Coming Home (Nicaragua Tourist version)

My favorite part about hanging out in Granada, Nicaragua, I realized tonight, was walking home in the dark after a couple beers in the tourist section of town. I'd usually leave the bar somewhat depressed: I couldn't speak Spanish well enough to converse with the street kids selling palm-frond bracelets and ceramic vases, had yet to make friends with the English-speakers doing long-term NGO work in town or taking Spanish classes (as I am) at Casa Xalteva, hadn't discovered the bar or cafe that would become (I hoped) the equivalent of “Cheers” back home. But turning off the main drag in town, Calle Xalteva, about two blocks from my homestay, the magic would begin – the cries of “Cristobal!” from seemingly empty shadows, from open doorways lit by blaring televisions, from an unidentified teenager among a group of kids walking down the street. Somehow, in the course of a week, I'd become a part of the community...not because I was special, but because I was another, possibly interesting human being.

That's what I love about Latin American culture – and I employ that broad-brush term because I've felt the same way in the Dominican Republic, where I've spend most of my “Latin time,” and in Honduras and El Salvador as well. You don't have to “perform” to be accepted, or bring status, or money, or good looks: all you have to be is yourself, because that's what the locals respect. Frauds, and climbers, and the disingenuous need not apply, because they bring agendas, sometimes hidden and sometimes not. I'm immediately reminded of a Dominican acquaintance who befriended all the Americans he could, but was mysteriously, subtly cold-shouldered even by his relatives. Eventually it became clear the extended family couldn't abide this fellow's obsequiousness, however charming at first, because it masked ulterior motives – because he was insincere, laying the groundwork for his next move.

It's true, in my travels there's often a point where I go all romantic and think, “This is it, I want to live here awhile!” But hey, I'm older now, and my cabeza isn't turned so easily by outgoing cultures...but that said, there's still something special about Nicaragua, or at least Granada. And I think, once again, it's the kids – that the under-15 crowd, in particular, is so full of life, and innocence, and full-on engagement, that their what-fun-thing-shall-we-do-now rubs off on everyone nearby. Case in point: I'm having trouble writing this piece because I have to put down my laptop every two or three minutes to chase Arturo, my home-stay Mom's five-year-old grandson, because he'd much rather play rabbit-and-hound than watch TV. He knows television is fake, and prefers the reality of physical, three-dimensional, look-me-in-the-eye contact.

Back at the bar, a few hours ago, I sat alone at a table drinking while another, much younger NGO type did the same. I considered going over and introducing myself, but worried about being read as the “creepy old American” – there are such people in Granada, and I didn't want to embarrass myself or the NGO non-friend. But I was soon distracted from such “image” concerns by the arrival of children – those of a waiter, who immediately abandoned his post to kiss and cuddle his two toddlers, and the street-vendor kids, who found an easy audience in the NGO worker. Five or six under-seven children were soon sitting at and around his table, having forgotten they were supposed to be selling cheap jewelry and snacks, and basking in the attention of an adult, likewise happy to practice his Spanish. Again I considered going over, but didn't want to disturb a magic moment...because I was confident I'd be having, sooner or later, another magic Granada moment of my own.