Monday, September 28, 2009

Thank you, Francis



Good teachers can teach their subject with competence and enthusiasm. They know the ins and outs of their material and they display a genuine passion for the topic at hand. Great teachers, however, take it a step further. While covering a specific academic subject, great teachers also manage to give lessons in the most important subject of all: life. They themselves can see the big picture, and they bring out their students’ abilities to do the same. I have had a handful of great teachers in my life, and I am happy to say that, after only two weeks of being here, I have one more to add to the list.


I have to admit, before sitting down for my first one-on-one Spanish class, I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Our classroom at El Nahual is a large room on the second floor with only a thin layer of aluminum (I think. I don’t know my metals) panels separating our heads from the elements. There are eight tables scattered throughout the room with two cheap plastic chairs on each side, one for the teacher and one for the student. Several wooden Mayan masks watch us as they hang on the wall alongside a few naturey paintings – sunsets and forests and the like.


I arrived a half hour early on my first day with Andy and Beth. At eight o’clock, a short, slightly gordita Guatemalan woman wearing a zip-up hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, and white basketball sneakers sat down across from me. She looked slightly out of breath and she was perspiring under bangs, but her movements were all controlled and confident. “Hola. Buenas Dias, Tom. Me llamo Francis…” and that’s how it began.


Nothing too spectacular happened on the first day of class. I cracked a couple jokes and she laughed. She played along and poked fun at me and my fake-egotism. That would change.


Before I knew it, we were still making jokes and telling funny stories, but our conversations got much heavier. By day two, she told me about the problems plaguing Guatemala – the corrupt and misleading government, the severe distrust lingering between towns and neighbors after the civil war, the inequality in education (a decent school costs about 1300Q a month and most parents make about 1400Q a month), the endless oppression of the Mayans, the lack of education in the countryside and the consequent over-reproduction of the family, machismo and how it holds women back, foreign domination in the past (by Spain) and today (US companies), and the list could go on. She only alluded to how she was connected to all of these problems; her weary eyes, however, told me that she carried their weight on a daily basis. Listening to her tell me about these issues in Spanish was difficult enough; trying to put myself in her shoes was impossible.


As time went on, sure, we covered the present, past, and imperfect tenses, prepositions, and a long list of idiomatic expressions, but we also covered so much more. I would tell Francis about my family, friends, and Julie, and she would remind me how important it is to keep in touch with the people closest to me in my life. I asked her about migration to the US and she told me about the many, many well-intentioned men who left their families for the States only to end up finding new wives and new lives. We talked about the spirit of the Guatemalan people. “Si me caigo, me levanto,” she explained. If I fall, I pick myself up. Here, people take hit after hit, fall after fall, and still, they find the strength to stand up again and again.


It wasn’t until our last two days together that Francis told me her story, and it was then that I realized how much she embodies her slogan for the Guatemalan people. Throughout our nine days of class together, she always seemed to be walking that fine line between appreciating whatever life has offered to the fullest and breaking down from carrying all that life has piled on her shoulders. When she was sixteen she faced the death of her mother and the subsequent abandonment of her father. She got back up. She worked all day to take night classes where she was ridiculed for being a woman. She kept moving forward. She asked me not to share the details of her marriage, so suffice it to say that she now lives alone with her three daughters – aged 13, 10, and 6. She gets up every morning with a will to live.


What impressed me most is that, despite these setbacks, she can still laugh at my stupid stories about Gina and her boyfriend and me being pulled over by the cops for “taking pictures of kids.” In one of our conversations, she told me that we all have problems in life, but we have to remember the problem is never bigger than us. Never. Even if all the doors around us appear closed, “siempre hay una ventana por donde entra la luz.” There is always a window for the light to enter.

Francis, if I ever feel overwhelmed by the problems that life will throw at me, may the memory of you always be my window.

Friday, September 25, 2009

El Volcan!

The volcano Santa Maria stands just outside of town and watches over Xela like the all-seeing eye of Sauron in the Lord of the Rings’ land of Mordor. Clouds collide with its tree covered face on a daily basis but nevertheless there it remains strong and unfazed. With a peak reaching 3772 meters above sea level into the sky (about 1400 meters higher than the city), it’s a formidable yet conquerable opponent for a novice hiker.

