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.
The best surf is not in San Juan Del Sur.
To reach any one of the best surfing spots north and south of SJDS you have to take a shuttle.
For modest dollars, you load into trucks, jeeps, vans, and are driven through back country, down winding dirt paths in four wheel drive, and eventually stop at a beach with only a few conveniences.
The surf in Nicaragua has a good reputation and, on this week, the waves are anywhere from two to five feet. Not being a surfer, the waves don’t seem like much, but for Central America, on the Pacific coast, they aren’t bad, according to insiders riding in the back of this open truck with their surfboards close at hand.
Much of Nicaragua is undeveloped countryside and many citizens live at the end of dirt roads or no roads, pulling water from rivers or wells, transporting with horse drawn carts, watching television courtesy of electricity brought by the government. There is an encroachment on the land by housing developments geared to Norte Americanos and Europeans and signs on barbed wire fences sell fincas that have been in someone’s family for generations.
Surfers roam the world looking for good waves, and, today, they are talking excitedly while we bounce on the wooden benches in the back bed of the old military truck that used to transport revolutionaries..
Riding the waves will be an all day affair.
In the heat of the day, the beach in San Juan Del Sur is almost unoccupied.
There are few people walking its length, even fewer walking into the surf too cool off. Waitresses and waiters stay under their canvas roofs and swat insects with menus. Dogs stretch out on doorsteps.
Early morning, and evening, is a different story.
These times of day visitors and locals come out to watch the path of the sun, swim, look for pieces of eight, exercise, play games, cool off.
In the harbor are sailboats from around the world, a more exclusive set of boat people who move with the seasons from port to port, dock, enjoy the provisions, pastimes and possibilities of land living.They are a salty bunch and if they don’t like it here they pull up anchor and go somewhere else.There are ports around the world waiting and they can dock on islands in the oceans where only pirates have hung their hats. This little beach town is promoted in International Living and other publications as a destination, a trendy place where beautiful people want to go.
Evenings, the town looks gentler than during the day. Under hard edged day light, the town looks rough, like a two day beard, a stack of dirty dishes, a flat tire.
The city beach curves in a half circle from one end of the town to the other with the marina and shipping port on one end and expensive hotels and condos on the other.
On the top of the biggest mountain is a statue of Christ, called ” Cristo. ”
For twenty U.S. dollars you can ride to the top of the mountain, say a Holy prayer, and pay your respects.
On the beach, at sunset and sunrise, I can pay respects for free.
It is probable that some Spanish conquistador planted a flag on this beach, had a prayer said by the priest on the expedition, and had to pull a sword and fight locals who didn’t like the intrusion.
San Juan Del Sur is a most popular place, a party town, a hot spot on International bulletin boards, a place to see and be seen. There have been plenty of footsteps on these streets before Scotttreks got here, and last night’s waves washed footprints away to start the next day with a clean slate.
Two images come to mind when walking the town. The first is what happens when you stand on the beach and waves come around your feet and erode the sand you are standing on. The second is the conglomeration of good and bad on the beach in the morning as you beach comb and find beautiful shells among the plastic containers.
The whole town gives a feeling of looseness, of pieces barely kept together, of ankle bracelets and incense, of pagan God’s and too much alcohol, drugs, and bottled water.
If I’m going to fit in here I need to loosen my belt a notch.
Scotttreks eats up lots of shoe leather.
An easier day is board game afternoon on Wednesdays,
This Wednesday, our game is Mexican Train dominoes in Nicaragua..
There are rules and procedures, but all domino games end the same. In domino’s, if you play all your tiles before everyone else plays their tiles, you win the set. Each of the other players counts the dots on their domino’s that they have not played, and the dots are added and the sum is written under their name on a score sheet. When someone’s point total reaches a hundred, the game is over. The player with the lowest point total wins the game.
In the Caribbean, domino’s is an afternoon game played on a rickety table under a shade tree in front of a local bar. In Granada, this afternoon, it is a late afternoon game in the back room of a mini market at a big table.
I will make it a point to be here next Wednesday.
Finishing in the middle of the pack is not a bad place, but I, like everyone else, like it when my train pulls into the station first.
Competition is okay but it is trumped by good company every time.
Like most countries in Central and South America, Nicaragua’s independence was won from Spain. In some countries Spain held the field till the bitter end and there were fierce battles. In other countries, like Costa Rica, their power and control was more gently transferred.
On the net, BBC lays out a timeline of Nicaragua’s history, a country that has been meddled with by Spain, Britain, and the United States from its inception.
There has been a succession of dictators and strong men here,but,at the moment, revolutionary Daniel Ortega, American President Ronald Reagan’s nemesis, remains in power, duly elected, true to his Marxist theology.
This birthday finds Nicaragua moving forward,but escaping your reputation is daunting.
The people in this celebration audience are attentive and polite as political speeches come rolling out of political mouths.
There are probably some in the crowd that wish Nicaragua still belonged to Spain, but they don’t have the microphone.
Consensus is nearly impossible to achieve, these days, on just about any issue.
Leaders wish us to obey, but what they really do, their entire elected term, is try to herd us cats where we don’t want to go.
I hear and follow the rhythms.
This gathering, at a Calzada street intersection, is a neighborhood parade of girls in traditional dress, a brigade of drummers, a crowd following the action. This little group is practicing for a much larger extravaganza celebrating the Independence Day of Nicaragua on September 15.
Drummers work themselves into a groove and the dancing is choreographed on the spot.
Turning a corner, the assemblage marches away and I finally stop following.
An old man with a cane also watches them turn, then goes inside his hotel. When he walks he sticks the end of his cane in front of him, and then moves his body forward to stand by his cane.
His marching days are over but, as he watches the band, his cane taps its own rhythm on the sidewalk.
The game isn’t over until you have no heartbeat, and, then, you have no rhythm either.
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