There was a time in the 1960’s when urban renewal in the United States was all the craze.
Urban renewal caused structures that had been built hundreds of years ago to be razed, and, in their place, modern buildings went up with modern materials and modern ideas about what people were supposed to live in.
In Granada, in the Historical District, there are strict rules against changing old. Any modifications have to be approved, and the outsides of all buildings must remain intact and true to the century they were built. Many of these buildings have walls of adobe, one of man’s oldest construction materials.
Walking the Historical District, old homes, warehouses and businesses are being gutted, repaired, and brought into our century. Piles of sand and bags of cement are close at hand as day laborers mix and fill wheelbarrows with plaster for men with trowels and hawks. Adobe walls are repaired when they can be.
In this district of Granada, things seem to look as they always have, because the codes say that it will be so.
Old, with our help, doesn’t have to go gently into the good night.
Since Adam was created out of mud, and it was good enough for our Maker, why would we want to tear down mud buildings made out of the same stuff as we are?
Saturday is laundry day, and trombone day.
Over the blue wall, next door, someone is practicing trombone. I was up late listening to Masterclass You Tube Videos by Hal Galper on jazz improvisation, hearing, thinking, the tribal attitude, musical tradition.
Learning to play jazz is like learning to walk, learning numbers and letters, reading, all over again.
You start at one note and then find the next one that sounds good. You put them in an order that is pleasing and play till you have it where it sounds good to you, and to an audience.
According to Hal, we don’t have slow hands, we have slow brains.
While I listen, and hum along, a lizard scales the blue wall, rests on the top ledge, looks over the other side. He catches the morning breeze.
Making sounds is one thing; making music is another.
I need to go practice.
Getting triggered by your surroundings, goes to the heart of Scotttreks.com
This Lagoon was formed 23,000 years ago after an explosion on one on Mombacho’s bad hair days.
It is fed by a number of surface and underground water sources and is one of the first Nature Preserves created in Nicaragua to preserve the country’s natural landscape.
In tourist season there are kayaks in the water, swimmers, picnic’s and family outings, hiking, diving and other recreation. The Preserve has public areas that give access to the water for free or private businesses that let you use their facilities for six to seven dollars U.S. a day. A round trip shuttle to the Lagoon is $15.00 from Granada, if you go with a group tour, and you can spend most of the day at the Park working on your tan..
This morning locals are washing clothes,bathing, swimming, wetting a hook, and kayaking . The water is unusually clear and the bottom of the lagoon is covered with scattered lava rocks, small and large, reflections of clouds floating on the water’s surface.
In the old days, Hollywood came out with a movie called ” Creature from the Black Lagoon. ”
Believing in things we can’t see is difficult, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
One good thing about being human is most really bad stuff we aren’t going to live long enough to see.
When Mombacho throws a big fit, again, it will shake out this entire country.
Early morning, city crews are closing traffic on Calle Libertidad and an intersecting residential street.
An old fashioned wood electrical pole is going to be replaced by a newer fiberglass model,and new electrical lines are being strung to provide more service to a nearby house under construction, a house directly across the street from us spectators. This old wood pole sticks up through the roof overhang of a home that was here before the road ever thought about coming this way.
The city crew starts around eight and right after lunch power is cut so linemen can scramble up poles and reattach new lines in place of old ones.
The men in hardhats, overseen by their supervisors, do their tasks in an orderly fashion.
Onlookers sit on front stoops and watch the men work, traffic finds other ways to bypass the scene,and pedestrians lift yellow tape and squeeze underneath to get to their casa’s on this little side street off the main thoroughfare downtown.
When power is restored there are sighs of relief and the new pole doesn’t touch the old house though there is still a hole in its roof that someone will have to patch.
Civilization, these days, still goes only as far as roads and electricity.
We are all hooked up to all kinds of grids even if we only see a few of them.
Electric is civilization’s lifeblood.
Unplugging, for some, is a death sentence.
There are exotic birds in the pool area, some in cages, some free in the banana trees. Two of the caged birds are varieties of parrot and several others are parakeets. They are brought out by staff in mid morning and climb obstacles in their cages, hang upside down on swings, break sunflower seeds with stout beaks.
There are also two tortuga’s in the undergrowth by the pool. They are more difficult to find because they are not colorful and make no noise.
After looking, and not finding them, I give up the hunt till Security man Juan finds one and calls me to admire it.
The smaller of the two is underneath plant leaves and nestled in shade, in a moist area.
” No agua, ” Juan says, wagging his finger.
He picks up the tortuga and holds it in the air.
It’s hands, feet, neck and head remain inside its shell. It looks like a rock with a hole in the middle.
Tortuga’s make good pets. They eat leafy plants, don’t tear up flower beds, eat insects, are quiet to a fault, and hibernate if it ever gets cold enough in Granada.
Juan carefully places the turtle on pebbles but it doesn’t change it’s attitude of withdrawal.
I return to the pool and don’t hear a peep out of either of them.
All I hear is the rooster next door that wakes me every morning and struts all day, full of himself.
Tortuga’s don’t talk much, but if they do, I listen.
I look for the little white sandwich sign in front of the Merced church that tells me it is open.
When I see that sign, I pay thirty Cordova’s to climb a narrow circular staircase to the highest points in the Tower and snap photos of Granada from the church’s upper windows.
The stairs are steep but there are wrought iron bars to hold to as I wind my way up.This morning there is only one person in the Tower, besides me. When he comes down I find a nook, still on my way up, and let him barrel past..
At the top of the spire the city opens up as far as I can see and below me are red tiled roofs, spires of other churches, grids of streets leading to and from the District of the Tourists. As you move away from the Historical District, Granada becomes a different city. In the Tourist districts, you find an emphasis on food, entertainment, places to sight see, museums, education, history. Outside the Tourist District, the residents are all about commerce and community.
This morning church bells are quiet and Esmerelda is asleep in her small room, her hunchback gone to the local market to pick her a bouquet of flowers.
At the bottom of this staircase, mounted on a wall, is a sign that says ” Do Not Ring the Bell. ”
There is a room of torture buried deep in this complex, because, as most of us know, bells are always rung, at least once, by those who can’t read and don’t follow directions.
A sign, without consequences, is not worth the paper it is printed on.
The only thing missing is the black cat this coffeehouse is named for.
I look in a wicker chair by the front door for a curled feline with its tail wrapped around its contracted paws. I look on top of the nearest bookshelf where wind funnels through an open window. I look under one of the big slouchy chairs in front of a huge mosaic top coffee table.
This bookstore/coffeehouse is family friendly, well attended, and has friendly employees.
There are families already here this morning with kids, backpackers, retired ex-pats wearing shorts and sandals, locals checking e mails on free wifi.
There is money to be made feeding the soul and no one in old Route 66 diners would have ever thought the five cent cup of coffee would morph into the multi billion dollar corporation of Starbucks.
Expanding coffee and cats into the Universe is man’s next step.
We followed monkeys into space and there are no good reasons cat’s and coffee shops can’t go next.
Having black cats around always makes my coffee taste better.
The last pigeon conference I crashed was in San Sebastian Park, Cuenca, Ecuador.
Walking through these San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua pigeons, a few take flight as I move into their ranks, but most continue eating scraps thrown out by the restaurant’s kitchen help, undeterred by my appearance in their sidewalk dining room.
Food is one of those common denominators math teachers draw on their board before a class of hungry teenagers just before the lunch bell. Food, I’m always reminded by nature, keeps us living souls living.
These pigeon’s need to eat is greater than their distrust of humans, and, especially, tourists.
After i pass through them, they close ranks and finish lunch.
It is as if I was never here.
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