Ladies Day at the Lake and Isla de Ometepe

The Oasis Hostel where I was staying offered a day trip to their sister hostel on the lake for just $5. Four lovely ladies - all solo travelers, as well - joined me on the shuttle and we decided it would be Ladies Day at the Lake. About 35 minutes later, we arrived at a secluded hostel in the rainforest where a steep path led down to a lake-front bathing area and snack bar. Kayaks were free to take out and all the hostel amenities were free of charge. We were the only ones there and had the entire place and staff to ourselves. What a delightfully relaxing day. I read, listened to music, sunbathed, kayaked, swam, and snacked. What a way to spend a day. I headed back to Granada feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Later that evening, I moved to my next hostel where I enjoyed a private single room, my own bathroom, and hot water for the first time during the trip. Rapture!

When you backpack, the world is very small. Somehow, you always seem to run into people with identical itineraries and you run into them city after city, country after country. When I was in Mozambique, I ran into three people at my first hostel who were not only moving on to the same city 7 hours away, but were also scheduled for the same bus and same hostel there.

After dinner and a round of trivia at an Irish bar on the strip in Granada, I ran into my friends Joe, Alex, Emilie and Monika from Leon. They had not only ended up in Granada with me, but were also taking the same ferry to Isla de Ometepe the next morning. It's a strange and lovely travel phenomenon. Happenstance just granted me another week with my new buddies. We all congregated at the ferry station in the morning and hunkered down with some snacks for the 4 hour ferry ride to Isla de Ometepe. By this point in the trip, I had completely abandoned my itinerary. I had no idea where I was staying on Isla de Ometepe, and frankly, I didn't care, because I now had the company of three men and a lovely Spanish woman. Joe consulted his travel bible on the ferry in search of a place to stay. I decided I would let somebody else make the plans for me for once. I read a book and took a nap.

When we arrived, it was just about dark, and I was glad I wasn't alone as we were yet again barraged by taxi drivers. We finally settled on a fare and made our way through the rough, dark, jungle roads to our hostel. If ever there was a hippie habitat, this was it. The entire staff sported waist-length dread-locks. We were famished, and thankful for the in-house dining service. We were able to share our own little room and bath in the attic. For not the first time, I shared a bed with someone I had just met that day. There's that backpacker intimacy, again.

The next day, Joe suggested we rent motorbikes and tour the island. I thought this sounded fantastic. We met up with Torey, the female half of a Californian couple we met at the bar the night before, and headed to the bike shop. We could rent a bike for $30 for the day. Joe and I took one bike and the girls took the other one. It took me about 2.5 minutes to decide that I need a motorcycle license. After a few practice rounds around the block, we met the girls back at the shop to regroup. While we were sitting in front of the shop, I shifted my weight on the bike, and the mudguard swung off to the ground. The father of the owner unscrewed the other side and we were on our way. Little did we know, this would come back to haunt us later...

Our first stop was a secluded little beach spot where the four of us splashed around in the lake for awhile to cool off. After a while, we made plans for our next stop and were on our way. Next, we discovered a natural spring, Ojo de Agua. I'm pretty sure it has magical healing/restoring/anti-aging properties. I mean, that's what we were told. Who am I to argue? It was a lovely swim. Then we enjoyed some delicious cocktails and snacks, but the girls never showed up. We figured they found their own secret spot and would run into them sooner or later.

After a few more hours of cruising around the island, we refilled the tank and headed back to the shop where we were saddened to discover that our friends had a little accident due to a problem with the brakes and their day of motor-cruising was cut short. In addition, the shop wanted to charge them an extra fee because of a scratch on the bike. The police officer who had helped them back had instructed them not to pay any reparation fees since he noticed a problem with the brakes, but he was nowhere to be found, now. But that's not all. They also wanted to charge us an additional $30 for the mudguard that had broken earlier. Joe and I argued that that was absurd, since it broke while we were stationary and had followed their instructions exactly about getting on and off the bike. They argued that the foot guard was not designed to have any weight on it, which is just ludicrous. Then we looked more closely and realized the problem: they had intentionally left off the metal screw on the back side of the guard, leaving only an inch-long piece of thin plastic to bear the weight. We called negligence on their part and Torey, who is a mechanical engineer for NASA, said something about load-bearing weights, which sounded like a good point. After an hour of arguing, we settled on a fee and hauled out. It was a corrupt and bitterly unpleasant end to a refreshing day.

