Yes, finally. I don’t want to hear it. I know I always wait too long to write, and I always think it is going to change. So here goes. I have to start with a little catch up journal entry, then we’ll see what happens. Just had the one-year anniversary down here. Goals for year one – little pad on the beach, surfing and Spanish – are going well. No reggae bar or novel to speak of yet.
I get that feeling sometimes, like I have made the walk to the top of a steep hill and reached a bench that looks out over the view on the other side (can’t help but think of Pacific Heights looking north). Make it really early in the morning, when the air is cool and still, and you’ve got it. I have that feeling now. Granted, I just rolled out of bed (where I’ve been for two days), and the air here in Nicaragua is never all that cool, but you get the idea. Most importantly, the quiet moment on the bench thing means I am finally writing. Why now? Lots of reasons.
Number one is the key – the general feel and flow of life that we come in and out of touch with. The past few months in Nicaragua have been incredible. Work at the Language Center has been fun, challenging, and extremely rewarding without being stressful or overly time-consuming. I live one block away in a beautiful, “outdoor” style house with my friends Jordan and Brooke. The truck sits in the garage all week, as we walk two to six blocks to everything worth visiting. Every Wednesday night at our favorite bar, La Olla Quemada, we settle in for live music. When the owner, Carola, plays herself, it is without a doubt my favorite nightspot in the country. The whole night, award-winning rum and cover included, costs less than $10. More and more, Jordan and I sneak out of the house early (when the air is almost cool), and drive the ten miles to the ocean to surf. Last Thursday was a gem – the water was glassy, the sky was blue, the waves were beautiful – so we stayed out there with three locals (Roberto, Carlos and Lenny) for hours. Jordan caught the longest ride I have ever witnessed in person, and I finally had the cojones to start “dropping in” to the big ones. All that is to say, I’ve been walking down the street a lot lately and thinking to myself, “damn, the quality of life is good here.”
The second reason for the feeling is that ‘day after the day after drinking’ phenomenon, when life seems great compared to the day before. Only this time it wasn’t drinking. After a year of feeling great, I came home Thursday night worn out from surfing and work, collapsed, and woke up throughout the night to get sick from all ends. I’m not sure what it was, and I’m not sure I’ve completely recovered, but each day is rosier than the one before. (I’m curious to see “Sicko”. Is there anything more important than health care?).
And finally, number three. It starts with the fact that I have been living in the moment and simply enjoying myself better than ever before. There is no place in the world I would rather be right now. That makes the decision about where I will be next year easy. But is also just makes me super excited for life in general, as if I have discovered the general recipe, for me at least. As cheesy as it sounds, it fills me with hope, not only that life will continue to be good to me, but that there is a lot we can do to make it better for other people. I get excited about seeing my family and friends, about a possible trip to Cuba, about getting to know Canada. And, without sounding too much like Barack, I can’t help feel, in the midst of all if this, hopeful about hope, and that it will itself be the face of messy, necessary change and salvation.
By the way, this place is a feast for the senses – the feel of ocean water permanently at 83 degrees, the sight of the Maribios Volcano Range running along the horizon to the Northwest and of pelicans riding the inside of a breaking wave, the smell of charred tortillas and burning leaves, and the taste of fresh Pithaya juice – but nothing stands out quite as much in León as what you hear. It is an essay in itself, a cacophony of church bells, fireworks, street vendors, blaring music, and socialist sirens. And I am reminded of it all by a sound that is quite common itself; right now, I am hearing the slow rumble of a tuba outside the window…… and now the rest of the horns, the snare, the drums….. a full band leading the way of a funeral procession, on what, in some place other than Nicaragua, might be a tranquil Sunday morning.
Cheers to all the Orvilles and Bobs and Eleanors in the world.
And to Mr. Rodgers, whatever his first name was, regardless of tax evasion, or being overly friendly with little boys, or whatever his problem was.
I think you are probably a good man, deep down.