Since my first day here the volcano peered at me from a distance, daring me to ascend its cloud piercing peak. This past Sunday, Andy and I decided to accept its challenge. No big deal, I convinced myself, we’ll walk up in the morning to beat the rain, take some cool pictures, and be back home in time for lunch. Considering I couldn’t make the ten minute walk to class without being winded, I had no idea what kind of struggle awaited me.

The night before our hike, I couldn’t sleep again. Aside from the constant pitter patter of rain drops on the thin roof, the night was unusually quiet; the dogs weren’t barking, no trucks roared by, and the roosters took the morning off. As I laid there unable to sleep, I thought about my struggles from the first week. If nothing else, these first five days made me realize how much harder learning Spanish would be than I ever could have imagined. I thought about how much I’d have to push myself to transform my lazy tongue into an ‘r’ rolling champion. I thought about all the awkward attempted conversations that I’d have to initiate to get there. I wondered if I have what it takes.

It felt like I only blinked when Andy walked through the door and said, “Time to get up, mate. It’s a gorgeous day.”

For the first time, we were the first ones up in the house. We skipped breakfast hoping that four oranges, eight water bottles, and two bites of chocolate would be enough to sustain us throughout the morning. By 6:30, we were out of the house.

The sky was a brilliant blue and we could clearly see the Santa Maria awaiting us in the distance as we walked to our bus stop. Vendors were setting up their fragrant flower displays and food stands as we boarded our surprisingly empty chicken bus.

We were dropped off twenty minutes later in a one-dirt-road farming neighborhood. During the bus ride, the volcano disappeared from sight in a swarm of clouds. About a half hour by foot away from the base, we walked up to the end of the road and – when the road ceased to exist – we continued onto the muddy dirt and rock path that we hoped would lead us to the cloud covered Santa Maria.

The plan was to switch on carrying the backpack every twenty minutes. It seemed reasonable enough and, thinking that I was a reasonably fit young man, I thought I could hold up my end of the bargain. I was wrong. Ten minutes into our uphill hike through farm fields, my feeble lungs struggled to make use of the thin air. Deep breaths were made all the more difficult by the pervasive smell of mud mixed with shit – dog shit, horse shit, bull shit… it was all there. Andy looked back to find me hunched over, sweating through my shirt, and wheezing as I tried to keep up. “You were carrying it before. Why don’t you let me carry the bag for a bit and we’ll switch in twenty,” he insisted. I didn’t carry the bag again the entire day.

A half hour in, my shirt and pants were soaked and I didn’t think I’d make it three more minutes never mind three more hours. A group of five Guatemalans around our age came up behind us, the guys dressed in jeans and track jackets; the girl with them wore a dress and slippers. “Hey, no excuses mate. She’s climbin’ in her bloody slippers,” Andy quipped. I almost collapsed on the spot.

Andy and I had been debating whether we had reached the base yet. We agreed that we had, but we still couldn’t see the volcano behind the clouds and we had no idea how far we had gone. We reached the base about twenty minutes after we thought we had. Then, in a most dramatic and timely fashion, the clouds thinned and we could see the forested face of the beast towering over us. All I could think to myself was, No fucking way.

There was a makeshift shack and a couple benches along the open path leading into the woodsy trail up the actual volcano. We stepped over roots and rocks as we followed the narrow trail through the forest. Andy, being the heavily bearded former Aussie rules football player that he is, set the pace. I tried to keep up. Surprisingly enough, however, for a while I found my stride and, though our pace was pretty deliberate, we seemed to be making decent ground for an hour plus.

Then the trail started getting steeper and the air a bit crisper. My feet started feeling heavier and my legs tightened. My lungs tried to convince me they couldn’t take anymore. For a while Andy ran off a head. I stopped to rest every few steps. My head throbbed and spun. Even my shoulders hurt. The trail was much steeper here. The sweat drenching my shirt cooled and circulation slowed to my extremities. I had never pushed my body like this before. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

“Tom!” It was Andy. Thank God, I thought as he finally came into sight with a bottle of water waiting for me. “I reckon we’re almost at the top,” he said excitedly. “You,” I breathed, “waited.” I continued panting. “That’d be pretty selfish of me to finish by myself, eh? We’re gonna finish this thing hand in hand, man. We got about ten more minutes to go, so here’s what we’re gonna do. Walk for one minute, breathe for ten seconds. Walk for one minute, breathe for ten seconds. Got it?”

