May 24. Drunken monkey.

The “Nicaragua Inn” next to the Pali in Rivas is the only place in town where they serve the kind of breakfast I feel like. Coffee and toast with marmelade. The 6:30 bus has just taken me here, and I’ve enjoyed the ride a lot. Zooming through the countryside on local buses, breeze in my face, cows crossing the road, loud music, smiling people, candy vendors, it’s one of the top attractions of my journey anyway. Rivas is a typical Nicaraguan town: a big active central marketplace it has, and a lot of horse carriages. It’s drizzling when I ask around for my European breakfast, and helpful hands point me the place where I write some five hours. I will continue my voyage in a bus to Granada this afternoon. In the bus, I will eat crispy fried banana and coconut pastry. Granada will be a friendly-looking town and an affordable hostel is easy to find. I will end up in a gringo hostel called “The Bearded Monkey” run by a friendly Belgian man. At night, I’ll have a cocktail at the hostel bar mixed by Dave. It will taste delicious and I’ll ask for the recipe to publish on my blog.

“Drunken Monkey”
Use a tall glass with ice

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años

– long pour mango juice

– short pour piña juice

– juice of 3 to 4 limes
– dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge

The “last big novel” has already been published. According to Milan Kundera, who still doesn’t give interviews but re-enters the literary scene in the year of his eightiest birthday with some essays, Garcia Marquez’ “cientos años de soledad” was the apotheosis of the novel as such. Its proponents don’t have children; they are the tragic end of their ancestral line. “Great stories” belong to the passed, according to Lyotard, it is time for a whole new kind of philosophy that plays around conscientiously with the broken mirrors of the old, something like that. But behold! They forgot about us. To be frank, I can’t stand the boisterous arrogant bombast of the “ultimate”, it makes me feel sick. And it’s so wrong, too. Wasn’t Aristoteles the last big theorist; wasn’t Cervantes the last big novelist; wasn’t Shakespeare the unsurpassable dramatist; wasn’t Dante the ultimate Poet? And Bach the absolute musician? And yet, long after their deaths other giants have lived and died. Goethe, Schiller, Voltaire, Molière, Kant. Every epoch is its very own culmination and nothing else. What I’m worried about is that once upon a time a generation won’t accept the change of guard. They’d rather kill their own offspring than accept that they are themselves just insignificant dust and not a royal pathway to anything higher.

May 24. Drunken monkey. was originally published on Meandering home

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May 24. Drunken monkey.

The “Nicaragua Inn” next to the Pali in Rivas is the only place in town where they serve the kind of breakfast I feel like. Coffee and toast with marmelade. The 6:30 bus has just taken me here, and I’ve enjoyed the ride a lot. Zooming through the countryside on local buses, breeze in my face, cows crossing the road, loud music, smiling people, candy vendors, it’s one of the top attractions of my journey anyway. Rivas is a typical Nicaraguan town: a big active central marketplace it has, and a lot of horse carriages. It’s drizzling when I ask around for my European breakfast, and helpful hands point me the place where I write some five hours. I will continue my voyage in a bus to Granada this afternoon. In the bus, I will eat crispy fried banana and coconut pastry. Granada will be a friendly-looking town and an affordable hostel is easy to find. I will end up in a gringo hostel called “The Bearded Monkey” run by a friendly Belgian man. At night, I’ll have a cocktail at the hostel bar mixed by Dave. It will taste delicious and I’ll ask for the recipe to publish on my blog.

“Drunken Monkey”
Use a tall glass with ice

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años

– long pour mango juice

– short pour piña juice

– juice of 3 to 4 limes
– dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge

The “last big novel” has already been published. According to Milan Kundera, who still doesn’t give interviews but re-enters the literary scene in the year of his eightiest birthday with some essays, Garcia Marquez’ “cientos años de soledad” was the apotheosis of the novel as such. Its proponents don’t have children; they are the tragic end of their ancestral line. “Great stories” belong to the passed, according to Lyotard, it is time for a whole new kind of philosophy that plays around conscientiously with the broken mirrors of the old, something like that. But behold! They forgot about us. To be frank, I can’t stand the boisterous arrogant bombast of the “ultimate”, it makes me feel sick. And it’s so wrong, too. Wasn’t Aristoteles the last big theorist; wasn’t Cervantes the last big novelist; wasn’t Shakespeare the unsurpassable dramatist; wasn’t Dante the ultimate Poet? And Bach the absolute musician? And yet, long after their deaths other giants have lived and died. Goethe, Schiller, Voltaire, Molière, Kant. Every epoch is its very own culmination and nothing else. What I’m worried about is that once upon a time a generation won’t accept the change of guard. They’d rather kill their own offspring than accept that they are themselves just insignificant dust and not a royal pathway to anything higher.

