Migración

Well, to wrap up her trip in Nicaragua, Abigail apparently wanted to spend several more hours involved in bureaucratic nonsense, because once again we found ourselves (this time three of us, Abby and I and our dear law student friend Carlos) in Managua, in a big office, waiting in line. We were lucky, though, that when we got to Managua, the hostel we planned on staying in was full and Carlos once again displayed his endless generosity by offering us beds in his family's house. Mom fed us again and Carlos helped us navigate the madness of Managua.

The immigration office is hot and jumbled and filled with confused and exhausted people, mostly Nicaraguans. Under the poorly translated sign that reads "Attention Foreign Visitors," we are relieved to find the line is very short. That is, until the stout clerk informs us that first Abby has to fill out a formulario, which must be bought at the cashier's window. The line for the cashier window wraps around itself many times in the sweltering and crowded building (it's so hot they even have an ice cream stand inside). Abby's face falls. Carlos sighs, and grins while softly singing the famous Carlos Mejía Godoy song, "Ay, Nicaragua, Nicaraguita." I am more or less accustomed to Latin American bureaucracy and, though I don't want to wait for another few hours in the trapped heat, I am quite fond of the company I am in and it's hard for anything to take a smile off my face these days.

After we escape with Abby's immigration exit stamp in hand, we realize that it is St. Patrick's day and we must absolutely have a beer. We knock back a few liters of Toña in a bar nearby to Carlos' house. And it was good that we drank, not only because of the relief it brought after the chaos of the morning, but also because the terrible Hollywood movie we saw afterwards in the air conditioned mall cinema could only have been tolerated with a healthy amount of alcohol.