The only things I remember seeing in those last minutes are the dirt and rock path in front of me and the back of Andy’s heels. When we got past the tree line, Andy made me take the lead. I trudged forward, refusing to stop or to glance to the side until we were at the very top.

Three hours and eight minutes after we stepped off the bus, we had reached the peak. The pictures and videos we took could never capture what it felt like to stand up there and look down on the clouds; to see for miles in every direction and look down on everything in sight. I felt so proud of myself… that is until we saw a group of Guatemalan women in dresses and flats having a full-on picnic (including several 2-liter bottles of soda). Then we saw a group of men and women with boxes filled with food to sell to hikers. As Andy and I sat and enjoyed our victory chocolate and orange, a Guatemalan man stumbled behind us and relieved himself of the huge sack he was carrying on his back. Andy was as dumbfounded as I.

After a half hour of enjoying the view and the accomplishment, we headed back down the way we came. We started off with ginger steps along the steep muddy path at the top; by the time we were halfway down the winding trail we were jogging, jumping over roots and ducking under low hanging branches. When we reached the base, the clouds had resettled and they opened up on us during the last stretch of our hike. By the time we reached the road, my legs were on autopilot. Each foot managed to throw itself in front of me just in time to catch me from falling as my momentum cast me forward.

I ran into a small shop and grabbed a 7-up and two tasteless but unbelievably satisfying pieces of bread while we waited for our bus. As I sat on the grass outside the shop with Andy I looked back on the volcano, now smothered on clouds. I thought to how utterly shitty I felt within the first ten minutes and couldn’t believe that I lasted another three hours. At that moment I felt like I could do anything I put my mind to.

I thought about my doubts from the previous night. I’ve only been here a week. I still have another six months to go, I told myself. It will be a long climb undoubtedly, but I can make it. I need to focus on how I’m doing and not worry about if some woman in a Mayan dress and slippers blows by me. Patience, perseverance, and maybe the help and encouragement of good friends along the way – with these things I can do anything I put my mind to.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Lady in the Cafe

She came into the café lugging a huge sack on her back and decided to set up shop right next to me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she unfolded blanket after colorful blanket onto the floor in the middle of the coffee shop. She wore a Mayan-style dress, but not of the ornate style that I saw much of earlier in the week. No her clothes were not glamorous at all. They looked dusty and worn out, as did her braided hair. As she was unrolling her products I noticed her lips gently whispering a prayer. I must have caught her glance because she looked at me and said, in English, “You like? Only 60 Quetzales.”

In contrast to most other shops in town, this coffee house had a spacious interior with cozy couches spread throughout the town and a ceiling window letting in just the right amount of sunlight. In Xela, there are enough places tailored to travelers like me to make you forget how surrounded you really are by poverty, injustice and daily suffering. Having just finished a Skype conversation with Julie and now updating my blog to the soundtrack of some Radiohead, I realized that is precisely what happened before the woman spoke to me.

“No thank you,” I responded in broken Spanish, “but your blankets are very nice.” I lack the ability to ignore another human being when he or she speaks to me – especially one who seems in need – but sometimes this gets me into situations that I’d rather not be in. She showed me another blanket – along with a picture of her making the blanket – and said, “I made this. With hands.” In her mouth she was missing all but five or six teeth. “It’s very pretty but I can’t buy one today,” I replied, trying my Spanish once again.

I put my headphones back in and tried returning to my writing, but I felt very rude. I thought music in my ears might diffuse the awkwardness of the situation, but I felt bad for this poor woman and couldn’t help but watch her out of the corner of my eye. Another foreigner walked by and didn’t even bother to look at the woman desperately trying to sell her a blanket. Beth, my housemate, strode by to the bathroom and – with her genuine smile – gave the woman a cheerful “No gracias.”

Once again, the woman grabbed my attention. “Are you student?” she inquired. “Yes… El Nahual. Lo conoces (do you know it)?” “Aye sí! Jaime (the director of the school) is my friend.” Her face lit up with excitement. “Write name here. I tell Jaime,” she said as she handed me an envelope. Not thinking, I wrote my first name. She continued, “I come martes (Tuesday).” Duh, I thought to myself, She wants to tell Jaime I want to buy a blanket from her. “No. I’m not going to buy a blanket martes.” “Martes. I come martes,” she repeated, possibly out of confusion, possibly out of hope. “I don’t want one,” I firmly stated, as I put my headphones back in.

