It never matters how many years have gone by between visits or how nonchalant I am upon arrival, home gets under my skin, rushes like a wild river through my veins, pounds like violent love against my sternum.

Familiarity of surroundings combined with bleary vision from an early flight, I hand over my passport at customs, rush out to the car, sit in a salon chair while my hair is pulled and sprayed and coiffed for a dinner party. Twelve hours later, I wake from the frenzied coma and finally emerge and inhale. I’m in the back seat of a car, window down. It is summer and there is an oven-hot breeze blowing, scattering superfine reddish dust, shaking the palms and madroños. I smell gasoline, blinding sun, firewood burning, and sadness.

There is never a pause between that first inward breath and the throat-gripping melancholy that it jump-starts because the flashbacks stampede, gallop, thunder in too quickly and suddenly: the visits in the ’80s when supermarkets were barren with rationing, Sunday mass at twilight with bats darting in through wrought iron-barred windows, feeling trapped in this place that’s furious and tempestuous and sweltering and raging, like a difficult woman who secretly likes to be roughed around.

Once the initial flames die down, the embers burn with profound longing for the coarse landscape with its smoking slumbering volcanoes, deep lagoons of unfathomable depths and explosions of pumice stones, wide open sky with thickly clustered white clouds, and starry inky nights. Birds cry out loud, piercing, and longing, while long-limbed monkeys wail and screech in fastidious alarm from the trees. There is the thunderous roar of the surf and cheap speakers blasting out music you can’t avoid swaying to. Soul, skin, and tempers dampen with perspiration.

A visit to my grandparents’ home, and clumsy moths flutter in my abdomen. The big house is disheveled, but the roses still bloom gaudily in the atrium garden. I walk into the room I used to sleep in on weekend visits, still painted a furious pink that fights the black-and-white speckled ceramic tile floors. The closet doors are pure ‘70s: gold-feathered Formica. I remember the window unit AC, chill, damp, and wheezing. But right now there is only stale air and the ghost of an uncle who slowly withered away after a stroke, here, on this very bed. I stand in place and close the door behind me even though I’m close to suffocating. It’s only a few seconds before I retrace my steps, running away before the haunting begins.

Outside, my grandmother talks about family; the births, the celebrations, the many deaths. She’s matter-of-fact but looks broken and her eyes are dim. My grandfather is smaller than he used to be, but he still lights up when he talks about still being able to see well and keep a steady hand with a scalpel in his hand—he’s due at the hospital shortly.

We swing back and forth on rocking chairs, drinking freshly squeezed mandarin juice, but it does little to soothe the translucent veil of warm salty sweat simmering on my skin.

I just realized I was sitting on all of these photos from my trip to Nicaragua in early December. Most are iPhone shots, and admittedly not the best quality, but it was go-go-go while there and these were stolen moments, quickly captured.

In this shot I play the role of tourist, camera in hand immediately making vendors think I can be easily swindled. Too bad I know more Nica slang than they do. Tourist or not, the Mercado Popular in Masaya is full of hand-woven hamacas and other artisan products. Hammocks are what I miss the most from home—there’s no more luxurious feeling than falling asleep in its gentle rock, palm trees murmuring with the warm breeze.

There’s a short alley at the market where shoes are made and repaired. Urban legend has it that these cobblers double as dentists. Make sense…tools are similar, a snort of pega will knock you right out.

This trip was all business—my cousin Lucía is getting married in a few weeks and I’m helping with all things food-related. I’m nosy and intrusive, and of course got involved in floral arrangements and other details. Which brings us to this interesting wreath. As we sit at the flower shop, looking at bridal white blossoms and lush greenery, this monster funeral wreath receives its finishing touches. In the glass case behind, colorful teddy bears that will be perched on a less morbid array.

Weary with travel, we look for a pick-me up before heading to dinner. A frosty glass-bottled Coca-Cola, more carbonated than anything you get in the U.S., loaded with cane sugar. The slogan was “la chispa de la vida” and truly, one sip does add spark to your life.

Oh, and while you sip (bottles must be returned to the vendor so they can be collected and refilled), you can buy ice cream, a pastry, and antacid…and try on some shoes. We Nicas are so very practical.

Home at last. We are guided to the palm roofed rancho by the warm glow of a lamp. And a fully stocked bar tended by a waiter.

The next morning, we regret the last seven drinks of rón con Coca. Luckily, the antidote appears, bubbly and brisk: a michelada with iced beer, lime juice, generous dashes of salsa inglesa (Worcestershire), and hot sauce.

More to come…headed back this weekend!

I think this would work as a chandelier, no? Spotted at Caribbean Cuts in the Flower District. Something lovely to make up for the not-so-tidy bits that follow.

Wednesday morning rose bold and bright: perfect for a day at the market. I met up with photographer Judd Pilossof at the corner of Grand and Chrystie. We were going to walk around Chinatown and pick up a few things for a test shoot we’d planned.

Fish, shrimp, eels, crabs, clams, oysters, lobsters, frogs, turtles——if it once called a large (or glass-encased) body of water home, you’re likely to find it here. For the shoot: crabs and fish, and because the vegetables and dried herbs in that neighborhood can’t be ignored, bok choy bursting into tiny yellow blossoms and dried night-blooming cereus (a passer-by informed us it was good for the lungs when used to make tea).

The photos from the shoot are wonderful and I will share them in due time, but in the meanwhile, some curious parts spotted at one of the markets:

A little sad, this fallen bird, but its bold yellow feathers, black-speckled breast, and rose-red cap were too beautiful to just pass by.

I was working on a chocolate-coated cookie recipe recently, and, neat as I try to be, chocolate is not something I’m very good at keeping under control. I’d like to think it’s like refusing to color within the lines: It’s creative! It’s liberating! It’s fun!

This is what the aftermath of all this creative, liberating, and fun chocolate activity left behind. Rather pretty, no?