Ready, Set...Byline!

I hadn’t done the solo travel thing since last year’s trip to Mexico when I left my very worried mother (“Honey, they have DRUG WARS here.”) in a cab to the airport as I hopped a bus from Puerto Vallarta to Guadalajara in search of more adventure.  While I did manage to log a few worthy stories – becoming a stand-in madam to the gay proprietors of my Guadalajara B&B, crashing two Mexico City weddings in one day only to enrage both suitors by night’s end, and sampling recipes during the Annual Mole Poblano Festival in Puebla to the point of street vomiting – I fell in love with Mexico.  This time, however, the Mexico love wasn’t in an Acapulco/Cancun tripping the light fantastic on ecstasy kind of way, more a cultural appreciation of the vast beauty of a country kind of way.  At the end of that journey, I couldn’t wait for my next jaunt.  My mom was just happy I “made it out alive.”

Enter 2010.

The beginning of this year has been marked with some incredible opportunities that sidelined me from going south of the border.  But when a free timeshare unit on the Riviera Maya came my way, I couldn’t say no.  The Easter Week dates weren’t ideal; I feared wet t-shirt contests and screaming schoolchildren on holiday.  The flights were outrageous; I had to use over 70,000 miles to get there.  But I had to go.  The doldrums of winter were killing me.

Taking a shot, I pitched the travel editor at Newsday on a piece about Mexico’s Riviera Maya.  Newsday is the newspaper of my childhood, having an article published within its pages rang nostalgic.  I’m a loser like that; I still cry from 80’s love songs pegged to my first real boyfriend (Debbie Gibson’s ‘In Your Eyes,’ 9^th Grade).  A couple of days later, I got a return message from Newsday.  Yes, let’s do it!  Holy shit, I had a GIG!  A real, live, comes-with-a-contract GIG!

Packing my bags felt the same as the solo trips of my past, only this time I had an agenda.  I had to cover the Riviera Maya on three budgets for Newsday readers.  I don’t know why they entrusted me with this task; I can’t even balance my checkbook, let alone stay on holiday budget.  It would be a learning experience, I told myself.  Maybe something fiscally positive would result. 

On the plane, I sat next to Chatty Cathy, a pocket-rocket of a blonde who worked in the private school world of Manhattan.  Did I already have a Riviera Maya friend?  Yes…until she started to gab to the girl in the seat between us, then the middle-aged couple from Arizona in the hotel transport vehicle, and finally, the single father we met in the lobby of the hotel: a jilted lover was the reason she fled to Mexico.  When she got to the part about hiring a P.I. to tail him, my red-flag alarm went five-bells.  When she told us she had only been dating him for three months, I ran in the other direction.  Chatty Cathy was also Crazy. 

Check-in went smoothly, my room was ready, Chatty Crazy Cathy wasn’t on my side of the property.  Check.  Check.  Double-check.  But that’s when my luck seemed to run out. 

Traveling around the world and traveling the world on assignment are two very different things.  While I love being able to say, “I’m on assignment,” the reality of being on assignment is not nearly as cool.  Once upon a time, I was an organized, planned, scheduled person.  There wasn’t a facet of my life that wasn’t filed into my Filofax (I know there are heads nodding in amused at-home agreement on this).  I don’t know when that gene mutated, but I can no longer tap it, and it’s killing my journalistic mojo. 

In Mexico, I never had a pen when I needed one.  I forgot to bring a notebook so Purchase #1 became an $11 ruled notebook bound in suede with a cover sketch of Tulum -- I might as well have been wearing a fanny pack.  I forgot to upgrade my iPhone to World Access and alert American Express that I was even going to Mexico creating a bit of stolen identity brouhaha.  I neglected to make all of my appointments in advance, fitting in hotel visits, multiple price-point restaurant samplings, scuba trips, and encounters at the ruins.  I scrambled on arrival, but I got a lot of responses along the lines of “I’m sorry, it’s Easter.”  Even the best-laid plans fell through: my cave diving was rescheduled, my rental car never showed, and there I was hustling to get it all covered for press.  I went to sleep those first few nights wishing for a day of wrinkly overexposure to the sun, two-for-one piña coladas, and my book on a lounge chair.  I'd even relish the time to partake in group water aerobics.  I felt desperate and the piece seemed a pipedream.

