I wake up in the middle of the night and realise that this is it, my journey had come to an end. I take my bag and close the door behind me. The little pool is glittering in the moonlight, no-one else is up yet. In the distance, I can hear loud snoring. It's the night guard who was supposed to make sure I was up. That's one thing I've definitely learned here: never trust the hostel's 'wake-up call' system...
There's me and another lady waiting for the airport shuttle to pick us up at 4am. She's an old acquaintance of mine, we already met in Ometepe where we shared a taxi once before. I'm so used to bumping into the same people now that it doesn't really surprise me anymore.
Five past four, no sign of the shuttle. Normally I wouldn't think anything of it, but bow I'm getting very nervous. We don't have a lot of time to wait. If it doesn't show up, there's no alternative either at this time of night.
I go to wake up the guard, and manage to express my worries to him. He shrugs, and says to give it 10 minutes.
10 minutes later, still no shuttle. It's now 4.15am. The American lady wants the night guard to do something about it. Of course, he doesn't speak English and doesn't have a clue what she wants him to do. Luckily I'm practically fluent in Spanish by now: Senor, telefono paxeos, por favor. Aeropuerto, (hand signing for an airplane taking off), a la seis!
He makes a phone call. It's on it's way. And soon we hear the brakes shrieking outside. The driver looks embarrassed. He's determined to make up for the lost time, and what follows is one of the most exciting car journeys ever. Me and the American lady are hanging on to the seats with both hands, as the driver shoots down the highway. As there's hardly any traffic, he makes the most out of it. We pass a few horse drawn carriages, nearly knocking one of them down. There are lots of people on the side of the highway waiting for a bus, or just someone to pick them up. There are more and more of shacks built on the roadside as we approach Managua, the capital of Nicaragua. It's a very poor town, often cited as one of the most dangerous in the world. I remember reading about regular robberies on the road leading to the airport. Well, there's no way anyone will be able to stop this car, that's for sure!
We make it to the airport in plenty of time. As soon as I step inside the terminal building, I leave Nicaragua behind and step to the world of an anonymous, spotlessly white airport, that could be anywhere in the world. It's hard to believe that just a few hundred metres away there are people living in so much poverty, and here the cheapest thing on the duty-free is a Toblerone bar costing $2.50. That would probably buy a week's worth of food to a family. I feel guilty when I buy that Toblerone bar and some Cuban cigars ($5) with the last of my cordobas. I wish I'd thrown the money out of the window on the way to the airport.
I don't like this world of spotlessly clean white tiles, people in suits and elevator music. I miss the hustle and bustle of the streets in Granada. I sit down near my gate and feel an overwhelming sense of sadness. I have to find a ladies room and have a little cry. I can't help the tears. I don't want to go. I'm not ready yet. I sob away in the toilet cubicle when I hear a few people walking in. Ok, I have to pick myself up now. I wait for them to leave so I can wash my face but it turns out that they're two air hostesses who've come to the ladies to gossip and to do their make-up. About 20 minutes later, they're still there and I'm still in the cubicle too embarrassed to come out now. The situation is getting rather comic, and at least I'm not crying anymore.
I can't wait for much longer if i want to make it to this flight. In the end, I have to come out. They give me some strange looks, which in all honesty I deserve.
I watch the dry land, the mountains and the lakes disappear in the distance, until I'm in the clouds.
I change planes in the George Bush International airport at Houston, Texas. Welcome to the United Sates of America, a friendly immigration offer tells me in a broad Texas accent. I get images of him in a cowboy hat riding a horse in an oilfield (yes I obviously watched too much Dallas when I was little).
Soon I'm standing in the middle of Manhattan, feeling completely surreal. I hang on to Minni's sleeve while Tero confidently navigates the streets, and I'm happy I'm with people who will do all the thinking for me until I've recovered. People everywhere. The lights of the Times Square make me blind, and London's own little Piccadilly suddenly seems laughably small in comparison. This is more like Tokyo.
Talk about a culture shock.
But it's strangely cool. Also strangely familiar. We've all been in New York already, though the countless films and TV series set there. And it really is like in the films. The taxis are yellow, although more polished than the ones I remember from the Taxi Driver.
There is steam rising from the ventilators on the streets, and there are amusing 'no standing anytime' signs everywhere. The buildings have fire escapes in the outside, etc, etc. And then there are the skyscrapers, that make Canary Wharf feel like a joke.
It doesn't take long for me to get back to my old consumer/fun-minded self, and as I'm knocking back Manhattans in a bar a few hours later, Nicaragua seems a distant memory.
Except that I'm finding it difficult to get rid of the habit of throwing the toilet paper in the bin next to the toilet. It took me a long time and a few blocked toilets to get the hang of it in Central America, and now that I'm finally doing it automatically I have to try hard to forget it again...
New York was amazing, but three days didn't do it justice. I saw Moma, Central park, wandered the streets and visited the bars and restaurants of Greenwich Village, Meatpackers distict, Willamsburgh. Spent a lot of time in the Moma shop. Saw a lot of orthodox jews. I never made it to Brooklyn Bridge, nor the Empire state building, nor the Statue of Liberty. Oh well, there's always the next time.
The depression started sinking in as soon as we touched ground in Gatwick. It could be worse, it could be worse, I kept chanting. I live in London. London is cool as well. It's not as cool as New York, fair enough, but there are worse places I could be returning to.
Still, it's never exactly fun when the holiday is over and one has to get back to reality. When you have to think about the 'normal' things in life again, such as BT bills and cleaning rotas and food shopping and work and college and the future beyond the next two days.
Maybe I'll start a London blog, and pretend that I'm still on holiday. I need to fall in love with my home city again. I could make my life a one big adventure.
Watch this space.
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