Letter from León, Nicaragua

The León Cathedral is the largest in Central America, a UNESCO World Heritage site known for hosting the tomb of Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío. (Credits: Fernanda Sanchez)

For my father, family road trips to León were non-negotiable.

In the early morning of Good Friday in 2017, my dad woke me up and asked how I felt about going to León that same day. As a pre-teen trying to get much-needed rest, he didn’t get a yes or no, but rather a half-asleep growl. I was the first person he woke in the house.

I didn’t want to go. Late March in Nicaragua is the epitome of summer: heatstroke and crowds everywhere because of Holy Week. Going to León on a Good Friday meant joining a procession with hundreds of people and enduring temperatures above 38 C. I looked my dad in the eyes and said yes. He was lying next to me in my bed and wiggling his feet with excitement. I could tell he was already thinking about announcing it to the rest of the house, telling my mom she could start packing our road trip essentials, and leaving me the dreaded task of waking up my little brother and getting him out of the house on time. 

I knew what León meant to my dad.

Going to León required a routine: Loading the car, saying a prayer after leaving the house, playing our go-to car ride songs, and stopping at a food place to eat quesillo, a thick corn tortilla with mozzarella-like cheese and a type of sour cream. My brother and I couldn’t remember a time when Holy Week passed without my dad driving us there. It was a two-hour drive along the straight road that connects the capital city, Managua, to León, a city that holds the deep roots of our family tree. 

Julio César Sánchez García was born on September 20, 1975, in León. His parents were also born and raised in León, but they moved to Managua in the mid-1960s when they got married. My dad is the youngest of three. He visited León every Sunday to have lunch with his grandparents, from both sides of his family. He had cousins, uncles and all sorts of great-aunts; everybody in town was family, or at least that’s how it felt to him. The narrow streets of León were like chapters in a children’s book he read every night before bed, one that became a coming-of-age novel as he grew older and started a family of his own. All chapters included laughter, mischief, celebrations, and love. 

He stopped going as often after both his grandmothers passed away when he was in his late 20s, but there was always someone in the family pulling him back to León. When he became a dad, he taught my brother and me to see León through his eyes, showing us how to love it as much as he did. 

My grandfather, Julio César Sánchez, had inherited a house in León from his late mother, Dolores Sánchez, a tough and resilient woman who had raised him on her own and, against all expectations, had given her last name to her only boy. My dad was the one who kept an eye on the house and made sure it was well taken care of, especially as my grandparents became ill and could no longer travel.

Every visit to the house, also known as la casita, meant another road trip for our family, another chance to laugh together, get food from unusual places, meet family members from my dad’s side, and face whatever León had in store for us. La casita was the best playground for my brother and me growing up. We were two kids with a four-year age gap and so little in common. Our middle ground was this colonial-structured house with four corridors, a central garden, tiled roofs and high ceilings. A house in shambles somehow united my family.  

My brother and I, as kids, playing in la casita.

León is one of those cities with such strange addresses that you could not receive any parcels or letters. The streets are lined with somber colonial-era houses and historical buildings, making it almost impossible to have an avenue name or a house number. Asking for directions is like receiving a riddle: “A block and a half down from the supermarket, turn right at the López store, go to la Asunción traffic light and make a left, and when you get there, ask for María, she will know.” 

I never got those riddles right, but my dad was at the wheel, so I never worried about figuring them out. 

León also translates to “lion” in English, and in Nicaragua, it is known to be the capital of the revolution, the home of the liberals, and a cradle of Nicaraguan culture. A pack of lion statues stands at the entrance of the city in view of the Cathedral de la Asunción. When I was little, I thought every corner in León had a church, until my dad informed me there were 16 churches spread around the city. León always seemed rather tough to me — the lions, the historical churches with a touch of neoclassic architecture, and then the crowded, loud city market.  

The city market was a maze that only my dad seemed to master. His negotiations with every merchant felt bold and reckless to me, but he always came back with all sorts of cheese and atol, staples of Central American life. Some merchants even called him by his childhood nickname “Julito,” which always made me laugh. From hearing that nickname, I created a picture of my dad as a little kid, savouring the freedom of living in a small city filled with history and mysticism, while also letting it influence who he would grow up to be — strong and courageous, like a lion. 

