small thing #1: hairbrush

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I am finding it difficult to write entries lately. Not for lack of topics to write about, but because I feel so inadequate explaining the complexity of my life down here--even things that may seem simple, like my daily routine, or my trip to Granada this weekend. I feel a burden of explanation and honesty. But the honesty I would like to portray is difficult to access from my limited perspective and without better language skills. The story is always much longer than any of us want to endure.

I am going to try to write about small things, and perhaps with a collection of tiny windows into this life, you will all be able to piece together something more true that any summary I could compile.

small thing #1: Hairbrush

I have been meaning to buy a hairbrush for weeks. The handle snapped off a while ago, and now I have only the bristle-barrel head to straighten my tresses. Each time I try to use it, my fingers get in the way, knuckling my scalp without brushing much at all.

Brushes are not very expensive. I can afford a brush. I saw one in the supermarket for about 80 cords (4 dollars), but I didn't buy it. In fact, I stared at it for a good 5 minutes before I decided that it was a bad deal, that no Nicaraguan would buy this brush, so why should I. And I left. Without the brush. That was probably 2 weeks ago.

I keep telling myself that I will go to the mercado and buy a brush, that I will save a tremendous amount--possibly 60 cords! I imagine myself hopping off the bus and strutting into the market, determined to locate and purchase my brush. All of the merchants ask me what I am looking for, and I say, in perfect Spanish, "I would like to buy a hairbrush, can you tell me where I ought to go?" I don't mend my tense to simplify the sentence or stumble over conjugation. My prepositions are precise and accurate. All of the merchants widen their eyes in disbelief at my perfect Nicaraguan accent. They wonder if am, in fact, Nicaraguan.

Then, when I find my brush, I shrewdly talk the price down from 40 cords to 30, possibly even 25. When the moment is right, I pay in exact change and exit the market. I know how to leave without looking lost. I pass the hissing men, the young girls carrying daughters of their own, the women who reach out to caress my arm and entice me with pot holders and tupperware. And when they ask me, "What are you looking for?" I will say, "nothing. I have found what I need."

I wonder if my dream of the perfect market trip keeps me from actually going. Every day I pass the market twice on the bus. I look out the window at the huddling maze of zinc roofs and imagine, with even more precision, the scenario. Sometimes I even stand up as though I am about to get off. The possibility of exiting the bus without my prefect Spanish, of running into the market and stumbling through the interaction, of emerging with a brush other than that which I have so thoroughly imagined is terrifying and liberating at once.

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