May 24. Drunken monkey.

The “Nicaragua Inn” next to the Pali in Rivas is the only place in town where they serve the kind of breakfast I feel like. Coffee and toast with marmelade. The 6:30 bus has just taken me here, and I’ve enjoyed the ride a lot. Zooming through the countryside on local buses, breeze in my face, cows crossing the road, loud music, smiling people, candy vendors, it’s one of the top attractions of my journey anyway. Rivas is a typical Nicaraguan town: a big active central marketplace it has, and a lot of horse carriages. It’s drizzling when I ask around for my European breakfast, and helpful hands point me the place where I write some five hours. I will continue my voyage in a bus to Granada this afternoon. In the bus, I will eat crispy fried banana and coconut pastry. Granada will be a friendly-looking town and an affordable hostel is easy to find. I will end up in a gringo hostel called “The Bearded Monkey” run by a friendly Belgian man. At night, I’ll have a cocktail at the hostel bar mixed by Dave. It will taste delicious and I’ll ask for the recipe to publish on my blog.

“Drunken Monkey”
Use a tall glass with ice

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años

– long pour mango juice

– short pour piña juice

– juice of 3 to 4 limes
– dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge

The “last big novel” has already been published. According to Milan Kundera, who still doesn’t give interviews but re-enters the literary scene in the year of his eightiest birthday with some essays, Garcia Marquez’ “cientos años de soledad” was the apotheosis of the novel as such. Its proponents don’t have children; they are the tragic end of their ancestral line. “Great stories” belong to the passed, according to Lyotard, it is time for a whole new kind of philosophy that plays around conscientiously with the broken mirrors of the old, something like that. But behold! They forgot about us. To be frank, I can’t stand the boisterous arrogant bombast of the “ultimate”, it makes me feel sick. And it’s so wrong, too. Wasn’t Aristoteles the last big theorist; wasn’t Cervantes the last big novelist; wasn’t Shakespeare the unsurpassable dramatist; wasn’t Dante the ultimate Poet? And Bach the absolute musician? And yet, long after their deaths other giants have lived and died. Goethe, Schiller, Voltaire, Molière, Kant. Every epoch is its very own culmination and nothing else. What I’m worried about is that once upon a time a generation won’t accept the change of guard. They’d rather kill their own offspring than accept that they are themselves just insignificant dust and not a royal pathway to anything higher.

May 24. Drunken monkey.

The “Nicaragua Inn” next to the Pali in Rivas is the only place in town where they serve the kind of breakfast I feel like. Coffee and toast with marmelade. The 6:30 bus has just taken me here, and I’ve enjoyed the ride a lot. Zooming through the countryside on local buses, breeze in my face, cows crossing the road, loud music, smiling people, candy vendors, it’s one of the top attractions of my journey anyway. Rivas is a typical Nicaraguan town: a big active central marketplace it has, and a lot of horse carriages. It’s drizzling when I ask around for my European breakfast, and helpful hands point me the place where I write some five hours. I will continue my voyage in a bus to Granada this afternoon. In the bus, I will eat crispy fried banana and coconut pastry. Granada will be a friendly-looking town and an affordable hostel is easy to find. I will end up in a gringo hostel called “The Bearded Monkey” run by a friendly Belgian man. At night, I’ll have a cocktail at the hostel bar mixed by Dave. It will taste delicious and I’ll ask for the recipe to publish on my blog.

“Drunken Monkey”
Use a tall glass with ice

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor the Caña 7 años (rum from Nicaragua)

– 1 1/2 oz of Flor de Caña 4 años

– long pour mango juice

– short pour piña juice

– juice of 3 to 4 limes
– dash of grenadine
Garnish with a lime wedge

The “last big novel” has already been published. According to Milan Kundera, who still doesn’t give interviews but re-enters the literary scene in the year of his eightiest birthday with some essays, Garcia Marquez’ “cientos años de soledad” was the apotheosis of the novel as such. Its proponents don’t have children; they are the tragic end of their ancestral line. “Great stories” belong to the passed, according to Lyotard, it is time for a whole new kind of philosophy that plays around conscientiously with the broken mirrors of the old, something like that. But behold! They forgot about us. To be frank, I can’t stand the boisterous arrogant bombast of the “ultimate”, it makes me feel sick. And it’s so wrong, too. Wasn’t Aristoteles the last big theorist; wasn’t Cervantes the last big novelist; wasn’t Shakespeare the unsurpassable dramatist; wasn’t Dante the ultimate Poet? And Bach the absolute musician? And yet, long after their deaths other giants have lived and died. Goethe, Schiller, Voltaire, Molière, Kant. Every epoch is its very own culmination and nothing else. What I’m worried about is that once upon a time a generation won’t accept the change of guard. They’d rather kill their own offspring than accept that they are themselves just insignificant dust and not a royal pathway to anything higher.

