Chipmunk pseudo-sex

Heather and I went clubbing on Sunday night, only the second time we’ve been persuaded to exchange our rocking chairs for the beer, smoke, and ear-splitting noise native to discotecas around the world.

Our destination: Ebony 56, located within a place known as “El Pueblo.” No sooner had we agreed to go than our host family had this to say, and I’m paraphrasing here, about El Pueblo:

“I don’t go to El Pueblo. That place scares me.”

“Well, I guess it’s not so bad once you’re inside, but be careful outside when you’re getting a taxi.”

“A couple of guys were killed there recently.”

Resigned to our fate, Heather and I put on our finest fines and headed out around 10. We met up with our friends and made our way to the club about an hour later, only to find the dance floor completely empty. That is, the club itself was pretty packed, but no one had yet ventured out to cut the rug.

Save one.

And what a one she was. Obviously already inebriated, she certainly wasn’t afraid to shake her groove thang, shake her groove thang (yeah, yeah). By the time she finished Act 1, she had proven to everyone in the club that she was, indeed, wearing underwear, but from what I (and everyone else) saw, I’m not sure what purpose said “underwear” could potentially serve.

Act 2 provided an interesting twist: a dance partner. Although calling what they were doing “dancing” is certainly a disservice to just about anyone who’s moved their feet with any semblance of rhythm while listening to music. No, their “dancing” was comprised of movements we humans associate exclusively with the act of having sex.

WARNING: The following paragraph is rated NC-17. Continue only if you can certify that you were born before 1989 or, alternatively, are simply interested in what transpired.

Back to our story, the, um, gentleman involved in the spectacle practically removed the girl’s skirt, exposing her bare behind (due, of course, to the lack of underwear) and proceeded to spank it in time to the music. Gasps, guffaws, and more emanated from the crowd, and Heather and I were left wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into. Apparently not satisfied with their first round, our infamous couple went on to try a number of different positions (Acts 3 and 4, respectively) before mercifully going their separate ways.

For some reason, I felt the need to have a beer (or three) after witnessing such a display, which I did before returning to the edge of the dance floor. Perhaps the rest of the crowd should have followed my lead (though from all appearances, they did), because nearly two hours after our entrance, no one had really ventured out onto the dance floor. My hesitance centered around two issues:

1. I cannot dance.
2. The music was terrible.

Admittedly, I have overcome affliction number one in the past, and I probably would have done so again on this night, had anyone else been brave enough to break the ice first. But even as the crowd surged closer and closer to the floor, no one would get down in the middle. And it’s not like they weren’t enjoying themselves. I mean, as each new song came on, the club would erupt in hoots and hollers, lyrics and gyrations. But not a one of them on the dance floor.

Just why everybody got so excited is beyond me. Now, this may be my age (or ignorance) showing, but each song sounded exactly like the next to me, until the DJ put on some Kanye. Finally ready to shake my moneymaker, I quickly realized why all the other songs sounded the same: every freaking song was played at double or triple time, including Kanye, which made all the vocalists sound like they’d come from a Chipmunks reunion or had just inhaled their fill of helium.

Needless to say, Heather and I skedaddled at around 1:30 (early by Tico standards), escaping the smoke and clatter just in time to be ripped off by a taxi driver before calling it a night.

But since that was the worst form of robbery we experienced all night, I guess we should consider ourselves lucky. After all, many others, according to our family, have met a fate much worse than semi-nude pseudo-sex and Chipmunk rap played at foundation-shaking levels for three hours.

Like death. I think.

Beer with breakfast and anachronistic regression

It’s been 10 days since we moved into our new house, with our new family, and I’ve got to say that I’m still adjusting. Before, for everything that we lacked, we at least had an abundance of privacy. In the old place, if I wanted to go to the bathroom with the door open, I could. If I wanted to walk around the house naked (not that I ever did), no one would complain (except for Heather), and if I wanted to make a turkey sandwich, I didn’t have to waltz my way past three people in the kitchen. Conclusion: privacy cannot be overrated.

In our new place, for example, the only place I ever get any privacy is during my eight-minute shower (before the hot water runs out). Every other room in the house is a bustle of comings and goings, Spanish and Italian, food and dishes. The mom of the house, Doña Nora, always seems to be doing something around the house; the dad, Don Marcelo, usually splits his time between his seat at the kitchen table reading obscure books and sitting on the couch watching the Discovery or History Channel; and their two daughters, Anita and Natalia, are in and out, hiding out upstairs, or hang out with us in the living room. All that, plus a family friend, Don Maximo (in the running for coolest name ever), is currently visiting from his home in Venice, Italy. He’s usually drinking a beer by the time I get up, and his strange mix of Spanish and Italian leaves me baffled most of the time, but I’m sure I’ll be a little disappointed to see him go.