The next day, Joe and I were moving on to San Juan del Sur, a surfer/beach town about which we had heard rave reviews. After the incident with the motorbike, I was ready to move on, and I was happy to retain my travel buddy.

Granada: Charm and Churches

After a leisurely breakfast, I shared a cab to the bus depot with my Canadian pals from volcano boarding, Alli and Sandy. In order to get to Granada, I'll have to take a chicken bus to Managua, then pick up another bus to Granada. The line for the Managua bus is depressingly long, which was unfortunately coupled with the oppressive, sweltering heat. Of course, I end up standing in line next to a woman who is grilling meat on a grill. The cold shower I took less than an hour ago has already been negated. Judging by the length of the static line, I estimate that we are in for at least an hour wait IF the buses comes every 30 minutes. The girls are anxious because they have a flight to catch in Managua. We start figuring our limits - at what time do we give up, pool our money and hire a private cab? About 20 minutes later, a bus pulls up and fills up. Despite the shocking number of people that cram into the car, our status does not much improve. A few minutes later, two buses pull up. For reasons that we never quite figured out, after about 10 people got in, the manager of the bus turned to us and motioned us over. We looked around incredulously, hardly believing that he was inviting us to jump the line. We silently weigh our option of dashing to the bus with the possibility of being lynched by the rest of the people ahead of us, but oddly, no one blinks an eye. From what I could gather, this was a really shitty van, and the rest of them wanted to wait for the luxury chicken bus behind us. I cannot fathom what that means - air-conditioning, maybe? No matter. We hurriedly cram into the seats and hush up about it, glad to be on our way. There's a nice breeze from the open windows, anyway.



By the time we get to Managua, my clothes are literally soaked through with sweat. Travel days are always grimy, exhausting, and uncomfortable, but they also tend to be some of my favorite experiences for their sheer authenticity. If you really want to peek into a culture, don't bother looking for it in a fancy hotel or restaurant. Local public transportation, however, never fails to reveal snippets of daily life. It's also humbling: I dare you to put on airs while you are crammed four to a seat with your backpack between your legs, sitting next to the nursing student who drifts in and out of sleep on the hour plus ride home to a town in which houses and shops are made seemingly entirely from tin and do not exceed 100 square feet.



(I'd like to elaborate on my observations of global poverty for a moment, so if you are not in the mood to be ethically agitated by any mention of real-world problems, I invite you to skip the following paragraphs and pick up where I start talking about shiny, happy things again. You've been warned.)



If you have ever traveled outside the first world comforts of America or Western Europe, it's likely that you have seen (at least from a distance) what third world poverty looks like. I would say it's highly probable that you've peripherally scanned stretches of shantytowns - seas of corrugated metal and plywood, rudely assembled into structures that more closely resemble the play-fort you made with scrap materials when you were eleven than your actual home, stores, etc. If you are like me, you are hauntingly mesmorized by the sight of these settlements that stretch as far as you can see on the horizon. If you are like me, you are overwhelmed by the guilt of having ever taken luxuries like indoor plumbing and electricity for granted, when so many people - a billion, at least - are surviving (let's not call it living) in a space just slightly larger than your queen sized bed, shared with a family of 6 or 8 people. If you are like me, you are struck by the realization that even though you are pinching pennies at the end of the month to pay the bills, you are outrageously wealthy on a global scale.



How cliche. How obnoxiously trite: White guilt. RIch girl goes on vacation to third world country, feels bad about starving children, blah, blah, blah. But let me ask you this: if you saw the world outside your home, if you were struck by the pervasiveness of poverty, if you thought somebody had really ought to do something about all that suffering - did you? In the words of my favorite slam poet/educator Taylor Mali: If not you, then who? But, boy is it unpopular to go around proselytizing about global poverty - talk about a buzz kill.



