The classic 20-gig iPod I’ve had since 2004 finally passed away after many hours of service, just before I left for the airport for my flight to Nicaragua 10 days ago. I typically travel with it and a JBL OnTour setup that provides me with a soundtrack wherever I am. Nonetheless, I was neither musically nor aesthetically deprived.

For evidence of the latter, see the photo below of the grand staircase in the 19th-century home of generous and gifted friends in Granada, one of the oldest cities in the Americas, where I slept in an antique, mosquito-netted four-poster bed, soothed by the sound of tropical rains and wakened by the bells of the cathedral next door.

On a side trip to the surf destination San Juan del Sur, a friend was kind enough to lend me a horse. There is a reason that riding through a jungle and cantering along an otherwise inaccessible beach is the stuff of fantasy. My steed was white, and named Pablo Picasso, so I couldn’t get the Jonathan Richman song of the same name out of my head. I also sang “Caballito Blanco” to Pablo, which I learned as a child in Chile.

Thus, when it came time to go clubbing, I was prepared for Latino men whose stares I could not resist. My Spanish held up well enough for me to crack jokes, decline invitations, and read mash notes from the smitten. I also had the new-to-me experience of being piloted around a dance floor by a smiling fellow whose eyes were at an awkward level that made staring both impossible and unnecessary. But we were dancing to a 9-piece band playing the Nicaraguan classic “Pobre de Maria,” a tragic story of a poor campesina in the big city, so I didn’t mind.

I managed to refrain from the Internet most of the time, but of course it found me:

And now, the Apple Store awaits.