We’re lying together in a hammock. The sun is shining brightly overhead, there’s a cool breeze, and I can hear the distant sounds of a carnival. Our garden is lush and full of blooming hibiscus and ginger plants. Our fountain gurgles and above us the banana leaves sway. Once a dream, life here in Granada, Nicaragua, is now a reality.
Only a few months ago my husband and I were buried under a mountain of past due bills watching our bank account drain faster than we could manage. I was working 50, sometimes 60 hours a week while my husband was at work before 5 a.m. and coming home too tired to eat dinner. We were in New Orleans, Louisiana, known for its parties and culture, but there was no time to enjoy life. We were slowly drowning.
One afternoon without thinking I half-heartedly mentioned the possibility of a better life, maybe in Central America. I had been to Nicaragua several times and dreamed of returning. I was surprised when my husband Shylow responded with an enthusiastic “let’s do it.” Could we really make the move? Could we afford to try this adventure? Would our house sell before we ran out of money? Were we really going to say goodbye to all our friends and start over?