Basket in hand, company with me, walking down cobble stone streets.

I feel I’m being watched, stared, telling me USA tourist.

The smell of fresh tortillas is everywhere, I can taste them.

No, I’m belong here,  I look American, we are all Americans.

The local mercado is my destiny.

Children playing soccer, an enjoyable scene brings back memories.

Sounds of ladies offering fresh cheese, tamales, and chuco soup satisfies my mind.

My trip to the mercado become pleasant with colors of people, children, flowers and plants..

My return home, my heart pounding, my mouth salivating, I’m  ready, I’m home!

Neighbors open doors to say “Buenos dias”.

My goal, a good breakfast.

Dogs’ barking intensifies,  I’m near.

My choices are a sea of different tastes, and of course people.

No hesitation, I’m diving in, I’m eating my first tortilla, avocado, cheese, and curtido.

What a feast, I’m blending in, I’m mixing back to my chemical foundation.

There is no alternative, I need to be back, I must die within.

I was built here, it’s time to give back.

Basket in hand, let’s take the low dropping fruits and teach  new communal principles.

I’m an American in Cinquera!

 

Nicaragua 6- 2012 036

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