Chronicles Of The Return

I have an immense case of the lazies. Bad. I’ve been meaning to write but all I’ve been capable of is watching Law and Order, Psych and other particularly dreadful and empty entertainment on my iPod and decompressing. I’m not sure what came over me the last few days in Nicaragua, but I was concerned for a while that it might be Swine Flu (it isn’t). It was very uncharacteristic to be so lethargic, tired and unwell. I’m glad I’m mostly over it–although there are some residual effects still lingering. Like laziness–I already mentioned that, a severe case of unenthusiasm and pretty much being lame all the way around.

It’s hard to conjure up thoughts of sunny Nicaragua while it’s pouring sheets of cold drizzle down on me. It’s funny, too, that I was craving the cold so much while in Costa Rica and Nicaragua and now? Not really. Two days of it was nice, but I’d prefer to wear shorts and sunglasses again very soon.

I’m sitting in my ‘office’ hoping some form of inspiration will strike. Alas, it’s never really about the inspiration, more perspiration but it’s so chilly here it’s hard to work up a sweat. The thing I am struggling with is the storyline for Granada. I was so wiped out by the time I arrived there isn’t much of one. And there is even less material in my travel journal than normal.

A sample of said lameness:

Am in Granada, Nicaragua this morning sipping real coffee for the first time in a week and a half. Nescafe gets old, quick, but works wonders in the mornings. I’m watching a Cocker-Spaniel named Emmit run around the hotel. How lame is that? Then again, after a week and a half of very severe, almost India-like rusticity I am decidedly enamored of civilization’s charms.

Sheesh, a week and a half of India-like rusticity and I get tired? What happened to my chops?

Want more lameness? Here you go:

There’s nice silver on the table, soft pastels blue and white tiles on the floors, place mats, soft butter and fresh Guayava marmalade to be had. A ceiling fan circles overhead churning out fresh air. White washed walls, and a bubbling foiuntain.

A bubbling fountain? How fucking cliché is that? Really? I must have been really ill or out of my head because I know for certain I wasn’t drunk. And the misery continues:

Hardwood pillars hold up a mahogany and tropical cedar veranda, cork-screw palms and other plants I cannot name grow in the atrium.

“It’s a place done with love, not profits in mind,” my friend says.

Andreas, one of the owners tells me, “Granada is a very walkable town.”

I think to myself, “I may be out of bed, but I’m heading back there after breakfast. Screw walking.”

I made it out of the hotel a few times, however. Enough to eat a divine BLT with avocados on it at the Garden Cafe. Apparently I had the energy to note this, at the very least, in my travel journal. I was also happy about the smell of tropical flowers ‘mingling’ with the smell of fresh roasted Nicaraguan coffee.

Good God, I am rapidly in danger of turning into a giant cliché! I’m rummaging through the travel journal right now looking out for descriptions of Granada that include the dread words, “charming” and “quaint.” I haven’t found them yet. I guess I’m not too far off the deep end.