga, which means there's access to good food. A direct correlation, actually. And there is a lot of it. The pace is nice. The amenities are comfortable without disregarding the fact that you're in a foreign country (except that its clearly a Canadian snowbird town). It's pretty. Slow. And of course there's Jesus looking over the town. In the daytime, it's clear there is no wedgie, and both of his arms are visible. I'm thrilled to hang out with Sophie again for the third accidental time in the last two months. What did we do without Facebook? Without proper wifi?

My wonderful Canadian host took me to the Costa Rican border today. My first border crossing not in a tourist shuttle. Took two busses once I crossed into Costa Rica, none with crazy paint, music, stickers, or babies in my lap. Apparently the more advanced a country is, the less interesting it is culturally. I want to snicker at Inner Princess about this.

Now I'm in Playas del Coco with other friends, and AC to boot. Inner Princess went to a proper grocery today. There were rice noodles. And green things. I cooked for myself. Inner Princess is pleased.

There's yoga here, so I'll be eating well. The smell of burning trash is still present. A reminder that I'm still in Central America and should pay attention to how my backpack affects the locals. Because everything everywhere affects the locals.

On second thought

Five nights in the Corn Islands was fascinating. Eventually I got up the nerve to boat out to Little Corn for a day trip. The maturity of the jungle was absolutely mind boggling. There are no cars or motorbikes on the island. Just walking trails, wheelbarrows, horses and bicycles.

Touristy but not lacking culture. Not as authentic as Big Corn, but much more beautiful. I mean the water is stunning from anywhere but the actual beaches were pristine.

And there was yoga. Which means there was clean, delicious food. And fresh coffee. I didn't feel the need for pizza. So I went back to Big Corn, packed my bags and left the next day to spend a night on the island. It was extremely rustic and expensive, but an experience that's worth it.

The night before I left Little Corn, I booked a flight, without a map or a plan, to San Carlos to travel down the Rio San Juan, which is the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. It's advertised as being similar to the Amazon, and the most pristine wilderness of all of Central America.

9 seater plane with only two other passengers. Wow. Dirt landing strip. Whoa.

The Río San Juan was a magical place. From the tiny plane I took a lancha to my hotel- Hotel Sabalos, about an hour east. The hotel is perched over the river and the views were astounding. For three beautiful days, I went to sleep to the sound of frogs and woke up to the sound of howler monkeys. I awoke before dawn to tour the river wildlife. Three types of monkeys, river otters, more birds than I could begin to describe. Different types of frogs, lizards, bats. So far, it is the highlight of my time in Nicaragua.

It's Christmas Day and I am on isla de ometepe. It took me 16 hours to get here from San Carlos. It's an island comprised of two volcanoes, one still active, in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. It's pretty. Isolated. Rustic. There are no busses running today so I ventured out of my crappy hotel to find somewhere nice to land for a few hours. Hiked 6 hours to a waterfall and back yesterday off of one of the two volcanoes.
Looking forward to heading to San Juan del Sur tomorrow and then to finishing my trip in Costa Rica.

Maybe when I'm a little more comfortable I will be able to write something more entertaining than a report of where I am.
Merry Xmas to all who celebrate.
Peacd

Nicaragua: first thoughts

I've gotten laZy. Some may call it safe- I've been taking tourist shuttles between countries when I can. It is more expensive but expedites the passport process at both borders and the numerous 'tramites', as well as the chicken bus hopping. It also means a guaranteed seat with nobody handing me their baby, and a place to put my luggage (even if it's still outside and I'm never convinced it will end up in the same place I do). There are downsides to this, aside from having to be wanting to go exactly where they're going. There are no fried plantain or chicken vendors, no soap salesmen, nobody carrying machetes with gentle smiles, nobody reading the bible or trying to convince you to buy their lightbulbs. There are definitely not any singing clowns. But alas, nor are there bandits with guns, banda music playing at ear splitting volumes, or borrachos telling me only Latinos are allowed on the bus (this only happened once and he was annoying but harmless).
Some people think its safer, and it probably is. But I take them because I'm lazy. And because the difference between 14$ and 45$ doesn't mean I have to eat ramen for a week, or not bring fresh food home to my children. I take the easy way because I can, but I never for a second turn my knowledge or my heart away from the 90% of the generous people who live here that don't have this choice.

