A Certain Peace

From the first warm windy weather when I stepped out of the airport, I knew I´d come to the right part of the world. From the stars in a sky still holding dark blue, and the clouds scudding across, from the hand-painted tienda signs, one after another and none of them chain logos until one Texaco half an hour later, from the trees and trees and trees arching over the empty late-night roads, I knew.

A turn and we reached town. Granada was pale and ghostly at 3 a.m., and we drove through canyons of colonial buildings that would be pink, blue, green by dawn. Doors and windows were covered with the wrought iron I know from Baja, but the massiveness of the buildings in the narrow roads reminded me I was somewhere new. Nicaragua.

I was led through a quiet open courtyard, past palm trees and hammocks and large dark murals I´d look at closely in the morning. From the carved, solid bunk bed, from the sheets that had been dried outside and still smelled of sunshine, I knew. The right part of the world. The next day, I was reminded of it again, by church bells and a rooster, by the cu-cu-ru-cuuu of pigeons on the roof, by a certain peace.

Buon viaje, said the woman I met on the plane, a great-grandmother. Vaya bien. It is a good journey, abuelita, gracias, si cierto, and I will go well.