Granada—Outdoors and In

Our guest house street

I sit on the bed in our Granada room, computer on my lap. An oscillating fan moves moist air across my face each time it rotates my way. 

Marlo sits at an adjacent table doing today’s homework (tarea) from our morning language class: a composition about our afternoon walk through downtown Granada with teacher (maestra) Reina. (Our first two weeks in Nicaragua we are studying Spanish in Granada.)

Along narrow streets, we have followed her single file on even narrower walks past bright buildings jammed nonstop against each other. Except for the central park (Parque Central ), we have seen neither trees nor plants. Only a long slot of sky signals we are out of doors.

Downtown, the walks grow more congested, with block after block of vendors hawking watches, trinkets, vegetables, and fruits. Assorted people, cars, trucks, bikes, and dogs maneuver from spot to spot. Beggars, both very old and very young, approach us hands outstretched, their faces downcast in careful sadness. When we decline one youngster’s request, he falls backward on the walk in a practiced faint.

After two hours on the streets, I am claustrophobic.

Our guest house courtyard

Marlo unlocks the door to our guest house, and we enter our guest house. A living room and bedrooms line its perimeter. Open to the sky, a hallway, dining area, and courtyard with potted plants and grass fill its center.  At the rear its kitchen and laundry area, too, are open-air.

In Iowa, I escape my house to the outdoor pleasures—gardening or walking in Big Rock Park.  I am, after all, a small-town Midwesterner, at home with open space and a vast bowl of sky.

In this spacious old home I experience a reversal. In Granada, mi afuera es adentro (my outdoors is inside). Today, I escape indoors.

And now, laptop warming my thighs, it is time to write about our walk—in Spanish.

No les preocupan ustedes.  Estoy segura, no voy a exito. (Don’t worry. I shall surely fail.)