Apart from my lack of privacy, just about everything else in my life has changed as well. Now, no matter when I wake up, I have breakfast and coffee waiting for me on the kitchen table. Now, instead of taking my laundry to the local lavandería, Doña Nora collects and cleans it every day. And now, for dinner, there’s no more worrying about what to make or how long it will take to do the dishes: Doña Nora takes care of that too. Basically, it’s like I’m 16 all over again and all I have to worry about is going to school and getting good grades, or, in my case, dealing with my ever-expanding work schedule and making sure that the magazine meets the expectations of the people at Sotheby’s.

Speaking of work (that’s what we in the biz call a segue), I’ve been getting freaking slammed lately. The notion of this being a 20-hour-a-week gig has long since left the building. It’s much closer to full time, which puts my hourly earnings somewhere around half of the current federal minimum wage. To say I’m not exactly raking in the bucks would be putting it kindly. (Thankfully, we get our room and board, plus high-speed internet and cable TV for $250 a month, per person. Third World living baby!!!!)

But, as with my living situation, the perks and experiences of my job still outweigh my pittance of a salary. Last week, for example, I arranged for a photo shoot at a home in Playa Bejuco, a beautiful stretch of coastland about three hours from San José. To get there early enough, in order to catch the best light, I had to drag my sorry behind out of bed at 4:30 in the freaking morning to meet my photographers on the other side of the city to begin our journey. I was tired as hell all day long, despite numerous cups of coffee, but the payoff was worth it. I spent all day in a multi-million dollar home with stunning views of the forest and ocean, making phone calls, editing articles, and helping out the photogs when they needed it.

I even served as the model in a few of the shots. Not that it went to my head or anything, but if those turn out well, I’m thinking about leaving the world of journalism behind and joining my fellow beautiful people in the fashion industry.

Next stop: Paris!

A land of colors and Córdobas

A word to the wise: if you’re traveling to Nicaragua (and I know that this takes a lot of you out of the running right off the bat, but nevertheless), if you’re traveling to Nicaragua, take a $5 bill with you.

I understand that for those of you coming from United States, that probably won’t be a problem. But let’s say that someone’s entering Nicaragua from, say, Costa Rica, and that this person has brought only Costa Rican currency with the idea of exchanging it in the Nicaraguan airport in Managua. What do you think would happen to that person?

Well, funny you should ask! It just so happens that that exact same scenario happened to me (and Heather) on our trip to Nicaragua two weeks ago. Even with all our research and all the advice of our friends here, we somehow didn’t know that everyone needs to pay $5 American to pass through customs. If you don’t have it, customs confiscates your passport and tells you to come back when you’ve got your five.

As you can imagine, walking into the Nicaraguan airport without your passport quite disconcerting. (Nothing like entering a Third World country illegally, you know?) Still, we figured we’d just find a currency exchange window, get our money and be on our way. Great idea, in theory. Yeah, and so is communism.

Turns out that the Nicaraguan airport doesn’t have a currency exchange (or bank for that matter) in the baggage claim area. Instead, the security guard there told me to leave our bags with Heather, go through customs, and change my money at the bank in the main lobby of the airport. Now, the last time Heather and I separated in a foreign country we vowed we would never do it again, but because this was really our only choice, I made my way past customs, without my passport or luggage, and into the lobby.

I quickly made my way over to the bank and asked them to change my colones into dollars. Can’t do it, they told me. We only change Córdobas into dollars and vice versa. Incredulous, I asked them if there was an ATM near by. Sure, they said. But it’s broken.

Shit.

Now I’m really starting to freak out. I’m in the second poorest country in the hemisphere, I don’t have my passport, I don’t have my luggage, I don’t have my girlfriend, and I don’t have any freaking way to get 5 freaking American dollars. At this point, I’m thinking, I’m gonna have to leave the airport, find a cab, have him take me to the nearest bank with an ATM, have him wait for me while I withdraw some cash and then come back to the airport. All the while Heather will be waiting in baggage claim wondering what the hell is going on. Not good.