So as I stare out the van at the patchwork of metal roofs dotted with flames of street fires (for warmth, trash, cooking, light), I think about how irritatingly didactic this blog entry will be. And then I wonder: if it's so cliche - if the guilt is common and the depth of the poverty problem is acknowledged - why do we still fail to act in a transformative, collective way? So then I wonder if the problem is ignorance or avoidance, because if you are like me, you probably shifted uncomfortably in your seat, went to the beach and took pictures with a camera roughly equivalent in value to the average per capita income in that country. Guilt is uncomfortable, but thus far it's failed to ignite any significant action with the exception of a few bleeding hearts in the NGO world. If we truly want to eradicate poverty in the world, we're going to need something slightly stronger than a guilt trip. (But in the meantime, I hope that if you have read this far, you will at least send a silent wave of gratitude into the universe for all the necessities and luxuries we are both privileged enough to take for granted. We are very lucky.)



***End of Ethical Musings (for now)***



I loved Granada almost immediately. The bus stopped at the central park - a charming collective of horse-drawn carriages, refreshment carts, souvenir stands and al fresco dining spots, punctuated with a large white gazebo and a number of inviting benches. The park is surrounded by buildings that are reminiscent of classic Spanish colonial architecture. The colors are bright and bold - a canary yellow cathedral, an aquamarine hotel.































Maybe it's the 13 years of Catholic school, but I am fascinated by churches and cathedrals of the world. They are some of the greatest architectural marvels of the world, and there is something wonderfully unifying about places of worship.











All over the world, people prostrate themselves in prayer and meditation to give thanks, beg for forgiveness, bargain with God, mourn the dead and just generally praise a higher power. We have different names, different rituals, and different rules, but at the very core, religion is the same everywhere: a collective human hope that there is somebody or something out there with a grand plan to justify the course of events in human history, because it might be unbearable to accept this life - happiness and tragedy, in turn - as merely random. People go to places of worship seeking comfort, guidance, acceptance, and love. It would seem that every human being in the history of the world is seeking the same things. Cool, huh?











I reverently walked into the cathedral and approached the center aisle. As I began walking towards the front, I crossed paths with a small, elderly woman, with deep life lines running across her face - a labyrinth of rivulets representing a long lifetime of joy and sorrow. She has a peaceful countenance and a gentle, soulful smile. When she reaches me, she stops and gently, purposefully touches me on the forearm, then looks at me with a smile and nods before continuing, wordlessly, on her way. I am stunned by this simple act of affection. I am shocked by her tenderness, then saddened by the fact that such a simple gesture is so rare that it's paralyzed me in place for a full two minutes. Why don't we do that for each other more often: stop in our tracks to acknowledge each other's presence? All day, I wondered what motivated that woman to honor me with such a pure extension of recognition and kindness. I'd like to think that she has lived long enough to be able to detect a kindred energy in our souls, and just wanted to stop and say, "Hey, I know you." Or maybe she sensed that I hadn't been to church in a long time and wanted to tell me, "It's ok. You're welcome back anytime." Perhaps she could tell just by looking at me that I am a bit of a tortured soul and was just empathizing, "Oh, child. Stop thinking so much." And then again, maybe there was just a bug on my arm that she was softly shooing. I'll never know. But I do know that her simple gesture has stuck with me, fillling me with warmth every time I think about it. What if we could all make a new habit of appreciating and recognizing each other: taking the time to stop and smile, wave, shake hands, tip hats, and lightly pat each other on the arm, conveying through these genteel gestures my favorite Hindu expression, "Namaste, I honor the light in you."

Leon, Nicaragua: In which I find every part of Jess

About a minute after arriving in Nicaragua, I realize that the beach retreat part of this trip is officially over. A taxi driver approaches me and tells me he can take me to the bus depot where I can get the bus to Leon. It's quite the obstacle course to get to his car and he yells over his shoulder, "Nicaraguan drivers are CRAZY" right before darting across six lanes of traffic. Here we go! When I get to his car, I refuse to believe that it will actually start. The car looks like it's been stolen half a dozen times (probably accurate) - anything that could possible be removed from the structure has been - there are no dials, knobs, or buttons. Even the steering wheel has been gutted down to its basic frame. The driver's side seat is mostly missing, which is supplemented by a vibrantly colored mesh wire L-shaped seat frame. I'm astonished when he turns the ignition and the car actually drives. During the next fifteen minutes, I practice my Spanish with the driver, Diego. Somehow, I'm pulling out words I didn't even know I learned the first time. The brain is so interesting.

