Chapter 5… Of poor lovesick poets
For my grandfather, moving to León was love at first sight. On different times, he talked to me about how he loved to visit León, ever since he was a little boy. At the time, the city held a powerful spell on Grandfather and it fascinated him. He enjoyed walking the streets of Nicaragua’s first capital, admiring its old buildings and lovely colonial mansions, with their history-impregnated walls.
“I could imagine carriages driving down those beautiful streets, my dear child. They were drawn by tall, proud horses with long, silky manes, their heads held proudly high, with elegance, bearing, and style; their hooves pounding the cobbled streets and thundering in the air, as they briskly trotted past. The gentlemen wearing those elegant top hats, riding their stallions and entering the huge houses, through doors so wide and tall, they needn’t dismount to pass through,” he told me once, his voice slightly trembling with emotion. He was in a melancholic and pensive mood that afternoon, while we were up in the cathedral’s roof, lazily enjoying the panoramic view of the city, extending below, at our feet.