Leon, Nicaragua -- afternoon

I'm sitting in la Casa de Cultura in Leon. I figured I would take this opportunity to sit down and write for a bit.

Earlier today, I went to el Museo Ruben Dario. But I needed some time to leave the hostel. The reason is my very upset stomach. Apparently, Montezuma must have had a cousin living in Managua who also wants to take revenge on anyone with European blood. I won't dare leave the city until I'm feeling solid again.

So going along with that theme, I arrived at el Museo Ruben Dario after eating a breakfast of pinto and eggs with toast at a local cafetin. Also, to replace lost fluids, I drank two glasses of orange juice and a glass of water. I really took my time eating since my stomach was hurting a bit.

As soon as I arrived at el Museo, I went straight to the bathroom, where I remained seated for many minutes. When I was just about ready to leave, I realized that there was no toilet paper. Hence I realized I was in a (quickly becoming) sticky situation. So I pulled my pants up only part-way, and I peeked out of the stall. There was a table of three high school girls about 25 meters away, but they didn't seem to notice me. So I ran out of the men's stall, and into the women's stall, thinking it would surely have toilet paper. Of course it didn't. So I ran back to the men's stall to look into the wastebasket. That nearly made me puke since every last paper was already used. So I decided quickly to run across an open area of about seven meters to a table with a handkerchief on it.

As a brief aside, I must say that I've relocated to a table at el Hotel el Convento since la Casa de Cultura was closing for siesta. This place is very impressive, but I'll explain later.

So back to my sticky situation. I carried the handkerchief back to the stall, where I used it vigorously. Then, I pulled up my pants to walk back across to get a clean dish-towel, which I brought back to the stall to finish the job thoroughly.

Hence, I toured el Museo, which wasn't really large at all. Although I very much respect the work of Dario, the only highlight was wiping my ass with a dish-towel.

From there, I walked to a local restaurant to drink two bottles of water at the bar. I figured I could use some re-hydration. Then, I walked to la Casa de Cultura, which I only toured for about half an hour to forty-five minutes before sitting down to write. Of the folklore that they covered there, I was interested to read the legend of los duendes, the dwarves. It is said that los duendes come to villages between the hours of 8am and 9am to steal away unsupervised, unbaptised children, whereafter they take them into the mountains to convert them into dwarves. The dwarves are invisible to adults, and can be seen only by children and mutes.

Right now, I'm seated in the outdoor section of the restaurant of Hotel El Convento, a luxurious colonial complex made up of four sides with a lush, green courtyard in the middle, lined by palm trees. I'm watching several medium black birds in the fountain in the center, using it as a birdbath. And I drink a pineapple juice drink that will certainly be over-priced. The inner section of the restaurant is enclosed, and therefore air-conditioned, I'm sure. There are several extravagant chandeliers interspersed along the ceiling, among thick wooden support beams. I'm totally out of place here, wearing the same clothes, including a stained, cut-off white tshirt, for at least three days now. My malodorous, unshaven appearance must clash quite brilliantly with the antiseptic, upper-class surrounding. Perhaps one might say it is sacrilegious too, as I see an immense religious shrine on the other side of the large lounge area. I'm even surprised the security guard even let me in here, because in addition to my somewhat ruffian appearance, I'm blatantly carrying a silver switchblade in my front left pocket. I may be going too far in saying that his revolutionary character, and my revolutionary (or at least brazenly proletarian) appearance, are what permitted my entrance.

Nevertheless, I sip my pineapple juice in as much a refined, aristocratic manner as possible. This, in going along with the smooth piano tunes from the stereo, reminiscent of a lethargic Sunday afternoon in a department store. But - unrelated I'm sure - my stomach and intestines are feeling much better now. Perhaps I won't be held prisoner in Leon by my own bodily functions.

So, after this, I may look for a spot to eat lunch. Then, I'll return to la Casa de Cultura for a brief visit only to photograph a painting. I already photographed the painting of former U.S. President Ronald Reagan seated on the shoulders of an indigenous campesina, Reagan with a slight grin and a rifle resting across his lap.

From there, I will likely begin my tour of several churchs and cathedrals. Since Latin American churchs face the west, I can get better photographs in the late afternoon hours. The rest of the evening will be up in the air, but a trip to the supermarket to buy soap for a nice, long shower is definitely on the agenda.

I'll stop writing now to focus more attention on the pineapple drink and the beautiful courtyard.