Yo Regresso a E.E.U.U.

I'm back.

At the Huston Airport I flushed paper down the toilet. That was mildly exciting. I starred at the prices ($7 for a burrito?) and watched the people walk buy. One guy threw his empty Sprite bottle in my luggage cart and I glared him down until he removed it. He threw it on the floor instead so I ended up picking it up with the hopes I would catch up with him at customs. I really wanted to throw it at him in front of all of his business partners he was traveling with, and tell him he wasn't in Tegus anymore and he had probably spent his whole trip bitching about the place only to become just like it. But, I didn't. See how mature and refined I've become. Ugh.

But, here there is tap water you can drink (but nobody does).
Here there is way less pollution (except the San Diego fires have pretty much taken care of that).
Here there are trash cans (that a Sprite bottle can't make it into).
Here there are all of the things that the people down there want. Money, (but you can't afford to buy things), jobs (if you want to make minimum wage), and freedom (if that is what the Patriot Act says...).

But I'm being negative. There are a lot of things about being back that are nice. There is a complete lack of assault riffles on the street. I've been here for several hours and haven't seen any bullet proof vests. You can put your bags down, look away, and your bag will still be there. There are fresh vegetables and dogs that have homes and don't have nipples dragging on the ground as a result of the last 18 batches of puppies they have fed. Babies have clothes. Kids have shoes and there is electricity all day and all night.

Did I mention there is hot water, too! I'm a big fan of hot water now.

So, I'll be in the States until the end of November. Drop me a line and say hi and we can get some coffee.

Saturday and the Scorpion

There is a scorpion on my wall. I used to think they couldn’t climb because the ones in Honduras couldn’t make it over the lip of the shower, but now I know better. I’ve been watching him all day, well, as long as I have been up, anyway, and that hasn’t actually been very long even though it’s now 4:30. I guess I need to appreciate these last few days of vacation before it’s time to work again.

I figure there aren’t going to be any scorpions in Korea. Well, maybe not in the city, anyway. I like that idea much more then I like the fact that he, or she, is still staring down at me, with his large shadow projecting on the ceiling. I think if I leave the bedroom he’ll move and go somewhere I don’t know about and that is even worse than knowing where he is.

If my room was clean I could get the quidador to do something about it.

If my room was clean it would mean I was packed. Or the maid actually did her job.

How silly to have a maid.

How silly to have a scorpion on your wall.

Small Worlds

Sometimes the world shrinks on you.

I’m sitting at a bar in Nicaragua, minding my own business then later sharing stories with a TV guy who is visiting town to do a story on last year’s murder. I’ve been places he hasn’t, he’s been everywhere else. And as the stories continue, he decides to tell me the time he spent a few days on two “pirate” ships in San Diego.

“They aren’t pirate ships”, I tell him with all authority. “They’re tall ships.”

“No”, he insists, these are really pirate ships.

“Was one of them a wooden brig with square sails that was in the Pirates of the Caribbean movie? And the other one named the Hawaiian Chieftain?”

He looked at me in wonder then, because there is no reason why a girl in Nicaragua should possess this type of information that was over three years old. “We were filming Blackbeard” he tells me, and with that I am able to name off three or four people that he had met, and share stories about all of their quirks and habits as is common to know of anyone you have sailed with, and he could do the same.

That boat, the Lady Washington, was my home for over two years (not all at once, but on and off). I lived there longer than any one house since I left San Diego at 19. I felt homesick for it. I felt homesick for someone I could tell “remember when” stories with, or even just someone that had been somewhere I had.

Now I’m thinking it’s time to go. I’m not sure where, maybe Asia. I’m watching a praying mantis crawl up my wall. Regaetone is playing on the quitadore’s radio set, coming in and out of static. It’s going to rain again. The bay is a milky brown from all of the mud that has washed down this week, the trees are thriving green and I’m going to miss all of this horribly because Nicaragua is really a beautiful place, but I know now that my time is very limited now.

I have a phone interview Sunday night. Wish me luck.