Our shuttle picked us up in northwestern El Salvador, and drove 10 hours across the Honduran and Nicaraguan border. The difference in the quality of the roads was almost immediate during the three hours of highway driving in Honduras. Pot holes bigger and more plentiful than I've seen in New Orleans (how sad to use this as a viable example), horses and bulls in the roads. As it got dark, not one light helped our exhausted driver through the labyrinth. Once at the Nicaraguan border, our van was sprayed with something toxic, trying to stop the spread of some pig-borne pathogen, and the roads cleaned up again to our final destination.

Truth be told, I came to Leon knowing I wasn't going to like it. I don't remember what it was that I'd read or seen or heard. I do recall thinking I'd probably love the people in this extremely progressive (for Latin America) town, and was prepared for the heat. But I wasn't prepared for La Griteria.

Now I love love love experiencing cultural holidays in the places they originate. I love learning about the food and the emotion and the special ins and outs that there are. I love a good party, and a display of fireworks. But three days of oppressive heat and never-ending fireworks had me on edge. The people were just as interesting or even moreso (see "guerrilla" post. Learned so much from the tour guides who grew up in the war) than I imagined. Having kitchen access brought me to tears as I was able to eat vegetables every single meal. Listening to the singing that was rampant in the doorways of homes presenting altars to the Virgin was fascinating. But those dang fireworks NEVER stopped. I found myself fantasizing about Earthlodge and a treehouse by myself. Somewhere I could sleep more than two or three hours at a time.

I did have wonderful Santa Cruz companions and a Kiwi friend I'd met at earthlodge a month prior in town at the same time which made Leon a fantastic stop. And an indulgent sushi experience with all of them. But I was ready to move.

I got myself all worked up and headed north to Matagalpa, in hopes I could find a finca in the cloud forest to just have a little peace. Was I still enjoying myself? Yes. But I needed a recharge.
I took the bus to Matagalpa, checked into my hostel and slept. All day. I emailed every finca haven in the area and most were booked so I stayed in the hostel another day. There was nothing of any interest directly in town so I pretty much stuck around the hostel and ate pizza. A lot of pizza. I don't particularly like pizza, but as a vegetarian in a completely non-touristy developing country town, and after a few questionable meals, pizza is safe.

And then the most amazing thing happened. I was walking in from a pizza meal and there were two girls sitting on the couch. They weren't sleeping in my dorm so I hadn't met them yet. As I walked past, One of them spoke English in the most beautiful accent I'd heard in a while, "the Saints game should be on this channel." Louisiana. I backed up slowly and said, "Saints game?" and joined them on the couch. The two women were Peace Corps volunteers, taking a breather after a meeting in Managua. One was from Northern Louisiana, but last lived in nola, the other from NYC. We spent the rest of the day eating yet more pizza, drinking beer and watching football- well, pretending to watch football, really. It was really fun, but I was ready to move forward. So I took a bus to Granada, hoping my previous travel companions were still in town.

They were not, but it was no bother. Granada was every bit as colonial and international as I expected it to be. Antigua about 20 years ago. Clean(ish) streets, renovated and/or restored colonial buildings that made New Orleans' high ceilings wince with jealousy. Horse drawn carriages, both elegant and rustic, a main plaza so beautiful it seemed unreal. Gardens and ancient doorways that would make even the most modern of modernists swoon.

Expatriates. Hundreds of them. Mostly retirees, and I could hear myself saying ... Yeah, this is good. Aesthetic. Clean. International. Hot weather. Close to the beach and the mountains.

And then I noticed most were single men in their 70's, or hard lived 60's. Many of them with much much MUCH younger Nicaraguan women. Girls. All of my heart wants to "go into that." But I will stop there. Many people don't notice this. They're lucky.

Granada is stunning and so much lies within twenty minutes of it, it makes a perfect base camp. Like wandering the streets of a preserved colonial city isn't enough to be grateful for, two volcanoes overlook the city. I've only explored one, Mambacho, which was like a fairy tail of jungle trails leading to views of Lake Nicaragua, smoking volcano Masaya, the city of Granada, the collapsed crater of another volcano now a warm water lake, Laguna de Apoyo.

