One For the Road

There will always come a time, or place, during a trip that makes me want to get to the nearest phone or Internet connection, call up my boss, email my family and loved ones, and tell them all that I'm not coming home. "That's it," I'll say, "I've finally found where I belong and I'm not coming home. They have coconuts. And I don't have to wear pants for the rest of my life." Unfortunately, there has always been a solemn voice of reason that has carried me, kicking and screaming, back from that ledge numerous times and deposited me on the flight home. Back to the alternating seasons of cold and warm, fast-food coffee, and watching movies on demand. And pants. Back to the world of comfort and routine. The world I envision finally escaping for a more rustic life every time I rashly book a flight at two o'clock in the morning. "This time I'll finally do it." I never do.
Finca Mystica. Upon our initial arrival, it didn't seem to be "The Mystic Estate" that my girlfriend had promised. It certainly didn't help that it was nearly 100 degrees on the island and we had been riding in a ragtag jeep for the past three hours as it navigated the road around the volcanic island to our destination. "Road" is a loose term thrown around a lot when traveling and whose definition can range from immaculately paved tarmac to, in our case, a rock studded dirt road often referred to as a hiking trail back in the States. Every bone in my body ached from the bouncing marathon ride in and I was a single stick of butter, with a backpack, slowly melting into the brown pancake earth as I stood surveying the finca before us. Perched roughly 600 feet above the lake shore, the working farm estate was a collection of round cob houses neatly arrayed in a clearing of the jungle, below a main bungalow where everyone gathered for meals and lazy reading, interspersed with various tropical crops that lined the trails that connect the cottages.
We spent Valentines Day exploring the island on a dirt bike and stopped for fresh coconuts and cold beers at a rustic stand nestled on the beach. Sitting there on our rickety plastic chairs, watching the sun slowly fade over the distant shore across the lake, I begin to envision myself as a permanent resident of Nicaragua. "I could live here. I could learn how to farm coconuts and coffee, speak some Spanish and build a little shack on the beach." I pull out my phone. No service. It's a sign. Trips always end but the memories live on. Till the next one.