Believe it or not, after a bit of a plan-ahead learning curve, I got to everything. Riviera Maya morphed from a daunting vacation disaster into an accessible Mexican oasis with something for everyone: boutique hotels and sprawling resorts, high-end Mayan cuisine and delicious street-cart tacos, scuba and sailing adventures set against the backdrop of the ruins of Tulum and Coba.  I even got to relax a little bit by week's end.  But more importantly, I can officially call myself a writer.  I logged my piece with my editor last week.  While I have other unscheduled pieces waiting for run dates, it’s fitting that my first will run in Newsday.

At present, it’s slated for publication on May 16^th.  Cover Story! 

By Marie Elena Martinez.  (Cue the tears.)

Marie and Chavez, BFF

I guess I had a right to be worried…

How does one compare of week of jet-setting amongst fabulous friends; three cities, five days, countless faces, places, and spaces to a rainy Panama? One doesn’t. One just rolls with the punches. Which I did. Since I’ve been home for a spell, I forgot that every minute on the road isn’t perfect, that it sometimes HAS to rain, and that I’m not going to love every city I go to. Panama was one of those experiences. Not entirely bad, as I really came to like Panama City. But, overall, not my favorite.

I arrived into Panama City after lots of Ecuadorian goodbyes and checked into a marvelous little hotel near the center of Panamanian night life (little did I know…) After stopping for a delicious dinner at restaurant that was exactly how one might imagine a Panamanian restaurant (banana-leaf wallpaper, plastic wicker chairs, high cocktail tables with basketed candles atop (I wanted to steal one), khaki safari and white “Panama hats” strewn lazily on high shelves), I turned in early. I was
a) exhausted from Ecuador and
b) had an early day on the Panama Canal in the AM.
Little did I know, I didn’t need rest. I’d get PLENTY of that over the next few days…

So, they never really reveal to you all the details of day-trip excursions to tourist traps like the Panama Canal. After a 6 AM cab ride, where the cabbie got lost getting to the Canal Zone (Umm…this is your country’s ONE tourist attraction, we’re LOST! Are you KIDDING?), I opted on a half-day Canal trip ($105, meanwhile!). We’d be back in the City by 2 PM. Great, I tend to get a little bored on these learning excursions. As I settled into the boat (comparative to maybe, a Circle Line ship), with my Miami Herald and a book of stories (that I randomly, and thankfully, grabbed on the way out of the hotel), I was eager to start the day. Grannies with straw hats, Chinese/Japanese tourists posing at bow/stern/starward/leeward sides BEFORE we moved away from the pier, solo 50-year old men with bad teeth from Minnesota in fisherman caps, young backpacker couples making out in between free-empanada-from-downstairs-in-the-buffet-bites, and a family with 7 rowdy, dirty blond kids toting Dr. Seuss-in-Spanish readers, made up my cruising partners. It looked to be a very long day. At around 8, we pull out into the water. We must, as our roving-guide-with-a-mike tells us, wait for our Canal appointed pilot (all vessels that pass through the Canal have a licensed Canal pilot steer the ship through the Canal) to come on board and give us our “passage time.” 9-10-11 o’clock. No Canal Pilot. I’ve finished the Miami Herald and passed it on the periodical-less Minnesotan with poor dental hygiene, and I’m on page 100 in my 200 page book. I’m a little warm under the collar, a little stiff from the lack of cushions on the seats of the Pacific Queen, our ship. Then, the people around me start to applaud. Our Canal Pilot is coming aboard. Wa-hoo! Like a mock-celebrity, he swings from the Coast Guard boat to the Pacific Queen’s deck. Our passage time is…..12:30. NO! REALLY? More waiting? Oh my god. This sucks.

