I wish I had seen and done more in Grenada then ended up happening. Granada is quite a beautiful and quaint colonial city that I found to be more aesthetically pleasing than that of Leon or Antigua (ha you all know how I feel about Antigua). Granada has a busy central park area that I was quite drawn to on our first afternoon in the city. Regan was catching up on much needed hours of sleep and I was itching to move around after the bus ride so I sauntered into town when Regan’s siesta began. There are some local artisan markets located on the edges of the park and all around it, food and drink stands occupy the outline of the park, making it the afternoon local social mecca of Granada. I bought myself an old school glass bottle of orange Fanta and found myself a park bench from which to people watch and catch up on my journal.
I didn’t have my
journal open more than a minute before I noticed an old man on my right walking
his bike right past my bench. He smiled
kindly and said ‘hola’ and I returned the gesture with the same kind of
smile. Before I knew it, we were in the
midst of a long conversation, one I didn’t expect to end anytime soon but that
was okay. In fact it was great and refreshing to finally just meet someone and
have the type of Spanish conversation I had been dying to have for a long
time. His name was Guillermo and he was
a genuine, kind old Nica man that sat down on my bench and brightened my whole
afternoon with simple conversation and laughter that could be considered
contagious. We talked and talked, and in moments sometimes we just people
watched and observed out loud our thoughts, he was comical and I valued the
slight differences in his understanding of life. Some people will come in and out of your life
on the most unexpected days and make a lasting impression on you that you could
never forget. This was the old man Guillermo to me on that lazy Saturday
afternoon.
On the day that
Regan made her journey to the Tree House Hostel, I stayed at the Bearded Monkey and
had a business day. I washed my clothes,
did a little food shopping, made some calls to corporate enterprises in the
states via Nicaraguan Skype (terrible experience) and received a whole bunch of
new movies from my friends in the hostel doing exactly the same things. I caught up with her there the next day, but its always nice to reset yourself for a day while on the open road.
Narrator switch- it's Regan now. While Katie had her business day in Granada (a city I found quite charming but overall a bit tourist-meets-university style) I headed off for the Treehouse Hostel, just outside the city. True to its word, the main building is indeed a treehouse, complete with rope bridges and connecting platforms. It was a pretty laid back place, with most of us choosing to read or chat during the day. Night time was a pretty different story, however. We gathered for an incredible sunset, and then the fun began!
After a family dinner with some of the best homemade bread I've ever tasted, the drinking began with a medley of games, including a race to see who had the fastest time through the obstacle course. You start by taking a shot, chugging a beer, running up the stairs to the upper floor- dodging chairs, a table, and cats- and then sliding down a fire pole and darting to tag the bar again. Given my history of being utterly and completely accident prone, I sat that one out.
Next came the cicadas. This place is literally abuzz with these flying monstrosities. During the day the level is at a dull roar, but at night the sound is deafening, and their attraction to the lights is absolutely moronic. Being the size of cockroaches, these things are more like kamikazes than bugs as they dive bomb around the open-air hostel. One of the cats, aptly named Lunchbox, catches and eats these things at an appalling pace; I'd say it averages 2 cicadas per minute. We chose to follow suit, except we de-winged (not a word? It is now) ours and fried them in garlic butter. Garlic, as we all know, makes everything delicious. Cicadas are no exception.
The night ended with ceiling footprints. Yes, ceiling footprints. The ceiling over the bar is covered with footprints and signed names, usually accompanied by a year and/or country. Getting up there is your own challenge. I opted for the easy way out and had two guys lift me while a third person used my painted foot as a stamp and guided me to an open spot. A few of my fellow hostel-goers were more creative, doing handstands or wild swings from the fire pole. Some of these feats ended well. Others... well, at least they were most likely beyond pain at that point.
Katie joined the next day, and was greeted by a far more subdued hostel than I had walked into. A chill day in the woods, with a short trip to the beach, was followed by an equally low-key movie night. While we enjoyed the relaxation and isolation of the Treehouse, we made moves to head out the following day.
Narrator switch- it's Regan now. While Katie had her business day in Granada (a city I found quite charming but overall a bit tourist-meets-university style) I headed off for the Treehouse Hostel, just outside the city. True to its word, the main building is indeed a treehouse, complete with rope bridges and connecting platforms. It was a pretty laid back place, with most of us choosing to read or chat during the day. Night time was a pretty different story, however. We gathered for an incredible sunset, and then the fun began!
After a family dinner with some of the best homemade bread I've ever tasted, the drinking began with a medley of games, including a race to see who had the fastest time through the obstacle course. You start by taking a shot, chugging a beer, running up the stairs to the upper floor- dodging chairs, a table, and cats- and then sliding down a fire pole and darting to tag the bar again. Given my history of being utterly and completely accident prone, I sat that one out.
Next came the cicadas. This place is literally abuzz with these flying monstrosities. During the day the level is at a dull roar, but at night the sound is deafening, and their attraction to the lights is absolutely moronic. Being the size of cockroaches, these things are more like kamikazes than bugs as they dive bomb around the open-air hostel. One of the cats, aptly named Lunchbox, catches and eats these things at an appalling pace; I'd say it averages 2 cicadas per minute. We chose to follow suit, except we de-winged (not a word? It is now) ours and fried them in garlic butter. Garlic, as we all know, makes everything delicious. Cicadas are no exception.
The night ended with ceiling footprints. Yes, ceiling footprints. The ceiling over the bar is covered with footprints and signed names, usually accompanied by a year and/or country. Getting up there is your own challenge. I opted for the easy way out and had two guys lift me while a third person used my painted foot as a stamp and guided me to an open spot. A few of my fellow hostel-goers were more creative, doing handstands or wild swings from the fire pole. Some of these feats ended well. Others... well, at least they were most likely beyond pain at that point.
Katie joined the next day, and was greeted by a far more subdued hostel than I had walked into. A chill day in the woods, with a short trip to the beach, was followed by an equally low-key movie night. While we enjoyed the relaxation and isolation of the Treehouse, we made moves to head out the following day.