She pressed her hands to her lips and, with her eyes closed, started praying more emphatically. Her body rocked back and forth desperately. Her face looked worried and worn, like she had not sold many blankets at all lately.

Once again she started talking to me, and once again I couldn’t ignore her. She told me in a mixture of broken English and Spanish that she did not live in town. She lived an hour outside of town where no one could buy her blankets. I told her, “No thank you,” again and she started folding up her merchandise.

I felt guilty sitting there on my computer with my biggest concerns at the moment being that I didn’t have a plug converter to charge my laptop and that the weather might postpone my hike up the volcano in town.

Hoisting her huge sack of blankets over her back, she looked back at me for one last sales pitch. “I come here next Saturday. Ok?” I said I probably wouldn’t be here. She talked me up to a maybe and I settled for that. Her English – at least her accent with the words she knew – was surprisingly good, so I told her that. “Isgood?” she asked for clarification. “’Is’ es es,” I responded, “y ‘good’ es bien.” “Sí?” she asked enthusiastically, her eyes squinting and her toothless mouth opening into a bright smile. “Is good,” she repeated. “Muchas gracias, Tom,” she said, maintaining that same smile as she walked out the door.

At least she left with something.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Differences and Similarities at La Feria



If I could use two words to describe my experience in Guatemala thus far they would be sensory overload. So much is different here and it’s amazing how hard the mind has to work to make sense of being in a completely new environment. Not only is the language foreign to me, but so is the food, the streets and their seeming lack of rules, the people, the volcanoes on the horizon, the altitude, public transportation… I could literally go on and on. What strikes me as equally strange, however, is how many things feel similar to back home.


This past Tuesday was the actual Independence Day of Guatemala and everyone in the country was given off. With no classes to attend or teach, my housemates and I decided to check out La Feria – the annual weeklong fair on the outskirts of town. It was about a two hour walk to reach La Feria so we decided to take our chances with the “Chicken Buses.” (Imagine if Pimp My Ride got a hold of an old US school bus but ran out of money before they got to the interior. That’s essentially a chicken bus).


Across from the Parque Democracia we found the suicidal shuttles and the masses waiting to hop on. We were herded onto this old school bus and my jaw dropped when I saw how crowded it was. There were literally four or five people crammed into almost every seat, and we still had room to stand in the aisle. It made rush-hour NYC subways look like first class seating.


The bus popped into gear and I literally had more weight supported by my arms than my feet as the bus stopped and accelerated without any predictability. I noticed a little white sign in the front that read “Do not stand past the white line” and then counted seven people standing next to the bus driver. I smirked to myself, and then we slowed – not stopped – and picked up two more people. Holy shit, I mused to myself, not even considering the possibility that it was going to happen three more times.


We got dropped off a mile from the actual fairgrounds and on any normal day you could tell that the road leading into it would be empty. Not today. Hundreds of vendors lined the street as we tried to make it through the impassable crowd. We were offered golden fried chicken, fruits and veggies, cheap wallets, purses, cell phone covers, blankets, clothes from Hollister and American Eagle – it was like Canal Street Xela style.


After about ten minutes of people-weaving through the crowd we made it to the hidden fair entrance. We squeezed through an alley with Mayan women selling hand-woven blankets and a crippled beggar until we reached the actual fairgrounds. We had “Apple Bottom Jeans” providing the soundtrack to our first steps past game stands, food carts, and scores of fairgoers. Everything felt so familiar yet completely foreign at the same time.


We wedged our way through the crowd and did a quick tour of the rides there. There were salt and pepper shakers, bumper cars, a Ferris wheel – everything you’d expect to see at a fair in the States, except most of the rides looked like they had been decommissioned and banned from the US a decade and a half ago. The queues were very informal and there were no safety fences letting you know how close was too close (I almost got decapitated by a kiddy-Tigger airplane). Too scared (and too cheap) to trust our lives to whatever safety belts were inside these rides, we decided instead to watch. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched families donning the colorfully ornate traditional Mayan garb smile and cheer spinning round on a Ferris wheel. After a couple refreshing beverages we decided that we’d had enough La Feria for one smoldering afternoon.


While clinging for dear life to a greasy chicken bus pole, unfortunately, the heat broke as the skies opened up. We scurried off the bus and took refuge under the closest shelter we could find – the small umbrella covering a taco stand. Earlier that afternoon the three of us had purchased a small drum for our little Guatemalan housemates – Javier, 6, and Diego Andres, 3 – and now Andy was carrying it under his shirt to protect it from the rain. As we huddled awkwardly next the vendor, Andy started playing the drum and not one of us – the Guatemalan woman included – could hold in the laughter. It was one of the many moments made much better by Andy’s ability to bring out the humor in any situation.