I spent the next two nights in a cabana with an outdoor shower and bathroom at this lake. The first night there, I got all the sleep I needed, tucked inside a fancy mosquito net, listening to geckos make unfathomably loud noises for such small creatures and me saying to the night sky, "that's right! Now do your job."

The second night was more of the same Central American noise I am really really trying to accept and get used to. Club music from across the lake pumped up to such volumes I truly don't understand how any of them have their hearing intact. Maybe they don't and that's why the music is so loud. Who knows.

The taxi picked me up from the lovely resort on the lake and took me to the airport, with a break for a flat tire on the highway in Managua- what's a story without a story? And now I am blogging from my Caribbean bungalow 40 miles offshore at Big Corn Island. Rich in culture, English speaking black creole replaces Spanish, though I find myself sometimes wanting them to speak Spanish instead, as the Caribbean cadence sings its way through my brain, only half understood. On the other hand I want to listen to it for hours, studying word choice.
Him go to the party.
S'good.
Aright.
How ya mama en em?
I see more now why people say New Orleans is so Caribbean in nature. Though much more impoverished, in many ways I feel like I'm home. There was a funeral today for a young man who took his own life after his wife left him. Most of the island went to the funeral. They drove and marched past my divorcee bungalow, carrying umbrellas like a second line. But silent. It was a beautiful sight.

Originally I planned on going to Little Corn island, 7 miles away by sea, with no roads or cars. An idyllic paradise. Rough seas has me thinking twice. As does knowing the island is completely tourist centered. Though this isn't necessarily a bad thing.

To be honest, I'm kind of craving pizza.

I say "gorilla" and you say "guerrilla"

"During that thing that happened in the 80's," responded my hiking companion.

He wasn't talking about bad hair or Duran Duran. Gael is a professor at a university in Georgia, and this was his response to my question, "when did you move to the states?"

That thing that happened in the 80's, (and in the 90's) is apparent everywhere that I have been in Central America. Contras, Sandinistas, FLMN, zapatistas. Different names in different places, all with similar history.

I remember hearing about the wars in the 80's. I remember being in middle school and my 9 yr old brother being glued to the Ollie North trials. I remember hearing about 'gorillas' in this far-away place. I had no idea that these far-away places weren't very far away.

Gorillas. Words are powerful. I knew they were speaking of men, not animals. But the images in my head were quite strong. Hairy, mud-covered men hiding in the forest shooting any moving being. Whispers and sneakiness. Che. Presently we hear the word in the media when talking about current wars and even in marketing. Gorillas.

In Spanish, the word for war is la guerra. This is the base word for 'guerrilla' , or fighter/militar. This conjures up a different image somehow, something more conservative, like a regular soldier. As if war could be conservative.

The 80's weren't very long ago. The war in El Salvador didn't end until the 90's which feels like it was just yesterday. It's been interesting to hear locals speak of this time period, especially the differences in thought among the rich and the poor, and the confusion and mixed feelings of the middle class. Life has changed in this not-so-far-away place for most Central Americans.

Gael's family had to make a decision and live with it. His father and sister stayed in Nicaragua while he and his mother immigrated illegally to the US. With the cost of airfare to Mexico and paying Coyotes for help crossing the Rio Grande, they could only choose one parent and one child. With the 100% likelihood that Gael would be drafted into the war at a very young age, his mother made this extremely difficult choice to leave her daughter and husband and save her son. Gael's mother pushed him to learn English and do well. He did. And Gael went to graduate school and now teaches international studies to some very lucky students.

And fortunately, his story has a happy ending- his sister and father joined them in south Florida ten years later. He says his sister always understood the choice. I can't imagine how difficult this must have been. The thought of not being around my brother for ten years leaves me gasping for breath. And this is just one of many many stories I've been listening to.

More of the good stuff later. For now, I'm trying to rewrite and redraw the pictures in my head to read "guerrilla". And learn again about that thing that happened in the 80's, while I had the freedom to have bad hair and listen to Duran Duran. Gael gave me his information, both in the states and here in Nicaragua. He hugged me as he and his cousin and student I jumped out of the back of the pick up.

"Please keep in touch! I need to feed off your energy," he said, as I was thinking the same thing about him, "and remember now you have family here in Nicaragua, too."

I may have to take one of his classes.