The more I travel, the less I think of our method of foreign language instruction in the US. I bet if you dropped a bus load of high schoolers off in the middle of the jungle in El Salvador with $20 in their pockets, they would all be fluent by the end of two weeks. (Mental note: present this plan to the School Board...) It's incredible how survival facilitates language acquisition... or really, any skill acquisition.

More than once, Diego grills me on why I do not have a boyfriend. This is a recurring theme on my travels. It's pretty much the first question once the business part is settled. "You have boyfriend back home?" No, but thanks for reminding me. Immediately there is a follow-up, "Why? What is wrong with you?" For the love of... Can a girl get a break, here?

Side rant: the world discriminates against single people. Hear me out. Part of the reason I'm partial to dormitory style at hostels is because most places will charge you DOUBLE the per person rate if you are alone. From a business perspective, I understand wanting to maximize your profit capacity, but from a humanity perspective, it would be nice once in a while to be able to have a little privacy without being penalized for my singleness. Many a restaurant hostess in my day has given me a nervous, pitying glance when I ask for a table for one. You know what? Not everyone can get a date on a Friday night, and I don't think I should be condemned to Chinese take-out and bad television just because I'm single. Cliches be damned. A girl can treat herself to an indulgent three course meal, and I should be able to do so without skepticism, scorn, or sympathy.

Ahem. Where was I?

Oh yes. Diego is one of nine children and clucked his tongue disapprovingly when he heard I only had one sibling. I'm relieved for a change of subject to my travel plans, since my personal life seems to be nothing but a disappointment to him. When I tell him I'm visiting Leon and Granada and then heading to Costa Rica, he throws a downright FIT. He proceeds to instruct me that I absolutely must abridge my visits to Leon and Granada and make time for Isla de Ometepe and San Juan del Sur. (Since this conversation, multiple people have resounded this recommendation, so I'lll oblige.) When he pulls into a wild mess of a market, I get a slight tinge of anxiety for my security and hope he's just making a quick stop. Oh. It appears we have arrived at the bus terminal.

After being so damn spoiled by those luxury ADO buses, I totally forgot that "bus" is a loose term in the third world. What constitutes a bus in Nicaragua is actually an elaborate system of vans, commonly referred to as "chicken buses." These vans would maybe seat 12 average sized adults in the US, but in a city that uses them as the primary means of public transportation, I've seen 16-18 people cram into them. With baggage. I spot the Managua-Leon "terminal" with a line of about 50 people. As obnoxiously reform-minded as I am, I can't for the life of me figure out why they don't invest in some bigger buses. It's sweltering outside, and the line is accosted by a steady stream of persistent vendors: cookies, fruits, ice cream, water, soda, nuts - you name it, there's somebody walking around with a basket of it. I sweat in the line for about 30 minutes before the next bus comes. About 20th in line, I know I won't fit, and I'm not looking forward to another 30 minutes in the sun. About 30 SECONDS later, another bus pulls up. You just don't ask...

Here's what I love about chicken buses: the 17 kilometer drive from the airport to the bus station cost me $10 dollars. The 90 minute chicken bus ride to Leon cost me just under $2. When we arrived, I realized there were three Canadian travelers on the bus in search of a hostel, so together we walked around Leon to find Bigfoot Hostel, where I had a reservation. There wasn't room for all three of them, so they moved on, but I was thrilled with my latest spot.

Bigfoot has a reception area with big coffee table areas for communal gathering, which leads into their Pura Vida Cafe, serving hsustainable vegetarian food and composting all organic waste. Beyond reception is an area with hammocks, a pool table, and an open air swimming pool. The garden surrounding the pool is part of a tortoise conservation project, so you have to watch your step. The dorm rooms are spacious with good-sized lockers. In the back, there are outdoor bathrooms and showers with a communal sink/mirror area - campsite style. This is just my kind of hippie-dippie place.