The rain let up and we made it two blocks before we had to hide again. Our next place of refuge: a Wendy’s. Standing by the doorway I saw dozens of Guatemalans feasting on the same Homestyle Chicken Filets and Double Bacon Cheeseburgers that I’d devoured on countless occasions back in the states. I looked directly across the street and, lo and behold, there was a McDonald’s. I thought to myself once again, Maybe I’m not so far from home after all.


Before heading home, we ran into a mall with a supermarket inside. The mall was quite small, but had all the types of stores you’d expect to find at a standard mall – electronics, clothes, cell phones. The grocery store contained so many familiar brands and products – Crest, Cheetohs, eggs, milk, juices, fruits and veggies – and the aisles were organized just like at home. The only difference was that most patrons were Guatemalan.


It wasn’t until the following night lying in bed again that I thought more about all the similarities and differences that I had been noticing. Down here Javier and Diego love Pizza Hut as much as I did when I was there age. Nancy – my host mom Paty’s sixteen year old daughter – plays with a cell phone at the table like my sister while the rest of her family eats and talks. Abuelita, as we affectionately call Paty’s mother, dyes her hair just like every woman in my family.


The more I thought about things the more I accepted that I’ll always be an outsider here; my personal history and that of everyone living here is so drastically different that I realized I’ll never be able to truly understand the struggles and joys of the people here. But the more I thought, the more I also realized that I have much more in common than many superficial details might lead me to conclude.


It’s this deeper ground that I hope to discover here.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Mi Primer Día: El Día del Independencia


“So how bout we grab a couple a bee-ahs and head ova to Tom and Claire’s place?” my Australian housemate Andy suggested. My first full day in Xela was September 14, hands-down the most popular day of the year in the city. At night, thousands of Guatemalans, Central Americans, and travelers alike flood the streets of the mountain city every year to celebrate the eve of their independence day. Wanting to be part of the festivities, I – along with Andy and his girlfriend Beth from England – were heading over to join some of the other El Nahual (my language school) students and volunteers.


Even near our Guate-home on the outskirts of the city the streets were nearly impassable. Everywhere I looked there was either someone jogging with a torch, people wearing the beautifully ornate Mayan clothing, Guatemalan flags being waved, or a high school marching band banging away on their drums with triumphant beats. Cars drove on the wrong side of the street and parked on curbs, motorcycles carried entire families, and the streets smelled like the inside of an exhaust pipe on a running car.


It sounds like chaos – and to my foreign American eyes it definitely seemed that way – but there was a strange order to it all; everyone there seemed to know the deal. It was then that I really started thinking about how alien all this was to me, or maybe how alien I was to it all. I had heard that it was a huge celebration, but I didn’t know what I was really celebrating. I had read a brief history of the day, but I had no way of feeling what the Guatemalans felt as they flocked to the park. I had heard that Guatemalans are distrustful of the government and of each other since their civil war finally ended thirteen years ago, but I had never seen people displaying so much pride for any city or nation.


We reached the other students’ home and joined them in the courtyard dividing all the rooms of the house. I sat among my fellow gringos drinking cheap yet refreshing Brazilian beer (less than 70 cents a can) and taking shots of the locally distilled and potentially lethal Quetzalteca (a type of rum without any flavoring or spices… it’s as awful as it sounds). One of the reasons I went alone on my trip was because I wanted to be as immersed as possible, but as I tried to make friends with my fellow travelers I wondered if I had just jumped from one bubble to another.


After a bit of drinking, our band of whiteys flocked to the very Spanish-looking Parque Central where all the fun was to be had. Walking up the wannabe cobblestone street we were faced with an impenetrable crowd. We headed four blocks over to the back of the square and sidled behind the long strand of street vendors. Fried tortillas and grilled meats polluted the air in the best way possible. Each stand’s food looked more appetizing than the last. There were churros and pupusas and tacos and “crazy corn” and fried corn and… well, you get the picture.