May 23. A night at a blue concrete bench.

Happiness suddenly strikes me (like a warm gun) when I have breakfast in a tiny San José lunchroom. Over coffee, juice, eggs and toast I dream away. The heads of the people here are taken from a movie. I can’t remember which one, but they definitely appear in some movie. Perhaps it’s The Gothfather, or Scarface, or One flew over the cuckoo’s nest, or The Wild Bunch, or Casablanca. It makes me feel I’m part of something.

I am singing “Dancing on the rooftops again / dancing with nothing but life on my mind / dancing, oh dancing again “. Are we pleasure machines?

When I return to the tristeza of the hostel, I see an accident. It has occured just while I was eating. A car lies upside-down, firefighters and police all around. A person is taken away in an ambulance. It has happened in the half hour I had been eating my happy breakfast. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing. I could have returned five minutes earlier, to save a life perhaps, or to be hit by a car myself. I don’t stay at the scene of the accident for long, I want to leave this country.

The Ticabus fare is too expensive, twenty-one dollars. Being stingy can be a means to generate random events, and that’s its only justification. So I walk around downtown San José asking for other bus companies. Eventually, I find a bus to Puñas Blancas at the border with Nicaragua. For the second time (the first time was my ticket from Asuncion, Paraguay to Santa Cruz, Bolivia) I had exactly enough money in my pocket for the trip. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing.

I thought over the itinerary of my future journey during the long bus ride. It’s one of my favorite activities: looking at the countryside from a slow local bus and reflect about my itinerary. About future possibities. I can be all caught up in the possibiliy business. I think that’s not a bad thing for a literate.

Late in the afternoon, I arrive at the border with Nicaragua. When I get off the bus, money changers flock around me and almost force me to use their services. I can’t think clearly and give one of the “money changers” who presents me his “ID” a twenty dollar bill. I get way to little Cordobas for it (240 instead of 400) and it’s frustrating. I discoverd the rip-off aht the Nicaraguan border post 500 meter down the road and walk back. The scum had disappeared and I all can do is inform the uniformed men. Yes, he wore a white shirt but I can’t remember anything else. Frustration again. Frustration makes me think frenzied. I am fed up with the whole thing, and I overdramatize it. I tell everyone I had been robbed. Robado, robado. No tengo nada. I am not interesting for you punk, they have just sacked me so take a hike. I lost only seven dollars to the money changer but behave like I’ve just been castrated. When I’m even offered a free drink with my meal, I feel a bit guilty about the lying business. This is not right. I’m a rich guy around here, I shouldn’t pretend that the small-time rip-off brought me down. Here’s some morale to work on. Fine, I mean, to have identified it as such is a first step.

I am instructed where I can sleep waiting for the early morning bus. I will spend the night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and the police officer sleeps on the bench right next to mine. It’s safe. By the way, this is a genuine two-kind-of-people activity: there are people who’ve never spent a night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and people who have done so.

May 23. A night at a blue concrete bench. was originally published on Meandering home

May 23. A night at a blue concrete bench.

Happiness suddenly strikes me (like a warm gun) when I have breakfast in a tiny San José lunchroom. Over coffee, juice, eggs and toast I dream away. The heads of the people here are taken from a movie. I can’t remember which one, but they definitely appear in some movie. Perhaps it’s The Gothfather, or Scarface, or One flew over the cuckoo’s nest, or The Wild Bunch, or Casablanca. It makes me feel I’m part of something.

I am singing “Dancing on the rooftops again / dancing with nothing but life on my mind / dancing, oh dancing again “. Are we pleasure machines?

When I return to the tristeza of the hostel, I see an accident. It has occured just while I was eating. A car lies upside-down, firefighters and police all around. A person is taken away in an ambulance. It has happened in the half hour I had been eating my happy breakfast. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing. I could have returned five minutes earlier, to save a life perhaps, or to be hit by a car myself. I don’t stay at the scene of the accident for long, I want to leave this country.

The Ticabus fare is too expensive, twenty-one dollars. Being stingy can be a means to generate random events, and that’s its only justification. So I walk around downtown San José asking for other bus companies. Eventually, I find a bus to Puñas Blancas at the border with Nicaragua. For the second time (the first time was my ticket from Asuncion, Paraguay to Santa Cruz, Bolivia) I had exactly enough money in my pocket for the trip. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing.