After taking a nice cold shower (I don't remember what hot water even feels like anymore, but it doesn't matter since it's also so warm and humid), I venture out into Leon with my camera. I'll be honest. I was not that pleased with the photos I took in Mexico and Belize. I felt like something was off. I was starting to wonder if it had been so long since I traveled that I just forgot how to take a good picture. The minute I stepped out into the streets of Leon, it clicked: I am not a beach-resort-town type of girl. I need a little grit with my cities; a little reality; a little humanity. Sure, aquamarine waters are lovely for swimming, but how many damn pictures can you take of ocean horizons and palm trees? As I walk through the streets of Leon, I'm inspired. This place has layers. You see the history of the place in the peeling paint and the crumbling buildings. I'm enamored by the local trend of embedding cracked fragments of beautiful porcelain tiles in the sidewalks. I wander into a very poor neighborhood (because heaven knows why, but I'm like a moth to a flame with poverty when I walk a city) where I play with the children and chat with the recycling man, who tells me he is stone-drunk (at 3pm).





















Walking along, snapping shots of the cathedral and side-streets and vendors, I realize my niche as a photographer/writer/traveler/teacher/ citizen/human: I have a talent for recognizing truth and beauty in unlikely places. I will discover pockets of breathtaking beauty in places that most people are afraid to look. My definition of beauty isn't strictly aesthetic, either: I recognize beauty in common tenderness, random acts of kindness, gentle smiles, and, above all else - human similarity and unity. One of my greatest pleasures in traveling is recognizing our myriad similarities as human beings - the more places I see, the smaller the world seems. All over the world, people hang laundry on clotheslines, for example. I find it comforting that on any given continent, in any given city, you can drive along on the streets and see lines of linens and blue jeans swaying in the most familiar way. All over the world, children play games in the streets with found objects until they're hustled inside to wash for dinner and teenagers sneak away for clandestine moments of fresh, young love. We're even similar in our lewdness: machismo is irritatingly similar in every language. I find it strange that with such an abundance of similarities, we still tend to harp on our differences (of race, religion, wealth, politics, culture). Is it ignorance or forgetfulness that leads us to call names, throw punches and start wars over these differences, when we should instead be marveling over our universal tendencies to gather to break bread, worship higher powers, and mourn by shedding tears?

And then I went home and drank 8 mojitos and played card games with my new friends at the hostel.

I signed up to go volcano boarding on Monday. I woke up, dehydated from all those mojitos, and went to get a bottle of water from the front desk. My wallet was nowhere to be found. Panic set in as I frantically searched the hostel, retracing my steps from last night, emptying out bags and looking under beds. I wondered if I left it outside by the card games when I went to bed, although I remembered having it in the room. My roommate verified that I had it in my hand when I came in to go to bed. Her gaze shifted to my locker: "Is it in there?" It would be a very smart thing to throw my wallet in the locker before bed. It would be a very Jessica thing to throw it in there with the key still fastened to it. (I'm sure the mojitos didn't help.) I figure my day will not be spent volcano boarding as planned, but instead seeking a lock-breaking device. The hostel proprietor told me the mason should have something and he would be along in a little while. I sat in the lounge cursing myself for being so typically absent-minded. Twenty minutes later, the mason followed me to the dorm and sawed off the lock in 15 seconds flat, then scurried away. (They would have charged $50 for that in the US.) Crisis averted. I still had 15 minutes to get ready for volcano boarding!

We piled into an army-convoy style utility vehicle and drove out to the volcano. Once we were at the base, we each grabbed a board (a rudely structured sled with plywood and metal), a sack with an orange body suit, a camera, and a bottle of water and began the trek. We hiked for about an hour up the rock side of the volcano. Climbing on a vertical incline is pretty tough as is, but it's tougher with an unwieldy wooden sled and sack of gear. It was a pretty exhausting climb, but the views were spectacular. Once we reached the top, we could walk along the rim and peer into the sulphuric spitting interior. After suiting up in our sexy orange jumpsuits and goggles, we got a brief tutorial on volcano boarding. Basically, balance your tush on the back edge of the board, hold on to the rope handle, and pray.


(Notice the Yankees hat - very popular in Nicaragua)






















(This is what I would look like if I weighed 300 lbs, FYI.)

