Chuck and I had decided to meet at 10:30 on 11/1 at the TicaBus terminal, the Costa Rican-run bus company that runs all over Central America. The buses left at 12:30 and, seeing as how I had no idea what time I would arrive there I left fairly early and ended up at the terminal at 9:45. Luckily I had my book, The Alchemist, sent to me by a dear friend [insert love]. If you haven't read it, it's all about omens, which I find rather intriguing although omens are really given meaning by our own interpretations.
Regardless, here's a side note: my mom wasn't too keen on the idea of me going to Nicaragua with a strange man she did not know. She claimed it didn't bother her that he was 30 years old, but that she knew nothing about him. I sent her our tentative itinerary and assured her he was a nice guy, the fact that he didn't make any moves on me when we had to share a hotel room should indicate his noteworthy intentions, and that she shouldn't worry. She sparked back with a curt "Mica, serial killers are nice people, too." [end side note.] [commence nail-biting.]
So, sitting in the bus terminal reading a book about omens got me thinking: "Self, maybe this is an omen that he's not showing up. Maybe it's a sign that he is a serial killer and this is your narrow escape since you didn't listen to your mother. Maybe you'll have to go to Nicaragua by yourself and have a REAL grand time," a possibility for which I began to make plans.
Another side note: Chuck is always late. [end side note.]
We had planned for whoever showed up at the terminal first to buy both tickets and get reimbursed by the other so we would be guaranteed seats next to each other; around 11:45 I decided I would go to Nicaragua by myself, and I purchased my ticket--I had already tried to buy both when I first got there, but passports for all passengers were needed, so I opted to wait. I was nearly an hour early, after all. So, after purchasing my ticket, the bus to Panama boarded at 12:00. Chuck careens in about 5 minutes later, out of breath and apologizing profusely about a long bank line. We stood outside the terminal, him smoking his who-knows-what-number cigarette of the day, me relaying to him that I thought he wasn't coming. (It wasn't until later that I remembered he was "kicked out of the country", too, and basically had to leave. No wonder he was so incredulous when I told him that. I decided not to mention any serial-killer stuff, for fear of giving him any ideas if he didn't already have them.) In this cloud of mistrust (at least on my part, I'm pretty sure he was happy and oblivious), we loaded the bus to Nicaragua.
Five hours of Spanish crossword puzzles, "find the seven differences", and rounds and rounds of everyone's newest favorite game, "Guess who's dead" (I preferred "Guess who's alive" because--still fearing my mother's words--I didn't want to say "OK, Chuck, guess who's dead?!" and he says "Mica is!" and chokes me in the back of the bus. My imagination is too wild for me to be dealing with these situations solo) later, we arrived at the border station. With the butts of their guns in our backs, the border patrol----nah, I'm just kidding. We got our exit-stamps hassle free, then the last pee-break in Costa Rica, and re-boarded the bus to the entrance station of Nicaragua. We were in no man's land, Chuck mentioned, and I couldn't help but think "If he kills me now, what country will try him as a criminal? We're in between governing factions." Then we crossed the border, got our passports collected and stamped--although I must say I'm not a fan of my precious passport being in a plastic grocery bags with 20 other passports, but stamping collectively through the bus company did expedite the process--and boarded the bus for the remainder of our trip to Granada.
Chuck has traveled to Granada, Nicaragua before, and likes to stay in a small hostel called the Bearded Monkey. So we weren't aimlessly roaming through the country, but I couldn't help but wonder "has he conspired with the hostel workers about killing me? did he pre-order my bed sheets to be laced with arsenic?" We got off the bus at the wrong stop (oops) and took a taxi to the hostel in Granada, which wasn't far. We had the taxista wait outside while we exchanged some money in the hostel to pay him: FYI, if you go to Nicaragua from Costa Rica, take out dollars from the ATM. Nicaraguans don't accept Costa Rican colones, I found out the hard way. This turned out to be a Chuck-pays-for-all trip, and Mica-keeps-the-tab: oops, again.
After some dinner and a quick nap in a hammock even though I had a bed, we headed out to a bar to grab some genuine Nicaraguan Toña beer, not that fake-Toña crap they sell in Costa Rica (not my opinion, never had a Toña). On the way there I apparently got too close to the wall as I was walking down the sidewalk, and the piece of wall I got too close to just so happened to have a large metal rod sticking out of it. I got sliced in the shoulder, and named it my battle scar. Ouchie. But, since the smell of my blood didn't make Chuck go crazy I knew he wasn't a vampire.
We returned to the hostel and found a guy watching a movie where some weird zombies are putting other zombies into a meat grinder: Chuck and I both couldn't watch, and I was reminded that he hates scary movies. Now, would a serial killer hate scary movies or want to watch them all the time? That's what I thought, too.
Then we went to bed. This is a long blog and it's just Day 1, imagine what's to come! (It does not involve my death, sorry to spoil the story for you.)