Yes, I finished my book before we went through the Canal, and the passage through was, at best, semi-interesting. Considering that the Canal was built in 1914, and is still completely functional today, it’s pretty crazy. Going through the Miraflores Lockes, being raised 27-32 feet higher by increasing and decreasing water levels and pressure, was wild. Slowly, we are raised three times, and then voila! we’re Canal bound. Of course, the whole thing is mildly anti-climactic, but nonetheless, I can now say I’ve traveled the Panama Canal alongside the huge, huge Maersk (what up Nemeth!) tankers carrying loads upon loads of cargo from places far off and distant. By our 4 PM delayed return to the city, I was wiped. I took a quick tour of Old Panama, called Casco Viejo, and while I’ve never been (though secretly long to go) to Cuba, this is what I think Havana would look like. Colorful, two story buildings boasting intricate iron balconies rimmed with half-dead floral vines; the buildings falling apart, but at the same time, vibrantly alive. Spanish music drifting from doorways, men smoking cigars in soiled undershirts and ladies in layered dressed casually swaying their hips around them, stray dogs bark at passerby. It’s a cool scene, in a dilapidated kind of way. Past Casco Viejo, Panama City is modern and brimming with business. The whole city sits on the waterfront, so the view is surprisingly pretty. The nightlife is full-of-action, the various parts of Panama City have their share of trendy restaurants, hotel bars and, even a few swanky lounges. My friend China, from Ecuador, put me in touch with her friend, Alexandra here in Panama. So, my luck, I had a partner in crime to prowl the town with. I know – who comes to Panama and has friends? Me, I guess!

Post-Panama City, I went to two other cities to explore. Pedasi, on the Pacific Coast and Boquete, a mountain town that sits in the middle of two rivers. Unfortately, I left my new friend Alexandra in Panama City, and brought along my old friend, the rain. In Travel and Leisure magazine, I had read about a project on the coast called Azueros. A French architect found the most beautiful palm-tree-lined beaches, and had a vision to build a town in the isolated area. He turned his self-made residence into a hotel, and it looked gorgeous. So, I decided to go to Pedasi to check it out. A four-seater plane ride and one-barely-there dirt road later, I’m at Villa Camilla, a visually stunning estate in the rolling hills of Pacific Panama. But, alas, I am the ONLY guest! With my staff of five men, feeding me, cleaning up after me, getting me anything my little heart desires, I felt weird, not to mention completely isolated. I was literally the ONLY sign of life besides my caretakers in the whole region. The town, about 3 miles off, was merely a sign announcing “Pedasi” and a general store (if you can call it that) and a hostel (for who, exactly?). I had planned to go scuba diving, but the rain and the swell of the sea nixed that plan. The beach was breathtaking, but off-limits because of the rough waters. So, there I was, puttering around my villa, with invisible servants at my beck and call. After two days of elaborately served meals at solitary tables in the study, two more books (I was technologically barren in Pedasi), and a LOT of time to think, I had a car service take me to Boquete.

Boquete, a mountain town where I was SUPPOSED to white water raft and horse back ride, suffered the same fate as Pedasi. A rainy one. So, while my little B&B that boasted the town’s best restaurant and spa, was lovely, and there were plenty of retirement age folk to talk to (Boquete has become, seemingly a haven for American retirees…) about the cost of living in Colorado, Arizona, and Florida versus Panama, I was again, bored and devoid of fun activities, and headed back to Panama City, my savior city, called Alexandra and had a fun Thursday “parting-Panama” party for myself. My big moment finally came when President Chavez of Venezuela (who was staying at my hotel) and I were leaving at the exact same time for the airport. Him, flanked by local media, photographers, press agencies and TV cameras yelling “Presidente, Presidente,” and me, backpack in hand whispering to a nearby bellman “Um…un taxi, por favor.” We’re standing thisclose, only separated by his bodyguards and hotel personnel, flashbulbs bursting all around us. I’m telling you, the Panamanian CBS, NBC, ABC news outfits have their 5, 6, and 10 PM news leads, and I’M ALL OVER IT!
Marie and El Presidente Chavez. BFF.

Onto Bogota today, meeting more friends of China (and Alexandra). Then, Cartagena, which I think will provide more exciting stories and adventures. Sorry so bland a tale this week. Panama just didn’t provide as I thought it would.

More soon…

~ M

Sweating Through the Sights

I have learned a few things on my way from Lake Atitlan (which was nice, but very hazy…) to Flores, which is a teeny-tiny island that juts out into Lake Peten Itza in northern Guatemala.:

1) I'm really not a LAKE person (boring, no surf, contained, usually murky, always a mist over them, surrounding towns - kinda bland).
2) When a guide book uses the word "gritty" in ANY description of a town, skip it. EVEN when everyone else raves about the place. Once you've come to trust your guide book, don't doubt it. "Gritty"
translates to "crack-den-ish" like the Van Dam exit en route to the 59th Street Bridge.

