His name is Manuel and he is my handyman.
When I need something fixed up, something painted, something repaired, something unplugged, or something rewired, Manuel is my man.
He's a tough, working-class, beer-swillin', lady-lovin' macho Nicaraguan guy.
AND, he is the absolute last person on earth that I would expect to see . . . at a Friday evening POETRY reading here in Masaya.
But, amazingly that is where I saw him, and that is where he was.
I sauntered up for a closer look to confirm that the person I spotted was the person I thought it might be.
He notices me. "BOXER!" (I say "Walter", he hears "Boxer", so depressing, but I'll save that for another blog.)
"What are you doing here, Manuel, is there an open bar? Is Toña* sponsoring? Ladies' night?"
"No" came the upbeat reply.
"I came to a reading last Friday. And it was beautiful."
"Oh," suddenly feeling incredibly narrow-minded for the "open bar" joke.
Nicaragua continues to surprise me. There is a genuine fondness for the arts here unlike I've seen elsewhere. Amongst all.
My beloved handyman probably eats quiche, too.
*Toña is the name of a national beer.
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