oh, granada!

Your buildings are brightly painted, orange and yellow hues that compete with the sun for attention.

Your churches are historic marvels, reflections of the Spanish architecture of 500 years ago—tall archways draw you in to gaze at the carved stations of the cruz, intricate tile floors, and altars celebrating the mother of Christ.

Your streets are narrow cobblestone, a mixture of the colonial and Somoza eras—arranged in a simple grid of calles that invites the stranger to wander.

Your mercado is loud and colorful, like your history, and its vendors bring life to the tranquil ambiance that pervades most of the city.

Your parque central is lush, green, and elegant, becoming a lunchtime haven for the weary sojourner.

Your lake is grand and picturesque, an amazing natural resource that gave you birth.

Yet where are your people, O Granada? For in your restaurants, your churches, your historic landmarks, and your parks, only the sound of English-speaking voices is heard, the faces of tourists outnumber your own, and your musica and comida tipica are hard to find. In your oldest building (El Recodo) is a cafe with the appearance and offerings of Starbucks, with not a natural refresco or nacatamale to be found.

Oh, Granada! What treasures lie hidden behind your westernized veneer? What stories do your people carry deep within? Where is your soul?

The world may never know.

[In an ironic turn of events, the day after Andrea and I visited Granada, there was an editorial in the local paper by a Granadino, praising the investment and tourism-friendly changes that have occurred in Granada over the last few years. I have to respectfully disagree with the point of view the writer expressed; while I am glad to see the economy of Granada prosper, I am disappointed it has come at the expense of some of the true character of the city and its people. Perhaps I am idealistic and this is just the way things are; nevertheless, Leon (the other historic colonial city in Nicaragua) is just as beautiful, just as interesting, and has lost none of its indigenous character in my estimation.]