Instead, I went back to the security guard, explained my situation the best I could, and he told me that there was another ATM at the other end of the airport. Woulda been nice for the suckers at the bank to tell me that, but oh well. Eventually, I found the other ATM, took out some cash and headed back to immigration, where Heather and I were finally granted legal passage into Nicaragua.

So began our 72-hour jaunt to the north. Thankfully, that was the most anxious (if not the most interesting) experience of our trip. After that, we were on our way, via taxi and bus, to Granada, a colonial city along the banks of Lake Nicaragua, about 45 minutes outside of Managua. Other than getting accosted and literally pushed and pulled in different directions by employees (and I use that word loosely) working for different bus (again, loosely) companies, our ride to Granada was uneventful.

About an hour later we were checking into our hostel, which just so happened to be without electricity and water at the time. Not to worry, we were told. It should come back sometime tonight. Reassuring it wasn’t. Nonetheless, we hit the town for a few hours in the afternoon, marveling at the amazing pastel colors that cover the cities homes, offices, and churches, and taking in the sunset next to Lake Nicaragua.

A quick history of Granada seems to be in order here, if for no other reason than its history is really effing crazy. It seems that at the same time that our Civil War was going on, Nicaragua was also engaged in a civil war of its own. One of the factions involved, the city of Leon, turned to an American named William Walker to help them in their struggles.

Walker was so successful and won the war so easily that he decided to name himself president of Nicaragua with the intention of turning it into another slave state for the US. For some reason, this didn’t sit too well with a few neighboring countries (including Costa Rica), which decided to declare war on Walker’s “government.” Walker was easily defeated, but not before he burned Granada to the ground in 1858 (I think). Since then, Granada has been rebuilding itself with those bright pastels and beautiful colonial buildings that I mentioned before. Anyway, Walker later tried to retake Nicaragua but was defeated again and executed in Honduras in 1860.

What followed in Nicaragua was a litany of dictatorships, incompetence, and poverty, most of it under the Somoza family (with the support, of course, of the United States). They held power for roughly 50 years, until the Sandanista revolution in 1979, headed by Daniel Ortega, overthrew the Somoza family and began its Communist rule. The Sandanistas were quickly challenged by another group, the Contras (funded by the Iran-Contra scandal, thank you Mr. Reagan), which left the country with yet another civil war until the Sandanistas were finally defeated in elections held in 1990 and Nicaragua returned to democracy. Nicaragua actually just held their most recent presidential elections in November, and guess who’s now the president-elect: Daniel Ortega.

Back to the present (or, rather, two weeks ago). Heather and I survived the night in the hostel and checked in the next day to a very fancy hotel on the other side of town. We spent our first full day on a walking tour of the city, taking pictures and speaking Spanish with our Nicaraguan guide, Julio. In the afternoon, we went on a boat tour of the hundreds of islands in Lake Nicaragua, including one inhabited by monkeys thanks to an evicted owner of one of the islands who could think of nothing better to do than leave his monkeys behind.

On Saturday, we took a truck up to the top of Volcán Mombacho with the hopes of getting a birds’ eye view of Lake Nicaragua and the islands, but it was so cloudy that we could hardly see 10 feet in front of us. On the other hand, I did enjoy a fine pack of Oreo cookies at the biology station at the top of the volcano. On our way back down, we somehow managed to bump into two other Californians, a couple that actually lives about 20 minutes away from Heather’s old place. The guy was a Nica who was making his first trip back to Nicaragua in 30 years and the girl a realtor with four laptop computers in addition to her Treo. Weird.

Anyway, Sunday morning we went for a Gringo breakfast and walked around a Nicaraguan “feria”: an outdoor market where literally anything and everything was for sale. You want a watch? Someone’s got it. A bootlegged movie? You bet. Clothes, purses, silverware? Check, check, and check. The icing on the cake: in this street that smelled strongly of horse crap and sewage, sitting outside in the blazingly hot sun was a booth selling a mountain of thinly sliced beef. Can you say disease? I know I can.

Our appetites conveniently whetted, we headed back to the airport only to encounter huge, LAX-like lines. Apparently the computer system for our airline was down, which almost led to our missing our flight back. Luckily, we got to the airport about two hours before departure (my grandma would be so proud) and made it onto the plane with about 20 minutes to spare, a little more grateful for what we have in Costa Rica.

So that was our Nicaraguan adventure. Next up: we move in with a Tico family and I wake up at 4:30 a.m. to spend the day in a $5 million dollar home.