Everyone seems to love Flores, the way station for trips to the Mayan ruins (Guatemala's largest) of Tikal. My flight from Guatemala City was purchased in the (aforementioned hazy) lake town of Panajachel at this shady travel agency with folding chairs, a cash box, and lone Guatemala poster taped to the wall as a sell-tool. So at 4 AM, when I got to the airport and nobody, and I mean NOBODY, showed recognition of the airline I was flying, snickering to each other in Spanish when I showed them the ticket (HELLO, I CAN UNDERSTAND YOU, PEOPLE!!!), I felt a little upset. Finally, a lady with a walkie-talkie walkie-talkied a voice who told her that I had to go to the small planes part of the airport. One taxi, 30 minutes, and 50 Quetzales (Guat currency, ripped off again by a taxi driver!) later, we find ourselves near a deserted airfield with one bulb of a light way off yonder. Check-in, yeah...well, there's no room on the 6-seater for me. I'll have to transfer to yet another flight, at yet another terminal that is yet harder to find. When I landed in Flores, I had wanted to be refreshed, I wanted to be enamored. But, well, I was a little tired, and Flores was a little…"gritty."

While the colorful buildings, the sweet people, the culture and authenticity of place all were alive and well in Lake Peten Itza's Flores, it just lacked the charm of the other cities I visited in Guatemala, reminding me of the setting for a scary movie where someone gets killed strolling the banks. Similar to other cities in Guatemala (I think Central America really), though, there is a young expat culture here too. They study Spanish, bum around, frequent the same places each night saying "Hasta Manana" at closing time, and backpack the region. They're all in college, or left college for Central America, scraping by each day on whatever money they can muster. I have actually seen TWO instances where these types hover in restaurants and, very discreetly, make their way around the restaurant eating the leftovers off of unfinished plates on vacated tables!!! One time, yes, was in Flores. And the girl devoured a whole leftover fruit plate, licking her pineapple-juiced fingers after each steal! Very unsettling...

From Flores, I went to Tikal for the day. Starting at dawn, watching the sunrise, strolling the park before the mass of people entered around 10 AM, Tikal is a very-mini Maccu-Picchu: predominantly jungle dotted with excavated remnants of Mayan civilizations, mostly temples. The day was hot, VERY hot, and I kept leaving my water bottle in various places as I stopped to take pictures and had to go back and find it. It was like a day of hide and seek with an inanimate object. I specifically wore black on black because, for any of you that don't know this, I am a sweater. I am not (and never will be) one of those
perfectly dry girls who can hike in a skirt and pastel colored shirt and stay wedding-day photogenic throughout. Nor am I one of those people who can walk around sightseeing spots with four backpacks and a guitar, nary a glisten on my brow. Me, I carry an airline ticket through a 90 degree region in a bathing suit, and I sweat. Anyone who has seen me after running at the gym for an hour (Ilysa, Rosen...?) aren't looking to hug me close (or at all). That's for sure. But, I thought the black-on-black ensemble would help the situation. Foiled again. As evidenced the last time I was in South America, I have sightseeing-outfit-troubles. Consistently. This time, the white powdery atmosphere of the ruins set into my black outfit as a light layer of dust, drying when I wasn't climbing temple stairs, as white outlines of previously soaked areas. I looked like a pavement on which chalk outlines were drawn. Reverse sweat rings. I was mortified, keeping my arms crossed a lot... But, I kept on keeping on, listening in awe to the sounds of the howler monkeys (they sound like ferocious lions and I actually turned back and sought company to walk through the dense jungle paths to each ruin amidst the lion roars of the howlers), woodpeckers (have you ever heard woodpeckers peck? they sound like old doors creaking open in haunted mansions...), and various species of birds that sang like no birds I've ever heard before. I felt like a sweaty Snow White in black. It really was pretty amazing, Tikal. And cheap. Compared to Maccu-Picchu, which is quite costly to enter, Tikal is a mere $7, but as the guards told me, Survivor filmed a stint near Tikal recently (is this true, my reality-friendly friends?), and since then they're trying to raise their prices to $10. Hearing a guard in Mayan ruins talk about the inflation of entry b/c of a American reality-phenomenon like Survivor, in Spanish, was pretty amazing, as well...

