There's No Place Like Home, or, Bostonist's Trip to Managua

Bostonist knows better to think that most of our dear readers are likely to take a jaunt to Nicaragua's capital anytime soon: Unlike, say, Montreal or the Cape, it's neither close nor pretty, and in terms of tourism, it has precious little to commend it, since most of the historical buildings and the civic center were completely destroyed by an earthquake in 1972. (Did we mention it is an absolutely terrible place to go with a toddler? We learned this the hard way.) Certainly, those interested in other cultures or Latin American politics (as we are) will find the Nicaraguan people welcoming and well-informed, making Managua a great place to go for Spanish speakers wishing to comprehend the depth of Central American countries' unhappy experiences with United States foreign policy. But it's no resort (Bostonist actually went because Mrs. Bostonist was doing research there for her Ph.D.). So rather than recommend sights to see or regale you with tales of our recent trip there, we offer you the following insight about Boston, which we came to understand by spending a week in Managua:

Boston's streets are perfect and awesome and we love them more than anything.
Did Bostonist ever complain about the lack of order in the Hub's streets, or the lack of signage? Did we ever allow ourselves a measure of conceit for having come to know the back roads of Somerville well? We take it all back. Almost none of Managua's streets have names and its houses have no numbers. Addresses involve references to major landmarks and a number of blocks in a given direction from those landmarks, and for added fun, instead of north, people say "toward the lake," and for east and west they say "up" and "down" (because of where the sun rises and sets). (South is still south.) So one place Bostonist had to go was located at "from the entrance to the Lenin Fonseca Hospital, five blocks toward the lake, then 75 meters up." Also, sometimes the landmarks in question no longer exist, so the reference point is something like "the corner where the mansion used to be."

And potholes? Did we ever complain about those? Again, we hereby bite our tongue. Managua's streets are more hole than pavement, and the holes are routinely deep enough to stop a car entirely and require its removal with the aid of heavy machinery (or a whole bunch of guys pushing and grunting). The taxi drivers there (whose mid-'80s Nissan sedans tend to have custom slogans, in English, on their windshields such as, "The Love Machine!" and "Golden Boy ONLY FOR YOU") have developed a frighteningly good sense of the exact measurements of their cars' wheelbases, and navigate the potholes at terrifying speed, straying far into oncoming traffic then jutting back just in time to avoid large buses (whose windshields tend to have religious slogans in Spanish). Some of them appear to be drunk while doing this, and almost none use their left hand for driving except in the most demanding of circumstances, even though they all have manual transmissions. They are dangerous geniuses who put Boston drivers to shame in terms of both skill and craziness.

So, dear readers, the next time you are lost on your way to a friend's house in Medford or are rumbling over the many-times-re-patched-yet-still-totally-holey B.U. bridge, think of Managua and thank your lucky stars you live in Boston. Also, please consider affixing large silver letters to your rear windshield that say, "KILLER ROCKET."