Those Aching Twinges of Nostalgia

I spent my adolescence in Granada, Nicaragua. After having lived the first eleven years of my life in Los Angeles, California, moving to Granada—the birthplace of both of my parents—was a traumatic experience . . . at first.

It didn’t take long for me to fall in love with this stunning colonial city. What’s more, I found Granadinos, and Nicaraguans in general, excellent subjects for an inquisitive teenager to observe. In fact, those years I lived in Granada—from ages 11 through 17—made me want to tell stories: they turned me into a writer.

And it doesn’t matter where I am, or how comfortable my situation, deep down I’ll always miss Granada. Every day there will be a moment when nostalgia overcomes me, and I’ll sigh, wishing that I could, like Dorothy, click my heels together and find myself back there, if only for a brief stroll down my favorite streets.

This photograph of the the cathedral captures, I believe, the majesty and magic of Granada during the late afternoon. My wife climbed up the ironwork support of the reserve water tank at the bed and breakfast where we were staying, on the street of La Calzada.

It was dangerous and foolish of her to do so, but who can argue with the result.