Not being an archeological lingerer in these types of tourist sights, I was ready to go (and change my clothes...) by about 11 AM and caught a bus through the countryside back to Flores to wind down my time in Guatemala. I spent more time than I planned here. Despite parental Don't Go's, I really fell for the country, the obviously charming parts, and the not so charming parts, alike. I highly recc a trip down here to anyone looking for a little adventure. Tomorrow, I'm off to Belize for some sun, sand and scuba. Very much looking forward.

More soon,

~M

Lack of water, Lack of guide.

Day three brought me to Antigua, a mountain town about 30 miles out of Guatemala City. As I emailed hotels for lodging, a small villa/hotel next to the hotel I had my eye on emailed me back in about 10 seconds. Alex, the proprietor and fellow New Yorker, was Chatty Cathy on email, the place seemed nice, and so as not to have hassle, I booked it. She would send a shuttle for me the next day, 12:30 PM – wait in front of my Guatemala City hotel. Possibly I should’ve known that my next 24 hours would be off when the shuttle was an hour late and Alex, when called on it, responded “Yo no se.” But, this is Central America, after all, you roll with the punches, right?

Driving into Antigua, I was automatically enamored. It’s this quaint little town with cobblestone streets and multi-colored one-story buildings, behind the doorways of which were lovely inns and posadas with grassy courtyards and cozy environs. Arriving at La Capilla (I have to find out what Capilla means in Spanish…), completed the experience. Like the posadas I passed, La Capilla was a large villa of 5 suites, surrounding a lush garden with a fountain as center. Alex, an attractive 40-ish brunette, came to the door, addressing me by name to her large, but gorgeous, blue-eyed mixed breed of a dog. Even the dog didn’t put me off (yet…). Into the villa I wandered, realizing what a special place this might be. After settling into my room, Alex brings me around back to a tiled pool area. There, I find three very young, very tanned boys lounging. They’re all under 20. Danes and Americans, the trio are a few of the many “boys” that Alex keeps around. They are world students in Antigua to build houses for the poor and study Spanish. Alex calls them all “Hon,” they eat her food, drink her beer, plug their Ipods into her sound system, smoke her cigarettes and order pizza to her villa. No, they don’t live there, they just hang there. They met her playing poker in town, and are the half-naked, massage-giving pool boys for Ladies Tuesdays, the DJs for BBQ Thursdays, and the chefs for Ceviche Saturdays.

Ok…..

After a couple of games of backgammon that I begrudgingly lost to a hot Dutchie with great hands, I decide to head into town as Thor arrived. Thor is a nerdy local expat from the States who is packing an extra 30 lbs and a baby girl whom he forgets at the entry of the pool…until she starts to cry about 20 minutes later. The Dutchies remind me that I must come to Ladies Tuesdays tomorrow, they’ve got new costumes: mere bowties! Into town I head for a breather, a walk around the Plaza Central (eerily reminiscent of Cusco, Peru but on a smaller scale) and a snack before heading back to La Capilla. Alex is leaving as I return, she gives me a cell phone to reach her in case of emergency. Ok… There I am, completely alone in a huge villa, all other amenities of which have been completely padlocked, and there’s nary a staff member around. I’m not sure how to handle this. I wander around a bit, highly aware that should I want for anything, I’m locked out except for my room and the pool. So, I look on the bright side – a whole villa to myself – and go to take a shower. Turn on the faucet…no water. I go from room to room (the other rooms aren’t locked, the padlocks on them deceiving) to check the water. Nope, it’s the same. What the … ?!?! I turn on my computer. No service. Hmmm… What has happened to the bustling La Capilla in the past three hours? I call Alex on my designated cell.

Alex: Hola, Marie Elena, que pasa?
Me: I’m so sorry to bother you…
Alex: Then, Hon…why are you bothering me?
Me: Well…there’s no water.
Alex: Really? What do you mean?
Me: Um….there’s just, well…no water.
Alex: Weird. I just checked the tanks before I left. Are you sure?
(No, I’m not sure…)
Me: Um…yeah, quite. Nothing as I turn on the faucets.
Alex: Oh. Wow. Ok. I’ll be right back, then. You sure?
Me: Yes. Again, sorry to bother, but…
Alex: No, no….I’m coming back.

