Without further ado, a post

Hello again, dear reader. I've missed you.

The past 10 days have flown by here in Nicaragua. If you don't mind, I'll regale you. If you mind ... well, that's your deal then.

To catch up, Isolde and I arrived in Granada, Nicaragua two weeks-or-so ago. Granada is the Latin American colonial city everyone should dream about. The streets are fronted by wide sidewalks that, despite deep, oddly placed holes, are easily sauntered.

As a bonus, the police are unaggressive to the point of silliness. I watched a bunch of them hop on the chicken bus for a ride home. It's a little thing, but the Guate cops would never ride them a bus.

From Granada, Isolde and I traveled to San Juan del Sur. It's Nicaragua's beach town, a run down little berg by the bay. The town doesn't have too much to offer -- loads of gringo alcoholics drinking in their last days in crummy bars -- but the area around it is breathtaking.

Twice we took a bumpy ride out to a beach out of town. Getting there, we passed lumpy pasture land sprinkled with shacks made of concrete bricks and scrap wood. Nicas driving horse carts plodded along the dirt road, hauling bits of building material and the fruits of their labors in the fields.

San Juan del Sur is surrounded by little coves, trapping white sand beaches. The surf is pretty regular, but not as good, they say, as in Costa Rica. The beach Isolde and I visited was inhabited by a cadre of Canadian surfers. With the surf out, these B.C. dwellers had taken to catching their dinners via spear gun. And they weren't going hungry.

Isolde and I passed the time hiding under a shady tree with an Israeli traveler. In my life, I've had almost no contact with Jews, and it's been a treat to meet so many Israelis down here. Here's what you should know about Israelis, though. And don't think I'm being Mel Gibson here. There are two types of Israeli that travel -- the "I-just-out-of-the-army" Israeli (aka, the "I-want-to-get-drunk-and-crazy" Israeli) and the regular Israeli. The first -- like their American counterpart, the frat boy -- are best avoided. But the second, in my experience, are good to kick it with.

Here's why. Unlike many of the European and Canadian travelers down here, the Israelis don't (read can't) take on airs of moral superiority when talking to Americans. That's not to say we haven't met some great folks from elsewhere. It's just that a lot of them think that regurgitating Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky is good conversation.

I like to think the experience has given me some idea what it's like to have someone who doesn't know your country tell you how it is and how it should be. It's not that they are wrong. It's that they don't get America and don't care to learn to.

And I don't care to hear about the socialist paradise that is Denmark/Canada/Sweden. Don't complain about my country if you're not going to complain about your own -- it seems untrustworthy. That the U.S.A. is far less than perfect doesn't mean the E.U. is.

Anyhow, back to beaches.

Our last night in San Juan del Sur, Isolde and I went to see the sea turtles. We landed on what's called -- a bit grandly -- the Great Arrival. It happens about twice a month, and it's dazzling.

We got to the beach at about 8 p.m., after bouncing through the jungle for an hour on the back of a flatbed truck. In 45 minutes, we watched about 50 sea turtles land on an isolated stretch of beach south of San Juan. They lurched out of the sea, pushing themselves across the white sand with their wing-shaped fins. In the dark, the momma turtles seemed to vanish into shadows, then reappear in the starlight.

As them there terrapins laid their eggs, us tourists were allowed to shoulder up to the turtles. They ejected mounds of eggs into pits they swept out, wheezing the whole way. Finished, the turtles pushed sand back over the nest, then swept the area to disguise it. It's all pretty magic.

From San Juan del Sur, we turned north to the Isle of Ometepe. Located in the middle of Lake Nicaragua, the island is hope to about 6,000 Nicas and a few dozen tourists at any given time. And spiders. Big spiders.

Ometepe is picturesque. We stayed in a hostel set up on an old Somoza plantation. The Somoza family was the bunch of goons who ran this country for about 60 years. When Roosevelt said that "at least he's our son-of-a-bitch" thing, he was talking about a Somoza. And the dude who ran the hostel loves Somoza. And hates the Sandinistas.

But I'm getting far afield again. The island was relaxing, but one can only take so much relaxing. So, we're back in Granada today, with plans to head for Leon and language school Sunday. Then, a month from now, for home.