The town offers a clear divide between those affiliated with the University and those who aren’t. It is easy to spot who is who. T-shirts and other items with the name printed boldly notwithstanding.

A few blocks from the gothic architecture, Apple store, and J. Crew, I walk by pawn shops, liquor stores, car repairs, braiding hair salons and the Family Dollar. I am looking for a hotpot.

“I hate to send you elsewhere, but we don’t have any, just those large crockpots and that’ll do you no good. No, you need to go over to Stop n Shop is where you need to go,” the manager said.
“I’ll have to come back to buy something else then.”
“That’s what I want to hear.”

Outside Stop n Shop a young woman wore eyeshadow, tiara, white ruffled cocktail dress and a sash. She was standing behind a table with a jar.
“I am Miss New Haven and I am here to raise money for children in the hospitals so they can have quick cures.”
“Quick cures?”
“Yes, as Miss Teen New Haven, I am raising money so sick children can have quick cures.”
I put a few dollars in the jar.

Stop n Shop had no hotpots. I crossed the street to a CVS.

In the aisle I sneezed once, and sneezed again.
“Two sneezes is enough for anyone.”
A small older woman without pause continued.
“My daughter doesn’t like cats, but my grandson adores them. So I keep the cat at my place and he comes over to play with it. I’m not much of a cat lover. But my grandson he adores that cat.” She continued on about her family a little while longer.

A young worker brought me to a shelf. “If we had any hotpots, they would be right here. They were right here a few days ago. We must have sold them all.” I looked three inches over to the left:hotpots.

“Here they are.”

“Oh, we must have moved them.”

Bringing the hotpot to the register I noticed a five-dollar bill fall from the pocket of the same older woman. She accepted it only after I insisted it was hers.

I walked a few blocks back to the world at Yale.

The train from Grand Central Station to New Haven was the last before peak prices kicked in. It was filling quickly.

I chose a place in a six seat compartment. One man was there. He had slipped his bag beneath his seat and I did the same. Soon a tall man sat facing us.
“We need to put those bags overhead. I need my leg room.” Both of us looked at the high rack with concern. The tall man placed the bags above. We learned his destination was before ours.
“I’m getting off at the last stop and can help you with those.” A young man said from across the aisle. The short man and I thanked him.
We settled in for the two hour ride.
“Can you use your inside voice?”said the long legged man to the same young man some five minutes later.
Soon our seating area and the entire car was full. Some people were standing. Others sat on the floor. Snacks and drinks were passed back and forth between friends and family sitting apart.
“Would you move your arm to the left?” said the tall man to the business man sitting by his side. The man adjusted his arm to the left without a word.  The tall man put on his head phones and opened his book. His shoulder crowded the woman beside him.

New York City’s subway cars and walls brandishing spray paint was not uncommon in the 1970’s and 80’s. To some it was artistic expression, to others an eyesore and emblem of urban blight. Later campaigns triumphed and virtually eradicated remnants of these exploits. Although some of the artists enjoyed illustrious careers, the stigma attached to the artform remained.

Traveling through certain cities in South America I noted a markedly different attitude. Townspeople were embracing these painted walls with pride.

Now certain neighborhoods in New York City are rethinking the past and tempting residents to create and appreciate similar works anew.

Traveling makes me particularly aware of what I take for granted at home.

Here an outpouring of water is available with the turn of a faucet. Hot or cold is determined with ease.

Many places require other means. Large containers of water are often brought from distant sources. Animals, machines, adults and children may play a role in the task. But the lack of pipes need not deny residents of its flow.

Expats live all over the world and I know very few, but the ones I met in Nicaragua did not seem unique. Many of them were retirees coming from the U.S. primarily to stretch their pension dollars. The men and women had already been in this country for years, some as many as ten or more. They lived in a separate community amongst themselves. Very few spoke more than a few words of Spanish and explained that they had little time to learn. Others stated that the residents who came to clean their homes, shop for them, and provide other services preferred it that way. These expats did not seem to have any Nicaraguan friends.

Knowing I was traveling alone, they warned me about going anywhere after dark (the sun set at 6pm) and to take precautions in all I do. Their fear was palpable.

I later met a woman, also from the U.S., who chose not to live with the expats. She spoke fluent Spanish, and had been living happily there for years without incident.

I stayed in this town only three weeks, but spoke often with the locals and engaged in their daily routines, never feeling fear. I made an effort not to succumb to the ignorance and paranoia that inflicted others. Instead I did my best to fit in.