Alex arrives, pours herself a scotch, takes off her jean jacket and opens the tanks. Yep, no PSI, no pressure, no water. She checks the computers. They’re on, but not connecting. Shit, she’s about to lose her only guest. “This is when you need a man,” she says. Enter Elliott. A man. Elliott is a local textile exporter, originally from Jersey. Elliott is ten sheets to the wind, pours himself a scotch from the now-unpadlocked bar, tells Alex she should’ve told him about this earlier because he has “a guy” and sits down near the pool, slurring through our introductions (and two more scotches). We all look at each other for a while, as I smell the waft of non-powdery, mucho-alcoholy Elliott from afar. Finally, giving up, Alex makes a call to the place I originally wanted to stay at next door, books me a room at the same price she was charging me, packs up my room with an unstable Elliottt, and has yet another “boy” move me out of La Capilla. Guatemala is shaping up to be VERY interesting…

Next day, after waking up in my fabulous Ralph Lauren-via-Guatemala room at my new hotel, I decide to see the town, the many churches (which are gorgeous) on foot for the first half of the day, and the surrounding mountainside on horseback for the afternoon. After some help from my new, 24-hour hotel staff, I embark on a three hour journey with Paco, the ranch hand. Well, I ASSUMED he was a qualified ranch hand – he had the flannel/jeans combo with the big buckle belt, he had the cowboy hat with a ribbon of red yarn around it, he even had the requisite gold front tooth. I explain to him that I don’t want to walk all day, I’m a qualified rider, I need to be able to gallop my way through the day, not trot. Si, Si, says Paco. And, we’re off. But not before trading horses, because my stirrups were too short, on the last hole, and couldn’t be lengthened. Ditto my ranchero’s horse after the swap. I felt like a jockey with my knees up WAY too high, but decided to make do (though I’m regretting it a little, I have a shooting pain down my right leg, still…the trials and tribulations of height with respect to Guatemalan saddles). Now trotting on cobblestone, let alone galloping, I’ve come to find is not so fun. I definitely wore the wrong bra and am starting to rethink my little “Let’s gallop” conversation. I guess it’s not often that the tourists of Antigua see people in the cobblestone streets on horseback and I unwittingly became the subject of many photographs taken by people with fanny packs and Jams. But, as we got into Candelaria Park, the terrain changed, as did my guide’s willingness to move through the mountainside. Trot, Walk, Trot. Uh, Paco…mas rapido, es ok? Si, si, says Paco again. So, off I go. Cut to the next scene, it’s about 20 minutes later, and Paco, who had been right behind me in the beginning of the Park, is nowhere to be found. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes more, then start to head back to find him. When I do, he’s OFF his horse, walking in front of it, panting like the horse just rode him.

Me: “Paco, que pasa?”
Paco: “Es un buena cabellera! Muy rapido!” (Translation: You’re a good rider, very fast! Note to reader: I was VERY proud of this observation of Paco’s…as many of you know, I love my horseback riding…)

But, Paco’s supposedly my GUIDE. What is happening here?!?!? I’m utterly confused. So, as Paco, seemingly embarrassed mounts his horse again, I take off. Twenty minutes later, same scenario. I go back, he’s on foot, about to keel over, horse grazing the bushes behind him. So, I explain that I’d prefer NOT to wait and can I just meet him back at the hotel, the pace is too slow. So, he ties up his horse to a tree, says “sure” with a wide smile, takes out his cell phone and CALLS FOR A RIDE!!!! He says he’ll meet me back at the hotel, he’s through! I mean….You can’t ditch your horse and call for a ride!!! What’s up with that!?!?! So, there I am, riding solo through the streets of Antigua, astride a horse, being stopped by cops asking me where my guide is, that I shouldn’t be riding alone. I have to explain. In Spanish, no less. Blah blah…. Now, I’m even more of a spectacle – the solo gringa on horseback. And, when I get back to my hotel, there’s Paco, with a stable attached to his little pick-up truck for my horse! He’s not even riding the horse home. He’s towing it! Who ever heard of such a thing? In Guatemala, no less. Antigua has just been one crazy experience after the next.

Hope you all had an equally fun-filled week.
I’m headed to the Mayan ruins at Tikal in northern Guatemala next, after having spent a couple of days at Lake Atitlan (beautiful) and the market town of Chichicastenango (say THAT three times fast), which was authentic and oh-so-colorfully-Guatemalan. There, I dusted off my bargaining skills…successfully, of course. Gotta go figure out how to fit the three new skirts into my luggage…. (Yes, Cher, one’s for you. I will WOW you with trip presents yet. I’m wholly determined.)

