Leon, Nicaragua - Our new home.

Our new home, courtyard and all, in LeonYesterday, Tim was sick with something that resembled a sinus infection. Whatever it was, the sickness made him sprawl sideways on the bed and groan like a dying dog for two days. Meanwhile, the power was out at our house (actually a hotel, mid-construction) and all through the neighborhood. A transformer had exploded somewhere, leaving us without the two most luxurious features our new home: a ceiling fan, with five speeds and blades as long and robust as wings, and the internet that I steal from a nearby “ciber.” It was a slow day, without power in the baking city, and only Scrabble and old New Yorkers to entertain us.

Because Tim was sick, and not up for the three block walk to Salman, our new neighborhood grocery, I went alone to buy drinking water and ice. We usually buy water in bulk, for $1.40 / five gallons, but we’d run out and had been buying liter bottles of bubbly water, one liter at a time, for two days.

At Salman -- because I was there and because I was hungry -- I bought a few extra things, including a large bottle of Extra Lite Flor de Caña rum, which was deeply discounted, for no apparent reason, along with the spoiling meats and cheeses. Limping along, barely managing my two bags, pain jetting up my already injured right arm, I peered at the city that is now my home and felt weak and overwhelmed. Everything was heavy.

But despite the heat, the throbbing arm and the cabin fever that I’d settled into during Tim’s sickness, I was weak not with exhaustion, but with that goofy kind of kid-like wonder. Maybe I was just dehydrated, but I felt drunk.

I was romantic at the color of things: the way the old tin roofs are green and the new tin roofs are orange, the way the clay tile roofs look like so many fingernail clippings stacked one on top of the next. I was overwhelmed by the palm trees and long, banana leaves crawling out of unseen courtyards -- the courtyards remind me of the forts that I used to make, that every kid makes. They remind me of how it feels to hide away, behind blankets and chair legs and table tops, with the light of the house coming in through the sheer, over-washed sheets.

Yesterday, the color of the Leon sky was terrifying in it’s crispness. It was a beautiful day.

Now, water is obviously necessary for our survival. But the ice is necessary only for ice coffee (also, in a way, necessary for survival). And the rum is necessary for nothing, but good for many things, including Scrabble. But walking with those bags was a feat, and I had to stop often to set the ice and the bottles on this stoop or that, while I let the blood return to my fingertips and my elbow throb a big “Fuck you” to my love for ice coffee, rum and bubbly water.

While standing on the sidewalk, waiting for the pain to fade, a kid on a bicycle rode by. He was maybe 10. Or 12. I’ve never been good at guessing kid’s ages. He could see, as clearly as anyone could see, that I was not a Leones. As he passed, he said, in big bright English -- television English -- “Hello, bitch.”

I thought of my brother and I and how, when we were that age, we delighted in Spanish swear words. I remember once, on a family vacation, I opened the door of our rented minivan and triumphantly called out, “Ching-a-te!” To me, the word sounded like the quick, smooth sliding of a door opening. To anyone who understood, it sounded like, “Fuck you.”

Later, when I was 15 and my brother was 12, in Mexico, just days before Christmas, Marco became obsessed with the most insulting of Mexican slang. By then, Marco and I were growing into our separate adolescent lives. He was quicker than me to adapt to the freedoms of adulthood. He beat to me to sex, drugs and almost everything else. And in Barra de Navidad, he spoke Spanish with a fluency and passion that I wouldn’t muster until years later. As we walked the tidal wave ravaged streets, looking for churros and other Christmas-time treats, Marco recited his newfound vocabulary: Pendejo! Puta! Chinga tu madre!