February 2004Hailyn Nielsen • An Encounter in Granada After a tiring day crossing into Nicaragua from Costa Rica, my fellow UI students and I walk into the Hostel Oasis in Granada. Over winter break, we’re on an International Services Learning program, in which we’ll be taught the necessary medical skills to provide basic medical care—such as monitoring blood pressure, giving injections, and making basic tropical medical diagnosis and prescription—to people living in areas without easy access to such health services.
But, at the border, we waited in line in the sweltering heat for what seemed like days. What should have been a three-hour process (max.) lasted a good ten hours. All I want to do is claim a bed in the hostel and surrender to sleep. But the stagnant, heavy air drowns me, and I’m too hungry to rest anyway. I get up and join my classmates in the common area to discuss how to feed ourselves. Paralleling the attitude of the people and the culture, the architecture in Central and South America is comfortingly open. The common area of the Hostel Oasis consists of an open-air tropical garden with a swinging bench bounded by hammocks. As usual, we cannot decide upon one restaurant that will satisfy us all. As I tune out the food argument and lose myself in the clear Nicaraguan sky, a familiar sound wraps itself around my brain. Hundreds of miles away from home, someone plays a song by my favorite band: Led Zeppelin. Though he’s clearly only been plucking at his guitar for several months, and though he’s playing the overrated "Stairway to Heaven” (not my favorite Zep tune), I’m thrilled to find a fellow fan. "Are you a Zeppelin fan?” I ask in the general direction of the clearly American boy lounging in a hammock. He doesn’t hear. "ARE YOU A ZEPPELIN FAN?” I try again, this time loud enough to cause a permanent lull in the med students’ search for food. The amateur musician looks up from his instrument and nods assent. "I am,” he replies simply. "What’s your name?” I enquire. "Torrey.” It appears he doesn’t quite know what to make of the group of indecisive Americans now staring at him. "They’re my favorite. Hey, do you know a good place to eat around here? We’re starving.” "Sure. I’m
going to eat at a cheap Italian place right now if you wanna come.” "I’d love to.” I grab some money and follow this complete stranger into downtown Granada.
Torrey Meeks and I split a plate of some wonderful, cheap, pasta and spend the evening talking of life, literature, and love over a glass of wine. I’m amazed by how much I have in common with the ex-army 21-year-old. We follow dinner with a walk through the town square, pausing to enjoy ice cream on the stoop of an old, stone Catholic church. It’s dark already. Night falls so quickly closer to the equator. Torrey is living off his savings, working for the hostel and a local bar, and writing in his free time. He never went to college and has never lived in one place long enough to call it home. I can’t help but be struck at the difference between our lifestyles. This young man has hedged his future on such a subjective career. Many good writers are never successful. Torrey has no deadlines, no assignments, no finals, no bills, no schedule. Could I live like that? Would I be happy that way? But I won’t be happy unless I get good grades. I have to graduate from the University of Iowa; then I can be happy. I have to get married. I will have children, and that will make me happy. When I earn my doctorate, I will be happy. Then I can start my life. I have everything planned for the next 50 years. Torrey has no plans. The intriguing writer monopolizes what’s left of my night. But, in the morning, the med students and I leave for another clinic. I copy Torrey’s e-mail address and thank him for his time. I will never see him again. Back to "My Life as a Student" Index
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