There are several dates forever etched in my mind. Chalk it up to a love of history or a bizarre fascination with numbers but there isn’t much I can do about remembering the day Pearl Harbor was attacked, the year the Titanic sank, or the fact Alexander the Great died in 323 B.C.
Perhaps more to the point, I’ll never forget Dominic, my childhood best friend’s birthday.
So this morning, as I do every day on this year, I wished him another happy year of living.
Last night after clearing customs at Managua Airport, I tapped my cab driver on the shoulder after seeing a sign with my name on it.
Growing up, there weren’t a whole lot of ways a long and funny Italian surname came in handy but the hell if I can’t pick it out from a crowd in Central America.
My driver was a young man flirting with 25 or so, sporting a Yankees hat and a bright white t-shirt.
We drove through the dark night down desolate roads where street lights were nearly obsolete. Adding to the dim backdrop were the first signs of rain and tinted windows.
Probably not as remote as it feels, I tried to convince myself.
My only entertainment were the familiar sounds of merengue I used to hear on hot summer nights when I’d mosey up to Washington Heights for a hearty Dominic plate.
Whenever the hustle and bustle of lower Manhattan got to be a hair too much I’d catch an uptown train and enter a vibrant, rhythmic, and colorful new world close enough to venture to, but far enough where most deemed the journey an inconvenience.
As we continued to march through the night, I could make out flashes of thunder off in the distance as I wondered if I remembered to pack my umbrella.
“Nick, do you speak Spanish?” my driver asks.
There was so much hope in his inquiry I felt not only embarrassed but as if I’d let down all of Nicaragua with my reluctant reply.
“No, I told him.
I could hear my father’s voice nearly dos decadas passed echoing in my years, “I don’t understand why you signed up for French. You live in California and want to move to New York.”
Looking back, the old man had a damn good point.
Looking back, the old man had a damn good point.
I tell him I speak a little Italian and for some reason want to clarify it’s not because I’m half. I want him to know my dad is from Brooklyn, not Palermo and that the only reason I know more than “ciao,” or “grazie,” is because I took the initiative to do so through tutors, movies, music, Duolingo — lots of Duolingo.
He nods as if it will help or maybe he’s pretending to be interested. Either way, we’re in the same spot where we started — hand gestures or silence.
Maybe it’s just best I keep quiet, I think to myself.
Finally, I arrive at my AirBnb in Granada. Waiting for me at the front door is an elderly man and woman straight out of Central Casting for doting aunt and uncle.
They are warm and hospitable and instantly I feel as though we’re family. I half expect them to tell me to make my bed or take out the trash.
I take a picture with “Aunt Ines,” who is almost painfully adorable.
It’s a humble space and far more than I need. I decide on the bedroom closest to the front door and opt for the single bed instead of the double on the other side of the room.
Before long, they’re gone and it’s just me in some stranger’s home in a country I may have needed a minute to find on a map just a year earlier.
The way traveling should be, I think to myself.
Just before bed I take a peek at the photo on my touchscreen and see that Aunt Ines is beaming.
I am happy too, sporting my usual outfit no matter what time of year or place on the globe.
I must be the only man in all of Nicaragua wearing a scarf.
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