"En la selva urbana...,"

...Eddy's words lingered in the air as he glanced at me with that sly smile, "haces lo que quieres." Somehow, of course, Chase, Eddy, and I were discussing (the lack of) Central American laws regulating what we in the US would call "sex with a minor", debating the merits and karmic deductions associated with the crime that suddenly is not a crime. First, let's be clear: we're not perverts. Also, none of us are George Clooney-suave, so the leap from a pocket notebook scribbled full of telephone numbers to bed is a Grand Canyon-sized chasm (that, sadly, no amount of consolation crotch-pumping can power one across).

Estelí, Nicaragua, where I've been stalled for three days, is a medium-sized city with a several kilometer main strip lined with tiendas hawking pirated DVDs and knockoff shoes (i.e. "Four stripes" -- Abidas). Prices are cheap and the people are charming (with the exception of the religious fanatic who kept insisting God would castrate me -- replete with snipping motions with his fingers while his hand hovered over his crotch -- for coveting women and my use of the internet, which he'd never used because it's full of "sex", ), so that there's little to do is hardly a fault. I'm content stalking the streets with robotic singlemindedness (I'm missing only the ring-and-drawstring centerback), armed with brief phrases to float at every passing female not carrying a kid -- "Hola" and "Adios" -- looking over my shoulder to see if they're looking over their shoulders we pass. That I have another NC-bred admirer of Morenas with whom to charm Nicaragüensas silly with good ol' Southern gentlemanliness, blooming blush across even the most perfectly browned faces, is enough icing to make up for all the cake I'm not eating...Because 1/2 liters of delicious Eskimo® ice cream cost US$1.25. (I did encounter, however, a reposteria that sells excess cake icing in 8oz cups for a quarter. I know it's disgusting that I'm struggling to surpress the impulse to return.)