I thought over the itinerary of my future journey during the long bus ride. It’s one of my favorite activities: looking at the countryside from a slow local bus and reflect about my itinerary. About future possibities. I can be all caught up in the possibiliy business. I think that’s not a bad thing for a literate.

Late in the afternoon, I arrive at the border with Nicaragua. When I get off the bus, money changers flock around me and almost force me to use their services. I can’t think clearly and give one of the “money changers” who presents me his “ID” a twenty dollar bill. I get way to little Cordobas for it (240 instead of 400) and it’s frustrating. I discoverd the rip-off aht the Nicaraguan border post 500 meter down the road and walk back. The scum had disappeared and I all can do is inform the uniformed men. Yes, he wore a white shirt but I can’t remember anything else. Frustration again. Frustration makes me think frenzied. I am fed up with the whole thing, and I overdramatize it. I tell everyone I had been robbed. Robado, robado. No tengo nada. I am not interesting for you punk, they have just sacked me so take a hike. I lost only seven dollars to the money changer but behave like I’ve just been castrated. When I’m even offered a free drink with my meal, I feel a bit guilty about the lying business. This is not right. I’m a rich guy around here, I shouldn’t pretend that the small-time rip-off brought me down. Here’s some morale to work on. Fine, I mean, to have identified it as such is a first step.

I am instructed where I can sleep waiting for the early morning bus. I will spend the night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and the police officer sleeps on the bench right next to mine. It’s safe. By the way, this is a genuine two-kind-of-people activity: there are people who’ve never spent a night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and people who have done so.

May 23. A night at a blue concrete bench.

Happiness suddenly strikes me (like a warm gun) when I have breakfast in a tiny San José lunchroom. Over coffee, juice, eggs and toast I dream away. The heads of the people here are taken from a movie. I can’t remember which one, but they definitely appear in some movie. Perhaps it’s The Gothfather, or Scarface, or One flew over the cuckoo’s nest, or The Wild Bunch, or Casablanca. It makes me feel I’m part of something.

I am singing “Dancing on the rooftops again / dancing with nothing but life on my mind / dancing, oh dancing again “. Are we pleasure machines?

When I return to the tristeza of the hostel, I see an accident. It has occured just while I was eating. A car lies upside-down, firefighters and police all around. A person is taken away in an ambulance. It has happened in the half hour I had been eating my happy breakfast. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing. I could have returned five minutes earlier, to save a life perhaps, or to be hit by a car myself. I don’t stay at the scene of the accident for long, I want to leave this country.

The Ticabus fare is too expensive, twenty-one dollars. Being stingy can be a means to generate random events, and that’s its only justification. So I walk around downtown San José asking for other bus companies. Eventually, I find a bus to Puñas Blancas at the border with Nicaragua. For the second time (the first time was my ticket from Asuncion, Paraguay to Santa Cruz, Bolivia) I had exactly enough money in my pocket for the trip. You can be all supersticious about this kind of thing.

I thought over the itinerary of my future journey during the long bus ride. It’s one of my favorite activities: looking at the countryside from a slow local bus and reflect about my itinerary. About future possibities. I can be all caught up in the possibiliy business. I think that’s not a bad thing for a literate.

Late in the afternoon, I arrive at the border with Nicaragua. When I get off the bus, money changers flock around me and almost force me to use their services. I can’t think clearly and give one of the “money changers” who presents me his “ID” a twenty dollar bill. I get way to little Cordobas for it (240 instead of 400) and it’s frustrating. I discoverd the rip-off aht the Nicaraguan border post 500 meter down the road and walk back. The scum had disappeared and I all can do is inform the uniformed men. Yes, he wore a white shirt but I can’t remember anything else. Frustration again. Frustration makes me think frenzied. I am fed up with the whole thing, and I overdramatize it. I tell everyone I had been robbed. Robado, robado. No tengo nada. I am not interesting for you punk, they have just sacked me so take a hike. I lost only seven dollars to the money changer but behave like I’ve just been castrated. When I’m even offered a free drink with my meal, I feel a bit guilty about the lying business. This is not right. I’m a rich guy around here, I shouldn’t pretend that the small-time rip-off brought me down. Here’s some morale to work on. Fine, I mean, to have identified it as such is a first step.

I am instructed where I can sleep waiting for the early morning bus. I will spend the night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and the police officer sleeps on the bench right next to mine. It’s safe. By the way, this is a genuine two-kind-of-people activity: there are people who’ve never spent a night on a blue concrete bench at the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border post, and people who have done so.