Reminiscing Over a Solo Trip is Like Trying to Describe Last Night’s Dream
(An Open Letter to Nicaragua)
Dear Nicaragua,
Hey, Love. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
I’m currently in Thailand, where one of the first things that stood out to me upon arrival was how much it reminded me of you. On my very first evening in Bangkok several weeks ago, I strolled past food vendors grilling meat skewers and weaved my way through families dining at fully-set tables on the sidewalk, and I couldn’t help but notice how the thick summer air and heavy smoke clinging to my skin reminded me of my July afternoons in León.
The next morning (in Bangkok), at my hostel’s free breakfast, I met a German girl who reminded me of you even more. Like me, this girl had lived in León for six weeks last year — while she’d volunteered at Volcano Day. VOLCANO DAY! The company that operated out of Vía Vía hostel, where I’d stayed for about a week before I moved in with Luca (my other German bestie, whom I’m sure you remember) — and where Luca and I spent half of our Friday and Monday evenings sipping $4 cocktails, dancing to live music, and playing trivia. Volcano Day was also the company that led our camping and volcano boarding tour, and where our dear friends, Eduardo (Bangkok-German Girl knows Eduardo, too!) and Sean worked!
Like me, Bangkok-German Girl also spent (not enough) time on the island of Ometepe. Then, she volunteered at the famous Sunday Funday in San Juan, the beach I’d heard so much about (but never made it to).
Maybe you recall this girl. Her name is Amelie.
Back in 2019, when I was still relatively new to backpacking, I reflected on how returning from a solo trip is kind of like waking up from a dream. I’ll have this very vivid, recent memory that doesn’t match my surroundings while everyone else carries on with their normal lives as if this major event didn’t just happen — because for them, it didn’t. My life and perspective on the world might forever be changed by the people I’ve just met or the memories I’ve made, and I’ll try to communicate this to my loved ones, but in the end, they'll have just as much familiarity with the lady selling buñuelos in the street every Friday as they would with some character that my brain conjured up in a dream (especially when my real-life stories sound just as ludicrous).
The more I think about it, the more I realize that this must be what it’s like for veterans to come home from war — except that for them, the “dream” is a nightmare. (Sorry to get all dark. I’ve been learning a lot about the war(s) in Cambodia recently, so I guess that’s on the brain.)
Anyway, bonding with Amelie over Nicaragua was like meeting a stranger who could say, “oh, that dream? I’ve had the same one!” And she could even fill in some of the parts that had grown hazy for me.
For instance, when we were on the local bus with another hostel friend during one of our first afternoons together, Amelie described our familiar experience of often having to wait at an unmarked spot on the side of the road in Nicaragua — sometimes for an unknown amount of time — for our buses to drive by, because there were often no designated bus stops.
When a Thai woman in ordinary street clothes came to us to collect cash for the fare, I recalled an evening six months earlier, when Luca and I had stood on the back platform of a public bus (my American friends might recognize this as an old school bus) on the way home from Las Peñitas beach. Along with a few other locals, we’d clung to the outside back of the vehicle, clutching the door frame—or the outside ladder… or anything we could hold onto—as a man shoved his way through the horde of passengers inside, demanding 18 córdoba each. This remains one of my most iconic memories of you.
Amelie also recalled how on a given afternoon, we could expect to be honked, whistled, and shouted at — or my favorite, subjected to obnoxious kissing noises — from men walking, biking, and driving by us on the street. Thinking back, I now remember the relief I felt in Fort Collins, Colorado — my first stop after saying goodbye to you in September — when I managed to cross a busy road without the entire town slowing to stare at me.
On one of our last nights in León back in August, Luca and I had discussed this cat-calling culture with one of our Nicaraguan friends, questioning if he, too, acted like this. He was born and raised in León, and I’d wondered whether he — one of the kindest and most wholesome guys I knew — considered this to be normal and did it himself, or he recognized how rude it was and chose not to participate. He claimed the latter… so I’m choosing to believe that the men who perpetually harassed us represented a small minority of the population.
I’m happy to report that Amelie wasn’t remembering this experience because of anything that happened to her here in Bangkok — as I write this, I’ve spent almost six weeks in Thailand, and honestly, I don’t think I’ve been harassed on the street since I was with you last year. Interesting that this experience stood out to us after such a long time, hey?
That said, I have so many positive memories of you, and the purpose of this letter is to communicate how fond I am of our time together.
For instance, when my friends and I watched the sunset behind Wat Arun from across the river that early evening in Bangkok, we shared recollections of the most memorable sunsets each of us had seen around the world. For me, the sunset at Ometepe’s Punta Jesús María came to mind. There, I felt like I was completely enveloped by the sunset: not only was I standing beneath one of the most colorful skies I’d ever seen, but these vibrant hues surrounded me from every angle as they reflected off the glassy surface of the lake.
After only one day of reminiscing about you with Amelie, it hit me how much my friendship with Luca had made a difference in my time with you last year. With Luca, I’d had the courage and motivation to settle down in León for over a month— the longest I’ve ever stayed in one place while solo traveling — and experience SO much more of what you had to offer.
If it weren’t for her, I never would’ve taken those weekend trips to Surfing Turtle Lodge—which we practically had to ourselves—or Matagalpa. I wouldn’t have completed the longest hike of my life from San Jacinto up to the crater of Telica (and beaten my personal record for most steps taken in a single day). And of course, I wouldn't have the memories of hitchhiking, surfing, and making vegan pancakes that I hold so dear to my heart.
Knowing I could have a similar experience with Amelie here in Thailand if we stuck together, I agreed to accompany her up to Chiang Mai before I’d even done a moment’s worth of research. We ended up spending the following two weeks together — practically joined at the hip — before parting ways.
“We really are in Nicaragua. There’s a woman coming and selling stuff,” Amelie declared on the overnight train a few days later, as a lady came by with handfuls of colorful snacks I didn’t recognize. I always found it so fascinating that locals could make their living by stepping aboard public buses (and apparently trains?) with baskets of all kinds of foods for sale. Until Thailand, I hadn’t realized it was also a thing outside of Central America.
Then, in Pai, Amelie and I rented a scooter together, exchanging stories about the single previous time each of us had driven one in the past — on Ometepe. Both of our scooter-driving experiences were limited to the one road circling this island’s volcanos, and when I’d drive us through the winding streets of Pai’s countryside, I couldn’t help but think of that magical volcano island. With the gorgeous landscapes, small-town hippy energy, and endless vegan restaurants, I maintain my position that Pai is “the Ometepe” of Thailand — at least until I explore more of Thailand’s islands.
Just as Luca made such an impact on my experience in Nicaragua, Amelie did the same for me in Thailand. As much as I love traveling solo, having a buddy gives me the courage to experience so much more — whether that’s hitchhiking in León, taking a cooking class in Chiang Mai, or renting a scooter and chasing sunsets in Pai. (I didn’t actually rent a scooter in Ometepe; one of the guys who worked at my hostel let me drive his a couple of times. Lucky me, as I might not’ve had the guts or motivation to rent one on my own).
So, thank you to Amelie and Luca — two girls that I probably would never have met if I hadn’t sat down at their table for a meal— for giving me some of my best travel memories ever.
And, of course, thank you, Nicaragua, for an unforgettable nine weeks. More than six months later, and those weeks with you remain some of my all-time favorites.
Sincerely,
I’d marry gallo pinto if I could
