I look for the little white sandwich sign in front of the Merced church that tells me it is open.
When I see that sign, I pay thirty Cordova’s to climb a narrow circular staircase to the highest points in the Tower and snap photos of Granada from the church’s upper windows.
The stairs are steep but there are wrought iron bars to hold to as I wind my way up.This morning there is only one person in the Tower, besides me. When he comes down I find a nook, still on my way up, and let him barrel past..
At the top of the spire the city opens up as far as I can see and below me are red tiled roofs, spires of other churches, grids of streets leading to and from the District of the Tourists. As you move away from the Historical District, Granada becomes a different city. In the Tourist districts, you find an emphasis on food, entertainment, places to sight see, museums, education, history. Outside the Tourist District, the residents are all about commerce and community.
This morning church bells are quiet and Esmerelda is asleep in her small room, her hunchback gone to the local market to pick her a bouquet of flowers.
At the bottom of this staircase, mounted on a wall, is a sign that says ” Do Not Ring the Bell. ”
There is a room of torture buried deep in this complex, because, as most of us know, bells are always rung, at least once, by those who can’t read and don’t follow directions.
A sign, without consequences, is not worth the paper it is printed on.
The only thing missing is the black cat this coffeehouse is named for.
I look in a wicker chair by the front door for a curled feline with its tail wrapped around its contracted paws. I look on top of the nearest bookshelf where wind funnels through an open window. I look under one of the big slouchy chairs in front of a huge mosaic top coffee table.
This bookstore/coffeehouse is family friendly, well attended, and has friendly employees.
There are families already here this morning with kids, backpackers, retired ex-pats wearing shorts and sandals, locals checking e mails on free wifi.
There is money to be made feeding the soul and no one in old Route 66 diners would have ever thought the five cent cup of coffee would morph into the multi billion dollar corporation of Starbucks.
Expanding coffee and cats into the Universe is man’s next step.
We followed monkeys into space and there are no good reasons cat’s and coffee shops can’t go next.
Having black cats around always makes my coffee taste better.
The last pigeon conference I crashed was in San Sebastian Park, Cuenca, Ecuador.
Walking through these San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua pigeons, a few take flight as I move into their ranks, but most continue eating scraps thrown out by the restaurant’s kitchen help, undeterred by my appearance in their sidewalk dining room.
Food is one of those common denominators math teachers draw on their board before a class of hungry teenagers just before the lunch bell. Food, I’m always reminded by nature, keeps us living souls living.
These pigeon’s need to eat is greater than their distrust of humans, and, especially, tourists.
After i pass through them, they close ranks and finish lunch.
It is as if I was never here.
The best surf is not in San Juan Del Sur.
To reach any one of the best surfing spots north and south of SJDS you have to take a shuttle.
For modest dollars, you load into trucks, jeeps, vans, and are driven through back country, down winding dirt paths in four wheel drive, and eventually stop at a beach with only a few conveniences.
The surf in Nicaragua has a good reputation and, on this week, the waves are anywhere from two to five feet. Not being a surfer, the waves don’t seem like much, but for Central America, on the Pacific coast, they aren’t bad, according to insiders riding in the back of this open truck with their surfboards close at hand.
Much of Nicaragua is undeveloped countryside and many citizens live at the end of dirt roads or no roads, pulling water from rivers or wells, transporting with horse drawn carts, watching television courtesy of electricity brought by the government. There is an encroachment on the land by housing developments geared to Norte Americanos and Europeans and signs on barbed wire fences sell fincas that have been in someone’s family for generations.
Surfers roam the world looking for good waves, and, today, they are talking excitedly while we bounce on the wooden benches in the back bed of the old military truck that used to transport revolutionaries..
Riding the waves will be an all day affair.
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