Olde World Charmed

This is the very perfection of a man, to find out his own imperfection.

-Saint Augustine

So!  Guatemala.  Antigua’s a place I’ve wanted to visit for some time.  In my mind it was a flattish but colorful and lively city, filled with cafes with little round tables encircled by brooding writers, expats and journalists (and me!) smoking cigars and trading war stories.  For some reason the paint was always either a light blue or green, and peeling.  My friend Dom spent 3 months there and by his account, all he did there was “drink coffee, smoke and eat” so that probably helped form my expectations.

Aside from a layover in Atlanta, Antigua was surprisingly easy to reach.  It’s a short 45 minute cab ride from the airport in Guatemala city.  That’s right.  I said cab.  It was $20 and I took it.  When I arrived, it occurred to me that I hadn’t the slightest idea of where I was staying, so I asked the driver to take me to the tourist information center, so I could figure out a hostel.  Antigua is not a big city, but apparently nobody really knows which street is which because we drove around for probably 45 minutes back and forth across town, asking everyone we passed where the place was, and they all had different directions.  A mini-tour.  Eventually, I just told him to let me out at the main square; at that rate, I would more easily find a hostel somewhere on foot.  As per my imaginings, there were indeed cafes everywhere.  Glorious.  And I found a hostel in no time and proceeded to pass out there.

Antigua is rustic, and there is a lot of chipping paint, but city ordinances keep it rustic on purpose, and it gives the place an upkept colonial feel that was better lit but less music-filled than what I imagined it would be.  Case in point, there is a McDonalds, but just to pass by you’d never know it.  There’s no golden arches and inside there is a tree lined courtyard for your dining pleasure.  Speaking of food (not the aforementioned), it is fantastic.  There are a lot of options, usually on the cheaper side.  My favorite.

For whatever reason, I have been more than a little drawn to volcanos lately, and I signed up for an early morning hike up one of the local actives, Paccaya.  It was a satisfactorily grueling climb to help organize my thoughts and a magnificently clear day that allowed a good view of the surrounding volcanoes in the distance, one of which erupted twice as I looked on.  Paccaya, thankfully, did not erupt- but it did emit enough heat towards the top to roast marshmallows.  Also very satisfying.  The only unpleasant part about the hike was the sunburn.  I never listen.  I always think the sun won’t be that bad, I won’t be out for that long, and I always burn.  Somehow I’m still learning the ‘you can’t bend your circumstances to fit your expectations, it’s got to be the other way around’ lesson.  Not that defining either of those variables is a simple task.  And not that you shouldn’t still conscientiously employ hope to make this whole life thing seem a little less bleak–On the contrary, I think that’s quite the helpful trick.

When I got back to the hostel, I found that my things had been moved off my bed, and someone else’s had replaced them.  Cool.  There were 5 beds in the room so I took another and hunted down the guy who cleans the rooms to retrieve my personal affects.  That night, in an episode I really should have seen coming, 3 dudes stumbled drunkenly into the room, clamoring for 2 remaining beds…the hostel had overbooked.  Happily they sorted it out and slept head/toe with each other, because I could sense a sort of presumption that one or the other might have been accepted in my bed, the only lady in the room.

I woke up early the next morning and took to the streets to get a look at the “Jesus carpets” before they were trampled.  I should explain–without realizing it, I was in town for the beginning of a big celebration, Semana Santa, celebrated there by a series of parades and general festivus.  Weeeee!  That morning, residents were laying out an array of “carpets” for a stretch of about a mile, along which small children carrying large coffins would later march.  The “carpets” are actually intricate works of layers of colored sawdust (and the occasional carved fruit), sifted laboriously through stencils to produce a carpet-like effect to be absolutely demolished hours after their completion.  If you get up early enough though, you can check em out.

When I came back to the hostel, one of the head/toe guys had moved over to my bed.  He apologized, but I told him to just keep it, I was leaving.  He said he’d almost made his way over in the night to spoon me instead of his friend.  I said he was very lucky he didn’t.

Later that day, still regretting the sunburn of the previous day, I proceeded to sit on a terrace overlooking the central park and outright fry myself.  Same thing, it’s not that long, it’s not that sunny…lies.  And I am paying for them right now, believe me.

I booked a shuttle back to Guatemala City for an early morning flight the next day.  There was considerable congestion because of all the processions, so all busses and shuttles and cars were funneled through the same street out of town, and when I showed up with my ticket, I was ushered swiftly onto what looked suspiciously like a local bus.  I even confirmed with my usher that it was the correct bus, but when we took off–packed to the gills with sweaty humans–the guy taking tickets would not accept mine.  And this was unfortunate, because I had literally 1 Quetzal left, less than a quarter.   We had tense back and forth in spanish over the roar of the bus, wherein I simply refused to get off (by this point we were well out of town) on the grounds that the guy who works with or for him had put me on that bus. He was displeased, but ultimately ended with saying, “You have to pay!” and then walking away, avoiding me for the rest of the ride.  I did not make a friend that day.  I also did not get dropped at my hostel.  I got off somewhere in the middle of Guatemala City and convinced a cab driver to take me for the last of my USD.

The hostel, by the way, was staffed by some of the friendliest owners I’ve ever known a hostel to have, and moreover, it was walking distance from the airport.  When I booked, it said “3 blocks from airport”, but it still blew my mind that I could walk out, turn the corner, and there it was.  I found this out because, as I was out of money, I had to get dinner at the only place around accepting cards…the airport.  The next morning before 5am, the owner woke up and drove me for my flight, just so I would be safe.  Nicest people ever, seriously.

The downside of that surprise festival in Antigua was that all the flights back filled up.  So instead of flying my original route of Guatemala-Atlanta-New York, I was forced to go where the seats were, Guatemala-LOS ANGELES-New York.  MEH.  Don’t get me wrong, I love everyone I’ve met from L.A., but that’s really a lot of run-around to ask of me.  Writing this, I am over Ohio somewhere, around my 9th hour in the air today.  Certainly I am tired, but I know there are worse things.  This flight crew only needs me to be a passenger awaiting her destination in this moment, and that lack of ambiguity in who we are to each other is strangely reassuring.  And I may not know squat about Ohio, but at least I have an idea of where I am.  At least I’m moving.