More soon,

~M

Next up: Central America...

Back in Latin America…and it feels good.

After a hectic couple of weeks in New York wherein my sister got engaged, my best friend got married, and I had lot of friends and family to catch up with besides, getting on the plane to Guatemala City was a welcome departure. During that flight I tried to reflect on my trip to Asia, but I must admit, there’s something unsettled about it for me. Possibly it was the inability to digest it properly once back in the States because of loyalties at home which required my attention; possibly it was the pace at which I experienced eight vastly different countries, each requiring focus and learning, patience and perserverence; possibly it was the fact that I didn’t head-over-heels-love everywhere I visited in Asia and I very much want every stop on this journey to be entirely magical – but, newsflash: life isn’t always magical. So while Asia was one of the most outstanding experiences of my life, it’s still not an experience I’ve come to complete terms with yet. Nor may I ever. I guess I’ll have to learn to accept that. And, slowly continue to process it.

However, the rhythm of this trip I’m on is constant, so I must go forward.
So, first stop, next leg: Guatemala.

I’m not sure what I expected of Guatemala, or what I expect of Central America on the whole. I adored Costa Rica when I visited a few years back, but the Central America part of this trip came about when I fell so hard for South America. If I wasn’t as flexible as I’ve started to allow myself to be (haha…), I’d be in Australia right now. Anyhow, all I know of cities like Guatemala, Honduras, Panama are the things that my dad would tell me after his frequent trips when he owned a manufacturing business: Don’t go. So, I had little to go on other than I loved the culture and there HAD to be redeeming qualities to these places, to the homes of ancient Mayan civilizations of old, no? Yes. I’ve been here for almost a week, and Guatemala is most definitely underrated. It’s a gorgeous country, reminiscent (for me) of Peru, rich in culture and customs, and short little people in colorful outfits, cowboy hats, and the friendliest dispositions. Guatemala has helped me get my travel groove back on.

I arrived in Guatemala City to the sounds of a mariachi band outside the airport terminal – husbands playing guitars to Spanish songs, wives whipping up tortillas for sale nearby, and smelled the familiar smell of the Latin world. For some reason, the people of Latin America have this powdery smell, almost like a baby, that is instantly recognizable, and actually, calming. They fly by but leave the talcum and I love it. Sheets at authentic posadas smell this way too – maybe it’s not the people but the textiles – either way, I’m into it. Other than the lovely nasal and auditory re-entry to Latin America, Guatemala City is bland and worthy of little mention other than that I spent Easter Sunday there, which was a trip since I’ve never seen a holiday mass in my own country, let alone another one.

Easter was pretty amazing to witness – the parades of statues of saints and Jesus’ that made their way into the churches, hoisted on the shoulders of 20-30 men each who, like pallbearers, took severe honor in the task at hand. Each statue was followed into the church by throngs of people clapping and cheering for their chosen saint or God. I made my way into the church behind Jesus, being carried by the flow of the people making their way in front of me and behind me, but no worries, I was EASILY a head taller than any single person in the church, so no matter where I stood, I had the best view. The Guatemalans are teeny, hardly over five feet, any of them. Being 5’6”, I felt like an absolute giant, but the upside was that my vantage point was definitely the best going. There were bleachers outside the churches for the overflow that the pews and floor spaces (lines with lawn chairs and grannies in visible knee highs) inside the church couldn’t hold. Men, women, children, holding umbrellas to shield them from the sun, listened to the mass, which was broadcast over a huge sound system, allowing all to participate in the ritual of Sunday Mass. After mass, everyone converged on the square, or Plaza Mayor, outside of the church to celebrate in a carnival-like way. Hundreds of booths that sold everything from clothes to toys to food to souvenir trinkets to religious relics lined the square. Men with ice-blocks bigger than themselves shaved frozen pieces into paper cones for the kids. Clowns making balloon-animals, shoe-shine boys, photographers, magicians, and singers hooked up to sound-systems on nearby pick-up trucks entertained, while whole families set up fast-food outlets to feed the Guats. It was a holiday circus that was easy to wander through for hours on end.

But...my time there last about 2 hours, at which point, I had enough “Easter” and took solace in the pool at my hotel, paying respect to my very favorite resurrection…the sun.

Happy Holidays.
More soon...

~M