Never wanted to go to Nicaragua. But we went to Nicaragua and stayed at a surf lodge on the beach in the middle of nowhere with cold watered showers, toilets that didn’t have plumbing and giant crabs that crawled out of the earth at nighttime to bite off your toes. Almost nobody was there (except for the two Australians who claimed they were assassins, a bunch of high school girls building infrastructure in the neighboring villages, and a nice couple from the US Embassy who kept on asking us questions about our travels and how we found this place and, now that I think about it, maybe they thought we knew whether or not Edward Snowden was coming to Nicaragua to chill at Los Cardones with us on the beach? I dunno.). An iguana named Frank hung outside our stilted bungalow looking at the sun. So did his weird lizard friends who clicked their tongues at us in the night. Victoria, Toña and Fleur de Caña. The food! This sauce and this sauce! Our driver, Elvis. His English es un poco. I spoke Spanish horribly. Last time the Masaya Volcana had an eruption of any significance was 1772 but Elvis still pointed our car facing the exit just in case. Grenada. Lake Nicaragua. Monkey Island. Nobody could give us a straight answer on whether or not they supported the proposed Chinese canal, but they did tell us which island the wealthy gay American lived on with his model Nicaraguan boyfriend. We read. 1Q84. Dry. More Toña, less Victoria. Found a sharks head on the beach, which was cool because it made us forget about the syringe we found on the beach. And the jellies. And the creepy shelly snailies hiding under the sand. Los Cardones actually makes a great pizza. A lot happened and nothing happened at all and I miss everything.