We heard there was a free concert on the other side of town so we decided to forego the square for now. While drinking my fresh Gallo (the Guatemalan beer of choice) courtesy of Andy and walking toward our mini-musical mecca for the night, I couldn’t believe how big this party really was. The concert itself was even more unbelievable. The only larger crowd I’ve ever seen in person was the Rage concert I went to two summers ago. On a separate note, Guatemalans themselves are quite small and, for the first time in my life, I was the tallest person in a crowd.


The entire crowd sang along to every song, and I once again I became too aware of how much of an outsider I was here. As this Guatemalan version of Three Doors Down rocked the stage with their guitars and pyrotechnics, I took comfort in being close to my fellow foreigners and knowing that they didn’t even know the band’s name either.


We headed back to the Parque Central to catch the midnight firework show and stuff our faces/punish our bowels with as much street vendor food as we could afford. The fireworks made me feel like I was in Joe’s backyard on the Fourth of July again and, for about ten minutes, I didn’t feel so far from home.



Instead of going out to some clubs Andy, Beth and I decided to walk home. The key to my room was broken when I arrived so Beth and Andy were my only way back into the house for the first couple days. This turned out to be a total blessing in disguise because they are two incredible people. But I digress, and I will undoubtedly write much more about them in the near future.


Lying in bed and quickly drifting towards sleep, my mind started worrying about my ability to immerse myself here. Would I always be an outsider? Would I connect with any actual Guatemalans or would those relationships be inevitably superficial? Would I be tempted into surrounding myself with English speakers or would I push myself to really learn the language outside of class? Could I even learn enough to have a real conversation?


I finally fell into a much-needed sleep and these questions no longer mattered, nor should they have. After all, it was only day two.


Monday, September 14, 2009

In the Bus Station

He stood there just feet in front of me huffing what smelled like turpentine from a small plastic bag. Struggling to balance himself, he turned his blank stare to meet mine. I studied his light blue jumpsuit, the drool falling from his mouth onto the bus station floor, and the string of dust and dirt hanging from his hands. I had just arrived in Xela – my destination for the next several weeks – and, as I had feared, there was no one waiting for me – well, besides for the junky. Trying to avoid eye contact was tough and even tougher when he grumbled something that I’m pretty sure wasn’t English, Spanish or any language. As I sat in that empty yet cramped waiting room alone with my bulky bags I realized I had absolutely no idea what I would do if he decided to attack me. What the hell am I doing here, I panicked.


At this point, it was 6:30 P.M. in Guatemala (2 hours behind New Jersey), and it had been fifteen hours since I left my house. Thus far, the rest of my trip went as well as it possibly could have. The airport – to my surprise – looked just like any other airport I’d ever flown into (though it was quite plain). I met the school’s contact who drove me to the bus station and purchased my ticket to Xela. My two hour wait flew by after I met a fellow traveler/aspiring Spanish student from Boston. Even the four-plus hour bus ride on a Greyhound from the early 70s (at least) gave me an unofficial tour of the mountainous countryside.


But when we finally made it to Xela, it was not the bright colorful place that I had seen in pictures. Rain clouds spilled over the mountains surrounding the city and refused to let the remaining daylight break through. The bus drove through the dark and damp city and pulled into a random hole in the wall/garage. Everyone got off. When no one was there to pick me up off the rainy street and I realized I couldn’t communicate well enough with anyone to find a phone to use, I retreated to the narrow bus station. For the first time all day, I felt scared.


Wanting to end this stare-down with the zombie-like junky, I got up and went to the desk. “Uhh… ¿Puedo usar su teléfono?” I struggled to spit out. “No, no,” the man said while turning away and laughing. I took a seat next to the desk and, to my surprise, he finally got the stoned man to leave.


At least he’s gone, I thought to myself, but the fact of the matter is I was still alone and unsure if anyone would be there to pick me up before the station closed. Where the hell is Jaime? With each passing car and pimped-out US school bus the anxiety grew and grew. I’m really not ready for this. Why the hell did I come alone? Guatemala... that sounds like a good idea… not. People would walk in and my heart would lift for a second only to be dropped as each one walked right by me. It was now completely dark in the city. I can’t even pay a cab driver, I reminded myself. Crap, crap, crap.


Then, amidst my mental turmoil, a short Guatemalan woman walked into the station and walked right up to me with a smile on her face. “¿Eres Tom?” Thank God. “¡Sí!” I almost shouted in her face. “Soy Patrícia,” my host mom.

We left the bus station and walked eight blocks back to her home – my new home. Suddenly the streets felt warmer and my Spanish started coming back to me. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.