Greg Brantner Presents: My Once and Future Mustache...: November 2013

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Making friends with the bar owner who, according to her right eye, might be a Terminator

Story number three in the honeymoon anthology. For part one, where we defied fire and brimstone to the top of an active volcano, click on this link: Masaya Volcano Adventure. Part two saw Melody eat nub chicken and spend an enjoyable day swimming in a lagoon: Lagoon

Surprise trip to Granada, and disco-party for two

"We dare you to dare us to throw a disco party for two"

--Nica Proverb--

Sometimes the best evenings catch you by surprise.

Having thoroughly planned our two-week trip throughout Nicaragua, allowing for a varied range of events in each city, the one thing I did not plan for, was a day-long travel delay. So when I was unable to book an online flight from Managua to San Carlos due to the instability of La Costena's (Inter-nica airline) website, I knew we were in trouble. I suppose that I should have expected it, because even though the guide book instructed us to book online, the website's interface was only slightly more modern that Doogie Howser's computer journal.

Using the antiquated cell phone our tenant provided us with, I was somehow able to book a flight in spite of spotty reception and difficulties understanding the lady over the phone. (Another example of how much of a second language can be lost without the benefit of non-verbal communication). Our flight, however, was a day later than initially planned.

I let Melody weigh in on whether or not we should stay in Masaya or travel to another city for this "free day", and she chose the tourist-friendly former capital of Nicaragua, Granada.

Granada is as close to Europe as Nicaragua offers, in my opinion. The quaint cobblestone streets in the center of town are lined by colorful two-story buildings with rows of white pillars, churches and cathedrals, and rows of statues, meticulously manicured plants and flowers, and oversized Nicaraguan flags. Horse-drawn carts carrying tourists mingle just as seamlessly with pedestrians as they do with the many cabs and pick-up trucks that populate the roads.

Bold clouds hover over Granada

Granada is a port city on the northeastern edge of Lake Nicaragua, the massive blue legion covering most of the eastern part of the country, if looking at a map. It's visited by tourists from all over the world; and by "tourists" of course, what I really mean to say is dirty granola hippies.

OK, by my own admission, that's a slight exaggeration, however the dirtier and hippier they are, the more they stand out in my mind. Like the blonde dreadlocked American woman who passed us shouting - SHOUTING! - obscenities to no one in particular. Because I know the basics of how not to get mugged, I avoided eye contact and only turned around when I was a good 200 yards past her, and her general craziness. I don't remember exactly what she said, and the Nica's to whom she was shouting towards likely understood less. Like a confusing game of Scrabble, I simply remember the phrases: "Fight for freedom", "In a prisoner of war camp" and, my favorite, though the one I understood the least, "Courtney Love".

Attempting to delete the stains of hippie juice from our collective mind's eye, we spent a nice day strolling through town with no agenda. We shared Coke's with some kids in one of the town's many parks. Melody found a great purse store, where we shopped for purses made of genuine Nica leather, while we watched locals work in the back, cutting, dying and sewing new ones. We each lost no less than a quart of sweat due to the sauna-like sales floor.

Melody shopping for purses made out of, I believe, soy by-products

I inquired about cigars at a small store, and was surprised to receive an impromptu tour of the Mombacho Cigar Shop. We were taken through the cigar preparation process, watched workers roll, trim and mold the leaves into cigars, then invited inside the walk-in humidor before buying some fresh Nica stogies. One of the many unexpected gems of the trip.

Rolling in the leaves

Invading their workspace

Pretending to know about cigars

Seeing our first opportunity to get dolled up (that phrase is admittedly more for Melody than I), we decided to visit the hotel room for a quick rest, then head out for the evening. Once there, I cranked up the AC - our first exposure to artificially-chilled air in five days - and we both fell into an air conditioned coma, unable to speak or move as the cool air penetrated the thick layer of sweat, dirt and grime that had become our unwanted exoskeletons. It wasn't until dehydration threatened - that damn water bottle on the other side of the room - that either of us moved.

Showered and with the prospect of feeling fresh for at least seventeen minutes, we headed to watch the sun set on the lake before dinner. A cool lakeside breeze fought off the humidity while next to the dock's edge, but when the orange and blue sky turned dark, and we headed towards a row of cantinas for food, the humidity attacked once again, seemingly from the inside out.

Melody attracting way too much attention from Nica men with her beauty

We set out down another touristy district, where earlier in the day they were charging a few cordobas (Nica currency, under a buck) to go through the gates. When we arrived around 5:45 - keep in mind the sun set around 5:30 every day - the guard was nowhere to be seen, so we passed through with trepidation. With such beautiful wildlife and lake-side scenery around us, it was disturbingly quiet as we crossed a wooden bridge - it felt like sneaking into an empty Old West actor's town when everyone was on break.

Total darkness set in quickly, as usual, and the empty restaurants appeared to be gearing up for what we could only imagine was a "club scene" to take place in a few hours. All we wanted were some food and rum, though, so we set out into the unknown keeping an open mind. The restaurants we passed differed from each other only slightly, and all had a few key components: Tall thatched banana-leaf roofs; large wide-open seating areas full of wooden rocking chairs wooden love-seat swings; short stumpy tables; unique lighting of some variety; gigantic speakers out in the open; and a small office/bar/kitchen/DJ booth that served as a home base for the proprietors.

Since everything looked the same, and we were feeling fresh from the showers and a sort-of-cool yet romantic sunset, we decided to walk until one of the places called to us. And right before we hit the end of the dark paved road, that's exactly what happened.