Needless to say, after picking up some decent speed, I had a rough bail. I was launched off the board in midair and proceeded to do about three somersaults in the air before a rough landing and then about ten more crude rolls down the volcano. When I finally stopped, I was about 100 feet from my board and I had to climb back up to get it. Climbing up volcanic ash at a 45 degree angle is akin to climbing a mountain of quicksand. It took a while. Finally, just as I was about to give up and concede to dying right there on the volcano, I was able to grasp the board with a few fingers and pull it down to me. We were instructed not to be pussies if we crashed, so I saddled myself back on and cruised the rest of the way down, although I had sadly lost my momentum and maximum speed. This is my idea of a super fun afternoon: climbing a volcano and then sliding/falling/rolling back down it. Covered in ash, cuts and scrapes, I retrieved my beer and oatmeal cookie at the finish line. My arms and legs are still fairly covered in scrapes from my tumble, but I am pretty damn proud of their origin.

After mojitos and a nap, a few girls and I ventured out for dinner. We heard rave reviews about the woman with the cart by the cathedral. (Dear Mom and Dad: I have a confession. Even though I told you I avoid meat from carts, I actually eat street food all the time. It's incredibly delicious and usually the best/cheapest food around. However, I do always imagine the looks of disgust/revulsion/nausea on your faces if you could see me scarfing down on cart-meat, which I think suffices for the requisite guilt. Love, Jessica.)

As we're eating, the saddest little boy I've ever seen comes over to our table to ask for money/food. Since I spend a lot of my time in cities and third world countries, I'm sadly accustomed to beggars. It's a miserable reality of global cities. I usually decline, because despite my desire to help people, I know that I would drive myself mad if I tried to feed/clothe/shelter every person who asked me. Instead, I try to serve the world through my career in education, writing and photography, and cross my fingers that on the great cosmic balance sheet, the math works out ok. However, this little boy was different. He really struck a nerve with all of us. Maybe it was the defeated look in his hungry big brown eyes, the way he slumped in exhaustion on the curb, or just the fact that he seemed completely and utterly alone - not sent out on a money-collecting mission by an elder guardian. We all decided to pitch in some money to buy him a big plate of hot food. As we gently shook him awake to present the food to him, I fought back tears.

If you want to know why there is crime, violence, anger, or distrust in this world, you needn't look much further than the face of a child whom the world has forgotten.

El Salvador: Ay Dios Mio...

Normally, my parents are pretty supportive of my solo travel expeditions, but Central America made them nervous. For whatever reason, they were both extremely anxious about me going through Honduras. While I personally don't think Honduras is any more or less dangerous than any other country in Central America, I decided that I could appease them with the small concession of circumnavigating Honduras by flying over it to Nicaragua from Belize. Dad even offered to help defray the cost of the flight, claiming that it would surely cost less than my ransom. For some reason, internal Central America flights are exorbitantly expensive. The cheapest flight I could find was $350, which pained me, knowing the bus was only $30. I reminded myself of all the sleepless nights my poor mother endures on account of my adventures and figured I could suck it up just this once. Unfortunately, by the time I got to Belize and figured out when I could fly out, the fare had doubled. There is no power on this earth that will make me pay $700 for a trip that I could bus for $30. I did a little scavenging and found out that I could get a flight for the original price if I flew via El Salvador with a 14 hour layover. I thought this sounded like a decent compromise.

Unfortunately, the El Salvador airport is about an hour away from anything. Hotels at the airport were running $150/night (absolutely not), so after looking at the map, I figured my best bet was to book a hostel in La Libertad, a little beach town about 45 minutes from the airport, which seemed safer and closer than San Salvador.

The trip got off to a crummy start when the Belize customs officer scammed me with a $40 exit fee. Have I mentioned yet how much I despise customs/immigration? Well, you'll hear plenty of my thoughts on that topic in this post. There is no way the exit fee is actually $40, but unfortunately, one doesn't have much recourse in this situation. All the damn immigration officers are in cahoots with each other, and you can't leave the country without paying the tax, so you're pretty much screwed if somebody decides he wants to charge you a little more than he needs to. Grumble, grumble.

Since I had no idea how long the trip from Caye Caulker to the airport would take (with island time, you just never know), I took the noon ferry to be safe, so I had about 2 hours to kill at the airport. The actual flight was only about an hour, so I arrived in El Salvador around 6:30. At immigration, I'm told I need to pay a $10 tourist fee. I explain that I'm only here for a layover, so I don't think I should have to pay it. No dice. Maybe it was because I already got ripped off with the $40 fee in Belize, but I really made a stink about that $10. I spoke to the manager at immigrations and a representative from the airline to try to weasel my way out of paying it. I played the melodrama card and huffed that I would just sleep in the airport to avoid the injustice of it all. And I'll tell you what, I would have if they didn't threaten that security would throw me out. After 20 minutes of pleading my case, I sucked it up and forked over the 10 bucks. Little did I know, that was the least of the unforeseen financial burdens of this goddamn layover.

When I step outside the airport, it's pitch black. I remember that I'm moving closer to the Southern hemisphere, where it's winter. Every new place in the world is a little scarier in the dark. I'm immediately accosted by 50 taxi drivers fighting for my business. I usually try to politely hold them off, but one guy really got in my face and I snapped, "You need to BACK UP and give me a minute." I am Captain Cranky Pants. I had emailed the hostel and asked them to pick me up, but apparently, they didn't get the message, because no one is holding a sign with my name on it. I approach a couple of Americans (Florida shirts) and ask if they're going to La Libertad. "We are!" Great! I ask if I can share a cab with them. They look at each other, shuffle there feet, and decline. Ughhhhh more unfriendly Americans. Dear compatriots: PLEASE STOP SUCKING.

After about 10 minutes of unsuccessfully soliciting ride-shares, I concede to the driver who's been trailing me and I'm quickly whisked away to an awaiting vehicle. This ride is going to cost $30. Each way. You know what else costs $30? A ONE WAY BUS TICKET FROM BELIZE TO NICARAGUA. Curses. With walkie-talkies, cell-phones, matching uniforms, tag-teams, and checklists, this is the most well-organized cab system I've ever seen. Either that, or a cleverly disguised entry-point for white slavery. As we turn onto a completely pitch black road, I'm leaning towards the latter. We cross over at least five rickety bridges. After about an hour of white-knuckling the door handle (in case I need to make a MacGyver-esque exit), we finally reach a little beach town. Phew! Oh... nope... wait...just kidding: we're going through it. Another ten minutes later, we're flagged down by a little woman on the side of the road who hops in the back seat and guides the cab down a muddy side road. I have not seen so much as a lightbulb in the past several miles and I'm starting to wonder if there's even any electricity out here.

Finally, we arrive at the guest house. Apparently, this is a big surfing town, as evidenced by the enormous posters of white women standing drenched with surfboards and splashing water on each other. The posters are so incongruous with the dark jungle surrounding them, I almost have to laugh. Also, I'm still alive. The proprietor speaks no English, so now would be an excellent time to remember every Spanish word I ever learned. I reach into the deep freeze files in my brain and surprise myself by digging up enough of the language to communicate that I would like some food and that I need to arrange for airport transfer in the morning. Apparently, in El Salvador, you need to be at the airport THREE HOURS before your departure, so it looks like a 4:30 pick-up time is in order. "Si. Cuatro y media," I sigh. The rented room in the house has three double beds and a private bathroom. It appears I am the only guest. It's sparse, but looks and smells clean. I'm too exhausted to care.

After putting my bags down, I venture back down to the covered picnic/bar area to wait for the food. A short while later, Veronica, the owner, brings over bags of pupucas, lettuce and salsa. Pupucas are little cakes of maize, beans, chicken and cheese. They were really delicious. We were joined for dinner by Veronica's sister, and a 16 year old neighbor girl whose guardians recently passed away, whom Veronica has taken charge of. Her own son, who is four and a half, is sleeping in the house. (Mind you, I somehow picked all of this up in SPANISH.) We confirmed the cab ride for the morning and I told Veronica that I'm a teacher at home, and she told me she was displeased with the size of her son's preschool class. She was surprised to learn that mine weren't that much smaller. I glanced up at the little TV mounted behind the bar and, lo and behold: Grey's Anatomy is on. In Spanish.

So there's a moral for you, huh? All around the world, in the jungles of El Salvador and the row houses in Baltimore City, women will gather around the table to eat, complain about the conditions in their schools, and watch Grey's Anatomy. It's a small world after all.