It's official, I suppose

[Daddy-YO]

The León-Poneloya highway, a.k.a. Renco's driveway, has been completed, which is to say, all its bridges have names. I've noticed on my drives throughout Central America & Mexico the names of bridges. Even the dinky ones have names. When I first saw a "puente baja calzones" (drop-your-drawers bridge) I thought it was a joke, and one-of-a-kind, but then I saw another of the same name in a different country. My little Nica woman explained to me it’s the name of a bug that gets in your pants & bites. Ouch! (Not the lewd thing I’d imagined. Calzones are, after all, women’s panties.)

On the León-Poneloya highway one or two may truly have names unique in all of Latin America. “Puente Country Club” is a double-decker reinforced concrete structure that spans what almost looks like a creek. It may serve as a vagabonds’ penthouse during the dry season, for all I know. That the name is in English may be a nod to the American Millennial Fund (Reto Milenia) that bankrolled it (and must have supervised engineering & construction, cause the road is unusually well done for Nicaragua). And probably in no small part it's a nod to the style of living that gringos working on such moneyed projects in Nicaragua are accustomed to, or, I should say, prefer. Right, Renco?

Another one on that two-lane country road - the glory of its accomplishment was claimed by León’s Sandinista mayor, por supuesto - bridges a gully wash and is named “puente Arlen Siu”. (That it sounds like ’see-you’ served my mnemonic “Arlen Specter” the rock n’roll impresario & criminal whose name is undoubtedly unknown to Nicas not submerged in American ’culture’.) I have no idea who señor Siu is/was, nor whether he had sons, grandsons, &c., named Arlen, who might have merited bridge immortality elsewhere. For now, the one & only can be found not far outside of León, on the highway to Poneloya & Las Peñitas, for adventurers in search of the unique.

[Dr. Demento]

The León-Poneloya highway, a.k.a. Renco's driveway, has been completed, which is to say, all its bridges have names. I've noticed on my drives throughout Central America & Mexico the names of bridges. Even the dinky ones have names. When I first saw a "puente baja calzones" (drop-your-drawers bridge) I thought it was a joke, and one-of-a-kind, but then I saw another of the same name in a different country. My little Nica woman explained to me it’s the name of a bug that gets in your pants & bites. Ouch! (Not the lewd thing I’d imagined. Calzones are, after all, women’s panties.)

On the León-Poneloya highway one or two may truly have names unique in all of Latin America. “Puente Country Club” is a double-decker reinforced concrete structure that spans what almost looks like a creek. It may serve as a vagabonds’ penthouse during the dry season, for all I know. That the name is in English may be a nod to the American Millennial Fund (Reto Milenia) that bankrolled it (and must have supervised engineering & construction, cause the road is unusually well done for Nicaragua). And probably in no small part it's a nod to the style of living that gringos working on such moneyed projects in Nicaragua are accustomed to, or, I should say, prefer. Right, Renco?

Another one on that two-lane country road - the glory of its accomplishment was claimed by León’s Sandinista mayor, por supuesto - bridges a gully wash and is named “puente Arlen Siu”. (That it sounds like ’see-you’ served my mnemonic “Arlen Specter” the rock n’roll impresario & criminal whose name is undoubtedly unknown to Nicas not submerged in American ’culture’.) I have no idea who señor Siu is/was, nor whether he had sons, grandsons, &c., named Arlen, who might have merited bridge immortality elsewhere. For now, the one & only can be found not far outside of León, on the highway to Poneloya & Las Peñitas, for adventurers in search of the unique.

i thought a calzone was a food....

[Daddy-YO]

i thought a calzone was a food....

You eat 'em too. Yeah, Italian-American for a pizza folded in half, stuffed, baked.

What I wrote was español. Those scented, multicolored delights that get hurriedly hung on the bedpost in the dark.

[Dr. Demento]

You eat 'em too. Yeah, Italian-American for a pizza folded in half, stuffed, baked.

What I wrote was español. Those scented, multicolored delights that get hurriedly hung on the bedpost in the dark.

drats, i have been sleeping in the wrong bed all these years....

[Jonh]

Is Arlen Phil's brother?

[Just Plain John Wayne]

You crowd are Killin' me and I love that Eyetallian Food with a Gunniss ice cold...

[Daddy-YO]

Is Arlen Phil's brother?

My oops. Despite my synaptic crossovers, the mnemonic got me there, sort of.

[Jonh]

My oops. Despite my synaptic crossovers, the mnemonic got me there, sort of.

A case of the destination being more important than the journey.

[El Greco]

i thought a calzone was a food....

They both are

[marlies]

every once in a while I appreciate the digression from the original post. This is one of those times.

[Daddy-YO]

A case of the destination being more important than the journey.

Very un-Zen of me. It happens. Floating along on a happy wave of misinformation, arrival can be taken as success, until someone else shines the light of truth upon it, and I begin to question, what was I thinking?

It use to scare me when commuting I'd arrive home without consciously recognizing or being able to recall all the exits I passed, lost in thought, on auto-pilot, I suppose. Was it me or the machine/highway, all so familiar, so habitual as to become subtracted from consciousness? Sometimes it seems life begins when you get off at the wrong exit. Or the car breaks down.

[Just Plain John Wayne]

Very un-Zen of me. It happens. Floating along on a happy wave of misinformation, arrival can be taken as success, until someone else shines the light of truth upon it, and I begin to question, what was I thinking?

It use to scare me when commuting I'd arrive home without consciously recognizing or being able to recall all the exits I passed, lost in thought, on auto-pilot, I suppose. Was it me or the machine/highway, all so familiar, so habitual as to become subtracted from consciousness? Sometimes it seems life begins when you get off at the wrong exit. Or the car breaks down.

Nice post, I like the way you think for a City Feller.....

[Jonh]

Very un-Zen of me. It happens. Floating along on a happy wave of misinformation, arrival can be taken as success, until someone else shines the light of truth upon it, and I begin to question, what was I thinking?

It use to scare me when commuting I'd arrive home without consciously recognizing or being able to recall all the exits I passed, lost in thought, on auto-pilot, I suppose. Was it me or the machine/highway, all so familiar, so habitual as to become subtracted from consciousness? Sometimes it seems life begins when you get off at the wrong exit. Or the car breaks down.

That's how Bonfire of the Vanities started.

OTOH, wives never seem to appreciate the serendipitous opportunities afforded by missing the exit. We guys seem content to just get off at the next exit and backtrack or explore.

[randude]

That's how Bonfire of the Vanities started.

OTOH, wives never seem to appreciate the serendipitous opportunities afforded by missing the exit. We guys seem content to just get off at the next exit and backtrack or explore.

When I was in Louisiana I missed my exit to home a few times.

All that sugarcane along side the road all looks the same and I would drift off to happier places as well. The next exit was like 8 miles. Had to go 8 miles and point the other way and go 8 again.

[Danpolley]

While driving on the Pennsylvania turnpike late one night during a particular bad blizzard, I heard on the radio “The Highway Patrol says do not travel between mile markers 77 and 120!” At that point we passed mile marker 90 And then to make it worse, we missed the next exit because of the blinding snow End of story we finally made it to the ski resort we were headed to and almost made it to our cabin before sliding off the road about 100 yards before reaching the top of the hill where our cabin was. Now the Nicaragua connection. We found out the next morning that we were sharing the cabin with a family who had many Nicaragua connections. He was a leader in the United Methodist Church and was active in mission work in Nicaragua and she had grown up in Managua as a child before the earthquake. Small world...