There’s a warm atmosphere in León, a welcoming feeling that draws you into every food stall in the pedestrian walkway. There’s a feeling of freedom when you step into the town’s central park and see the birds on the pavement eating bread crumbs until a child runs across, and they fly away all together. There’s a feeling of hope when you go to the rooftop of the Cathedral-Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and you have to remove your shoes to walk on top of the white domes — you see the city beneath you, volcanoes surrounding it, and under the bluest sky, you begin to think the whole place is kept inside a sacred vault. 

Getting lost in León as a tourist is inevitable, especially among the one-way streets that crisscross the city. But if you happen to end up at Parque de los Poetas, you might find your way back to reason sooner than expected.

The park is surrounded by busts and statues of famous Nicaraguan poets, including Rubén Darío, who is considered the father of modernism in Spanish literature. As a Nicaraguan, to learn about Rubén Darío in school was an instinct — every year you were assigned to read his works and memorize his poems. My grandfather helped me recite them for school. He taught me how to enunciate and to reflect on the weight that his words carry in our heritage.  

Rubén Darío wrote about the nation and patriotism, youth and its future, and love. I never thought I would grow up to write about those same themes. Though there was always a sign: every time I went to León, I felt embraced by the freedom of art and the possibility that I could, too, be a writer.  

Behind the doors of León’s colonial houses, inner courtyards are filled with flowers blooming all year round, trees growing limes, avocados, mangoes, and more. In the afternoon, families and neighbours gather to drink coffee with a fresh biscuit from the bakery around the corner. They bring their wooden rocking chairs outside their homes to watch locals pass by, and children from the neighbourhood play soccer in the middle of the street.  

Folklore tales also haunt the streets of León day and night, such as La Gigantona, the Giantess. She is dressed in a rainbow-striped dress, standing the full height of the two-storey municipal building of León, and by her side is a small man with an enormous head. The Giantess is meant to represent a white, rich Spanish woman who arrived in Nicaragua with the conquistadors in the 16th century. The small man represents a fellow Nicaraguan, short, dark-skinned and poor, but intelligent, thus the enormous head. They are both paraded around the main plaza during festivities, a satire of the Spanish colonialists and a demonstration about the oppression of Indigenous Nicaraguans.  

The Giantess standing in front of Leon’s municipal building. (Credit: Fernanda Sanchez) 

Whenever my family stumbled upon the Giantess and the small man, my dad didn’t hesitate to join them in laughter and dance, even if this meant we were in the middle of the street and in front of strangers. When he noticed my nervous laughter, he would take my hand and start dancing with me. His light humour and kind heart were like the spirit of León and its people. He treated everyone with the same kindness and warmth, whether it was the merchant in the city market or the woman who ran her own diner on the road to the city.  

The last time I visited León was on July 4, 2024. My dad’s aunt had passed away a month earlier, and we went to the one-month memorial mass at the church just around the corner from her house. This time around, they were rebuilding the streets, and the city was chaotic.

But in León, chaos meant prosperity and faith meant eternity.  

That visit was my last visit to León with my father; 415 days after that visit, he passed away. All the memories we shared, the routines we had built, and the unspoken belief that the city was superior to any other, all the things that seemed immortal now felt fleeting. La casita had collapsed to the ground. 

Suddenly, it wasn’t about seeing my dad pack his clothes in his usual duffel bag to visit his birthplace. It was me, standing in my parents’ room on a morning in August, in a white outfit, opening my dad’s drawer and helping pick his clothes for the funeral.  

The first time I heard someone refer to the city since my dad’s passing was at the Pearson International Airport in Toronto. I was flying from Fredericton, New Brunswick, to Nicaragua for the first holidays without my dad, and I ran into a Nicaraguan who recognized my passport. He told me he was from León. My eyes started watering. I had forgotten about the weight that name carried in my life. And my mind was ready to replay my last visit all over again.  

The second time I heard it, it came from my brother. He had a school field trip and had to travel to León with his classmates. I had a lot of questions, but I figured he would share his experience in his own time.   

I’m not ready to face the city, not as before.  

For now, I’m trying to write my way back to León. To rewrite who I am, without one of the pillars of my life.  

I once believed that León meant almost everything to my dad. But now I realize that my brother, my mom and I meant everything to him.