Spain and Rain, Mainly

Friday's sojourn to Managua was a rain-sopped mess of a trip. No sooner did the old Blue Bird pick me up in La Boquita but the heavens opened and the heavy downpour continued most of the way to Diriamba. This meant that the bus's occupants closed all the windows in the interest of staying dry, which locked in the heat and sweaty human aromas. Mile after claustrophobic mile I fought down the urge to scream bloody murder if I didn't get some air. Bring on the wet stuff, just let me breathe!

I grabbed the last seat on a crowded micro-bus to Managua and rode, white-knuckled, as the driver floored the accelerator, braking sporadically to accommodate the rare sensible motorist until we were able to pass and resume hurtling over the mountains of El Crucero, barreling down the ess-curves into Managua. The slick roads merely added to the drama, summoning visions of my mangled corpse, crumpled beneath the wreckage, as the zopilotes gathered to feast on fresh carrion. Where is Fellini with his camera?

Nevertheless, I made it in one piece, and as the rain continued to fall, Erlinda and I and her friend Delfina, visiting from El Salvador, waded through heavy traffic and flooded streets to collect Ivan and drive to the Spanish Cultural Center to see the exhibition of drawings and lithographs of Salvador Dali. We arrived late, just as the empty gallery was about to close, but the three staffers spectacularly offered to accommodate our wet selves for an hour.

Two sets of works were on display. The first, inspired by Rabelais's Pantagruel novels, was suitably bizarre, scatological, and thoroughly surreal! Here, at last, on my blog, are the flatulence, the twisted genitalia, and wildly anthropomorphic imaginings of Senor Dali, to whit:

 Feel free to irritate your more discerning correspondents with repeated postings of bandaged penis people, spoon-billed eagles, erupting pustules, and mushroom caps!

The second collection comprised lithographs created in cooperative inspiration with chefs at famed Parisian eatery Maxim's. 

Lobster, shrimp, served on the backs of short-legged elephants? But of course!

This face? Not so appetizing...

But Dali's synthesis of line, wit, and graphic mettle is irresistible!

Thereafter, we repaired to Taska Kiko for good Spanish cuisine. After Dali, what else?

(It turns out "Kiko," which sounds Japanese, is a diminutive for "Enrique.")