This morning at 9 am, the day before Easter. This morning normally on the day before Easter, the beach would be packed, shoulder to shoulder. Or so I’ve been told, because despite living here for four years this is our first Holy Week here.
But this morning at 9 am, when John and I and the dogs walked the length of the beach like we do most mornings, we found it empty. Except for the groups of lifeguards, who are just here for this week, with no one to save. And the beach toy vendors, who are here most Nicaraguan summer weekends, with no one to sell to. And the beach volleyball tournament players, with no one to cheers them. Along with the hand full of walkers and runners who we routinely see on any given day.
The restaurants along the beach are all closed. Not a single one was open. Not even Henry’s Iguana, which typically has a gringo or two at its tables.
We are not technically on lockdown. The restaurants could all be open if they wanted to be.
Our borders are not closed. Although our neighbor’s border to the north is closed. And our neighbor’s border to the south is closed. And all international flights have taken their airplanes elsewhere.
Nicaragua is technically open for business. And yet the restaurants are closed, the stores are closed, and nobody is here.
It appears to be a quiet, and in fact holy, week indeed.