We passed maybe nine bars without seeing any customers, just the owners and workers setting up for the evening shifts. That is, unless you count the bearded gentleman taking a nap in the dirt next to the entrance of one of the first cantinas we passed. Counting him, that makes one customer in nine bars. The office lights were on, so that in the darkness all we could see on either side was the activity in and around the kitchens. We scoped out the possibility of food, but also discussed each place's approachability. This was important because these places likely weren't expecting anyone for the pre-dance crowd, and we didn't want to seem like non-understanding tourists violating social norms. Which is precisely what we were.

But then, like a spotlight illuminating a lion tamer, we received our bat signal. A bar with no discernible signage spoke directly to us with a visual display that rivaled Stone Mountain's Fourth of July celebration (Google that if you don't know what it is). We stood mouthes agape, scared yet excited, waiting for our bodies to understand the message that the neurons behind our eyes had already sent up to our brains: we had to go inside!

The place was huge but empty. We saw a lady by the bar who was probably the owner, and she was talking to a younger man, who played the role of server, chef, bartender and, his true passion, DJ. There were yellow lights on all four corners of the covered cantina to help us locate a seat without knocking our shins into a wooden rocking chair.

Beginning in the center of what we later learned would be the dance floor, a series of hundreds of red and green dots moved in unison, forming patterns then breaking away quickly and creating circles, squares, and even lightning bolts. This laser-light show formed from inside the cantina and bled onto the streets, attracting customers - namely us - inside like insects to a zapper.

I asked the owner if they served food, and when she replied "no", we sat down anyway, spellbound and sensory overloaded. Even before the server took our order, she was out with a bottle of heavy duty Off lotion, to ward off the masses of mosquitos that were already plotting to steal my blood. With service like that, we owed it to her to order a bottle of rum - it was the very least we could do to show our appreciation.

Party for two...

I ordered the works. A small bottle of the good stuff - 7 year Grand Reserve Flor de Cana, complete with a bucket of ice, soda water (for me), Pepsi (for Melody), limes and salt. This is how I would spend evenings with visiting Peace Corps volunteers in San Carlos, laughing and joking about their lives in the further remote regions of the Rio San Juan.

Our bottle yielded 4 - 5 drinks each, which on and empty stomach, could have spelled disaster. But luckily for us, and totally out of the blue, we were treated to a one-man music concert, which blared from the six-foot high speaker located not ten feet from our table.

Like all memorable, unexpected evenings, we didn't fully understand what was happening until we were in the thick of it. Toasting drinks and lighting just-purchased cigars, a familiar sound came through the speakers, catching me off guard yet stimulating the part of my brain that is capable of forcing my mouth to say the phrase, "Hell's yeah".

The only time I wasn't singing was when I had a cigar in my mouth

It was a slow Mexican guitar riff, and for some reason it made me picture Antonio Banderas staring passionately into an ocean, missing the top three buttons of his white puffy shirt. But when the singing began, the mental image in my mind's eye changed for the worse. I had the following loud exchange with the music:

To really love a woman

Me: No!

To understand her

Me: Oh No!

You got to know her deep inside

Me: This can't beeeeeee!!!

Bryan Adams, and his catchy crap ballad "Have You Really Ever Loved a Woman?", was being played at a volume akin to KU's pre-game basketball introductions. Which is to say too damn loud. A look towards the kitchen saw the DJ give us a thumb's up while bobbing his head, pleased that he finally had gringos who would obviously appreciate his musical tastes. This was when we realized we had no idea what we were in for.

As Bryan Adam's crowing mercilessly faded out, another recognizable tune blended in. A mutual look of recognition between Melody and I meant trouble - it meant that we were going to sing "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men in unison. At an unsafe volume.

It's amazing how much of that song we remembered, seeing that I was reciting what I learned solely from their late 90's music video. A nod of approval from the DJ enabled us, and we cranked up the volume (admittedly Melody was the only one singing; the term for the incoherent noise escaping my lips lied somewhere between squawking and propaganda-rally-belting).

We raised our glasses and cigars towards him, then put them down and clapped loudly. For those keeping track, we remained the only individuals in the bar. Between the booze, the music and the strong fumes of mosquito repellent wafting up from our skin, we lost any and all sense of self-consciousness...and self control. This party was for us, as evidenced by the fact that we were the only ones in attendance.

After a few latin-infused songs, our buddy returned to his sure-fire gringo hits, replaying both songs for his very receptive audience. Within twenty minutes, feeling more confident than ever, he took us for a third lap around musical gringo highway. With each rendition, our sing-alongs became more boisterous and less accurate, and the thirty feet of physical distance between us and him shrunk as if we sitting at the same table.

The bottle now empty, its contents feeling warm and fuzzy inside our empty stomachs, we made the difficult yet necessary decision to pull ourselves away from the dance floor in search of food. Our host and DJ pleaded for us to come back later, but with an average bed time of 9:37pm on the trip, we knew it was unlikely.

I made Melody hop behind the counter to take a picture with the people who had provided us with so much enjoyment, further commemorating the evening. After that, we wobbled arms-around-shoulders towards sustenance, which at that point, was as necessary as it's ever been.

As we left behind the disco lights and began the walk down the long dark road, I turned back to view the bar from a distance. The memory that resides in my mind is as strong and vibrant as any positive thought I currently keep up there. This was an unexpected night in a new city, the only part of our trip that I hadn't planned while in the US. And it turned out to be one of the very best date nights we've ever had.

Enjoy some additional pictures from our one-day stay in Granada: