I'd reached the point of no return. Hundreds of tons of metal and fuel floating thousands of feet above rock-hard water, it wasn't like I could just pull the emergency stop and hop out. Panic attack? Suck it up, asshole. We're all going to the same place.
But I wasn't panicked. I was hopeful. I wouldn't be like all those other tourists, flailing about like a writer with a severed hand, but instead would approach every moment with the respect that the opportunity deserves.
We're all in this together, after all.
So I took out a book from one of my favorite authors and began reading. My heart beat faster when the passenger next to me, an older woman, slightly overweight, peppered hair, and thick glasses asked "Que estas leyendo?"
My first conversation! Now was my chance to flex my Spanish, basking in the benevolence we all feel when our reading is interrupted mid-sentence. What was more, I was above the entitlement of typical tourists. I was casually starting to make friends. Of course I was!
"I'm reading American Gods," I said. And that moment was immediately followed up by me swearing under my breath.
You're battin' a thousand, asshole. Keep it up.
So I did.
I tried to explain myself through a language I was wielding like a bat at a tennis tournament. She looked at me patiently, the clever bitch, then aimed her face at my sense of competence and fired sentences at me like a well-oiled turret, vowels and consonants lacking context shooting through my brain.
"I'm sorry," I replied in her native tongue, confident at least in that. "My Spanish is very poor."
"Yes," she said, eyes rolling away. "We are a very poor country."
So I stayed quiet for the rest of the flight, lest I face the judgment of an angry Hispanic woman. Nobody wants that.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present:
When the plane finally landed and the pendulum that had hung over my head finally stopped swinging, I had the chance to run away from my elderly assailant. As soon as everyone stood up, I was ready, darting out of my seat and speed-walking toward the front of the plane and it's exit... only to be blocked halfway by people who had simply stood in the middle of the aisle, apparently with the same idea that I had.
I turned around to see her expression, half expecting to be attacked by a velociraptor.
Clever Girl...
She glared at me, all the frustration she'd felt in her life exuded in one rapier-sharp judgmental grimace. For some strange reason, I felt the rising tide of an LSD frenzy.
She knew! Don't look at her!
Fifteen minutes of eternity later and I was emancipated, free to embrace the crazy gamut of Nicaraguan airport security. I knew they were going to at least question me for my water-purification device, one that could very well be used as a prop for a pipe bomb.
Fingers crossed! I was looking for the stories after all...
Instead, they just looked at me through winced eyes, stamped my passport and pointed me to the door. When I got to the exit, I was swarmed with dozens of people shouting "Taxi! Taxi!" and Miguel, a portly man in his mid thirties holding a sign with my name misspelled. I didn't have to show him my passport. Didn't have to show my ID or hotel itinerary.
I just nodded at him and off we went, as though we'd done it a thousand times before.
The streets were teaming with a menagerie of vehicles, from mopeds to compacts and SUVs, all treating the stop lights like mild suggestions from the village idiot, weaving through one another and the street performers or vendors standing in the center of the lanes trying to sell water bottles or food. Beyond this, the streets were lined with graffitti, stray animals, and small shops that were each filled with fruit, clothing, and electronics whose names were misspelled.
You have to smile at the ingenuity of diversification on such a small scale.
If you're looking for a balloon animal, headphones, papaya, and throw rugs, you've come to the right place!
Still, as much inspiration as you could glean from this frothing humanity, I was still looking forward to arriving at the bed-and-breakfast, a place I could put my backpack without constant vigilance, at least for the evening. Once there, I washed up in the sink, devoutly using my water purifier. I wasn't going to have my trip ruined by some weird bacteria I could have prevented.
Well, you want to hear the gods laugh, tell them your plans.
Regardless, I fell onto the bed and looked up at the ceiling, flicking my knife open-and-closed, open-and-closed, wrapping my head around why and how I got here, fighting off a little panic, only to end up smiling at the stories I'd find in this war-torn paradise. I didn't just want the adventures. I needed them desperately.
And you can't have the kind of adventure I was looking for without the possibility of death.
So the next day decided to bring me some.