Very little has changed in six years since I wrote this story. The kids are older and mama has returned from Costa Rica. We remodeled our house, but we still have a broken plastic chair. Patricia is still a feast for testosterone-drenched eyes. Walter, our neighborhood fumigator, continues to rid La Paloma of pesky bugs hiding in the crevices of our houses. I have taken him up on his offer to fumigate our house two times before we moved in. I’m still leery of the contents of the spray. I continue to gain a better appreciation for life through these daily interruptions of a third world kind. And, as a result, I’ll never lack writing material.
Interruptions of the Third World Kind
We live in a bizarre world. I was going to describe island transportation, but as I composed my letter on my laptop, I was constantly interrupted by the strangest events. Thus, inspiring me to describe these interruptions as colorfully as possible (although to get the real picture, you just need to be here).
I enjoy the solitude of the mornings. Julio and Luvis are at school, Ron is fishing, and my words seem to flow with the tranquility of dawn. That was not the case this morning. It started with a morning downpour. In the rainy season in Nicaragua, the rain gives no warning as to its appearance or disappearance. It slices through the sky like sheets of glass demanding one’s immediate attention then vanishes. I have gotten accustomed to these daily barrages, so I knew to shut down my computer before the electricity went out. The rain broke through our tiled roof like a pirate in search of hidden treasure. I gathered the usual pots and pans and placed them in their usual spots. Then, I waited for the sun to break through the holes in the roof displacing the water. There’s more