While driving from Fortuna to Chepe, past the fields of yucca, framed by hills and the occasional volcano, along a road lined by tree fences I thought about roots. I have put down roots here in Central America, my home is a vast network, sort of a sequoia like mess of friends, cafes, hotels, drivers, other tour leaders, waiters, park benches, and bus seats. How can a bus ride feel like home? How can the staff of a Nicaraguan Mexican restaurant feel like family? Yet both those things are, or maybe now, were true.
I kept and keep thinking, "No puedo, no puedo..." or maybe, "I can't, I can't..." a strange mantra that I felt might protect me from leaving, and yet here I find myself ensconced in California. Re-entry feels bearable because I know I am leaving again and because I have been distracted by an onslaught of great friends and family. But to have left all of that, "gracias a dios," pichazos de aguacate, AMOR, amigovios, Israel, Ometepe, the chicken buses, the smell of high land Chapines, ducual frijoles volteados con platano maduro y queso, flirtations en español, gallo pinto de La Parada, and not being able to say "nos vemos suuuuuuper pronto" to my favorite tico/nica/chapin/catracho/mexicano friends and mean it.
Does the promise of fish sauce and green curry really stand up to that? It better, otherwise this gringa is buying herself a flight straight from Bangkok to some undisclosed central american location.