2009 Adventures

In my experience, travel and hair dryers do not mix. In Rome a few years back, I was happily drying my hair, anticipating my first night out in Italy, when Corey says calmly, “Um, Erin? Your hair dryer is smoking. And is it supposed to be glowing?” I whipped the stupid thing away from my head, only to see that it was indeed glowing–and this close to starting on fire (hence the smoke). I ran shrieking outside, holding the dryer by the cord, scaring a sweet old British couple in the process.

Today, my hair was wet when I wanted to head out for dinner, so I thought “I’ll just use the hair dryer and stand in front of the fan so I don’t overheat.” Well, I didn’t overheat, but a strange smell drew my attention to the extension cord into which the dryer was plugged. It was smoking, and the plastic was melting. I turned it off, unplugged it, and the thing STILL didn’t stop smoking, so I scrambled under the bed to unplug the extension cord from the wall. And then I figured, what if it shorts out everything else? So I unplugged everything–phone charger, two laptops, battery charger, two fans–and then stood there eyeing the mess of cords, just waiting for something to burst into flames.

Needless to say, I’m leaving the hair dryer behind; it seems to be my fate to have bad hair when traveling.

I can live with that, though, because everything else is downright blissful. I work from 7-3:30, which takes me right through the hottest part of the day (when everyone lounges around doing nothing, anyway). Today, I spent the afternoon on a hammock on the upstairs balcony, looking over the rooftops, drinking a Diet Coke with lime squeezed in– a lime I picked from a tree in the courtyard–and I was at WORK. And yesterday evening, I was chatting with the crazy bike-riding Brit, and I thought a snack might be just the thing…so I grabbed a pool cue and knocked a starfruit out of the other tree in the courtyard. It was delicious (check out my pictures from the last post).

My non-work hours are occupied with wandering around Leon, observing the locals. On Friday, I was on my way back from the store, and I came upon a huge crowd of people in the street. Men were carrying a huge statue of Jesus, there was a band playing a somber kind of march, and, oddly enough, men were selling cotton candy. The procession would move to a house, stop, and a woman would recite Catholic prayers in Spanish over a loudspeaker. The crowd followed up with more prayers, the music would start up again, and everyone moved along to the next place.  I followed along with them until all of the people went into a church. Apparently, this is an every-Friday-night occasion, and happens every night during Semana Santa (Holy Week). Very cool.

Last night, I had a lovely Nicaraguan meal at a hole-in-the-wall kind of place–gallo pinto (rice and beans, yum), frijoles (more beans), and a fried plantain (eh)–in the company of Graham the crazy old Brit and an American girl whose name I can’t remember. And tonight, I tried a “Lebanese Italian” place, which was obnoxiously expensive (for Nicaragua) but fairly decent. $10 for a plate with hummus, rice, salad, weird chicken, french fries, and flat bread. (As a comparison, my meal last night was 26 cordobas–about $1.25.)

The Leonese people are…well, I get the feeling that they’d rather not have tourists in their town. (See the Sandino painting in my photos.) I’m used to the attention from my hair and skin, but it feels more aggressive here. The other night, a group of men followed me halfway home, calling rude things in Spanish–they gave up when I ignored them, but it was pretty menacing and went past the normal “harass the foreigner.” The rest of the male attention here is actually kind of funny–without fail, almost every man I pass will hiss something under his breath: guapa, bella chica, hermosa, hey baby, etc. One older guy was walking down the street with his kids (who had to be at least 10), and hisses “preciosa” at me as I passed. I wanted to say, “Shame on you! Set a better example for your kids.” It doesn’t seem to matter if they are poor or wealthy, young, old. So weird.

Of course, not all of the men are creepy about it–some of them are good-natured, and just want a reaction or a smile. And if you’re thinking, “I knew it, she’s going to get killed in one of these places,” never fear. I’m very cautious, never walk in deserted areas after dark, don’t wear culturally inappropriate clothing, and I never show a reaction.

In other news, Nikki arrives tomorrow night! I’m meeting her at the airport and we’re heading to Granada, and will probably do Ometepe (kayaking! volcanoes!) this weekend and San Juan del Sur (surfing! zip lines! beaches!) this coming week.

Nicaragua is a hoot. Upon arrival yesterday, I wasn’t sure what to think; Leon is not an immediately beautiful place. It is crowded, with narrow cobblestone streets and fading buildings. Trash lines the street, and cars rush by, belching exhaust into your face. (charming) The sun is brutal, and the first thing I learned here is to stay on the shady side of the street. This can be a perilous endeavor when vendors and children and shopping Nicas crowd the narrow sidewalks, which are often several feet off the ground.

In fact, as I walked around yesterday afternoon (first mistake), I couldn’t for the life of me understand why everyone likes Leon. Perhaps I’d made a mistake in choosing it as my first city…maybe I should hightail it to the beach.

But I returned to the hostel, had a siesta (a brilliant concept), and set out again at 5:00. And as I strolled through the streets, enjoying the cool breeze and setting sun, Leon began to work its way into my good graces. I spent yesterday evening sitting around the hostel’s open-air dining room table, chatting with Eddy, a Nicaraguan who comes to Leon to study ecotourism on the weekends, and Graham, a Brit who biked here from Alaska. Eddy practiced his English, I practiced my (pathetic) Spanish, and Graham proceeded to down three 40 oz. beers.

After an early night, I woke up without an alarm at 6:50 and, remembering Eddy’s warning that it gets hot at 8am, went out for a walk. And in the early morning, as I watched Nicas on their way to school (on a Saturday?), setting up for the market, and lounging in the park, I realized that all of my initial reservations about Leon had disappeared. I had another long siesta this afternoon (chalked it up to the past several weeks of travel), chatted about international economics with Graham and a British/Indian guy who lives in Chicago, and laughed over wilderness instructing stories with Casey (who worked at Sage Walk in OR). And this evening, I went to the parque central and joined a crowd of Nicaraguan men who were watching a wrestling event that was projected onto a screen in the gazebo.

And now, I’m writing this from my hostel in Leon, which has a lovely open courtyard with chairs and a starfruit tree. It’s finally cooled off–that is, if you don’t move around too much–and I’m hanging out on a couch with my feet up on a coffee table, my laptop on my lap. The stars are out, and a Nicaraguan dude is sitting under the starfruit tree, singing softly while he plays the guitar. It’s a song I don’t know, and somehow it fits perfectly with the Bob Marley music coming from across the street. Totally relaxed, and in this moment, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I lead a strange and privileged life.