Back in the fall of 2009, Lisa called me and asked me if I wanted to go to Nicaragua with her for a week. Yes! I wanted to go! I think she was a little surprised by how quickly I acquiesced, but believe it or not, Nicaragua had been on my bucket list of places to go. My ex Ken and I went to Peru back in the 80’s because all our friends were going to Italy – so unexceptional. No one went to South America (except us). Now the hot spot is Costa Rica…and no one goes to Nicaragua. That’s how it made my list.
I told my sister that based on the fact I was buying a condo in Arizona and the NAMM show was coming up, all things timing wise should fall nicely for us to leave at the end of January. This gave me plenty of time to pack, get the house fixed up and be ready for the tenant to move in on February 1. I would need a nice holiday post NAMM and I could return rested and meet my belongings in Arizona (which Elizabeth was spearheading) and start my new life.
The first little niggle came when I had to have the notary for my mortgage papers meet me in Anaheim at the NAMM show. I suggested we meet in my room at the Marriott. The poor dear. She drove from LA to Anaheim on a Friday night which took her over an hour in traffic. She had to park 4 blocks away and wade through some….let’s just say “festive”…. show attendees; a marching band outside; a drum circle in the lobby and a mariachi/trance band in the bar. You could still hear hints of this cacophony up in my room on the 9th floor.
She held it together as best she could as I signed ream after ream of paperwork. After about one hour, she took a deep breath and headed back out into the wilds of Anaheim on the first night of NAMM. I’m sure she was happy to see the last of me. Little did she know.
Sunday night, post trade show I headed home and swapped suitcases. I had one packed with business clothes, and one packed with vacation clothes. Everything else was mostly packed up and ready for the movers on the following Tuesday (which as I mentioned, Liza was managing for me). The next morning, I get a call from my mortgage broker in Arizona telling me that all the papers had to be resigned and re-notarized. It turns out there was some discrepancy in the paperwork due to state laws of some sort. Whatever, I didn’t really care. My notary friend drove back over to my house and I signed reams and reams of paperwork, again. Another day through the system, and voila! the keys would be mine.
I hopped on a plane the next day at LAX and met up with my sister who was flying from Seattle, at the Houston airport. Yay! We’re on vacation! It’s coming together! Just as I am stepping on to the plane (literally) my phone rings and it’s my mortgage broker. I need to sign more paperwork. There are some signatures missing. No big deal. I am way ahead of him and have left a signed power of attorney giving Elizabeth signing authority.
No. If she signs on those four dotted lines, the WHOLE shebang needs to be resigned and notarized. Oh for heaven’s sake. I tell him that everything I own is being picked up by a moving truck the next day and is being shipped to Tubac (where I won’t be BTW, because I’m…on…my…way…to… NICARAGUA YOU FOOL!).
What can I do? I order a drink, fly with Lisa to Managua, and decide to deal with it the next day. We get to our final destination via what I remember as donkey, motorcycle, and wagon. This is in fact just how everyone around us is getting to their destination, we’re actually in a nice car compliments of Lisa’s friends.
We settle into an amazing house which we share with Max and Judith Bailey, replete with an indoor swimming pool. The Baileys are a wonderful couple from Seattle, parents of my sister’s friend that is our hostess in Nicaragua. The next morning we head over to Tamara and Jonathan’s house where he miraculously has email, Skype, a scanner and high speed internet. I find out that none of the remaining 4 signatures need to be notarized, so I sign, send and pray. Either I will end up in Arizona in a home, or a dumpster. Fortunatley, we all know how that ended up.
After this crisis is averted, the BIG news is revealed. The Nicaraguan baseball World Series is taking place in Granada where we are staying: the Orientales de Granda vs. the Leones of Leon. We can get box seats for about $15 US per person – are we in? Are we in? Are you nuts!? Lisa and I and the rest of the gang can’t get to the stadium fast enough.
This is baseball like none of us have ever seen before. Holy shit! There are riot police in full regalia lining the infield.
There is food (I use the term lightly) being served that is like nothing I’ve ever seen before that is gray, gelatinous and being served in a banana leaf. This picture doesn’t do it justice, this dish actually looked vaguely edible with identifiable fruit and chicken or something.
The stands are PACKED beyond belief with both sides chanting, pounding, screaming, threatening, pushing, taunting, drinking, shoving, singing, hollering ~ we are talking some serious team spirit here. Lisa and I kept wishing our brother Dave had been with us. He would have loved it!
So, of course, during the midst of all this mayhem and chaos, I have to pee. Lisa generously offers to come with me (have I made it clear before how much I adore my sister?) and together we somehow manage to conscript a policeman to escort us as we slog through the myriad of drunk and rabid fans to the….bathroom? No. Toilet? Maybe. Pit? We’re getting closer.
There is a line (ah, one thing seems universal in all cultures ~ the line to the “ladies room”). I stand there for about 15 minutes until I get to the front and am told via gestures, giggles, pointing and pantomime, that unless I cough up some córdobas for a scrap of toilet paper, I am out of luck. I of course, have left my purse brimming with cordobas up at the seat which is far, far, far away. The police escort is long gone.
I am directed to another line where the general consensus I take away is that they are a little more generous and I can just go pee after the appointed waiting period. Not so. By the time another 20 minutes has passed and I get to the front of that line, I get the same story – no cordoba, no paper, no pee. Oh My God. As if.
By now I’m doing the pee dance and ain’t no way I’m not getting past the paper squad and into the bathroom (I’m still naive enough at this point to think there are stalls – hah!). I start enunciating in my loudest, proudest American that I am from Los Angeles, California ~ an exotic and rare bird here in the wilds of the Granada national baseball stadium. It works. A piece of paper is actually gifted to me and finally! it’s my turn.
There is a stall of sorts. 3 raw concrete walls and a square concrete pit. Let’s not forget that I must catheter in order to pee at all. Holy cripes. This is a challenge even for an old pro like me. I gingerly lean my hand on the wall, do my business, and get the hell out of there. I take advantage of a plastic oil barrel filled with cold water to wash in.
Agghh!! I feet like I’d passed some sort of test ~ a nightmare pee test. The oddest thing of it though, is that all the women in there were funny, friendly, joking, curious, kind and helpful. Despite the crude conditions and lack of privacy there was the same old female bathroom camaraderie that you might find at an airport, a theater or Dodger stadium. Just a bunch of cordoba packing, beer drinking, gelatinous-banana-leaf-wrapped eating gals enjoying a game.
Although this isn’t something you’d find in too many tour books, going to the World Series in Nicaragua with my sister is one of my fondest memories in life to date. And best of all, the home team won ~ go Granada!