It's surprising how quickly the days pass even though I don't have a job. It makes me wonder, when I did work and when I eventually work again, how I ever got anything done.
I realized over the weekend that I am in fact no longer a spring chicken. This is a realization that I seem to be having more and more frequently, but now it's gone beyond finding - and pulling mercilessly - unwanted wirey white hairs from my head.
I can see many of you rolling your eyes, but bear with me. This weekend I was again struck that I am getting older when my friends and I drank too much rum and then basically spent the entire next day in bed recovering. I guess we don't bounce back like we used to. Then the realization resurfaced as our conversations tended at times toward wrinkles, home-buying and wedding and baby showers. Ahem. Choke.
Well, then in a context entirely unrelated (or least not intentionally), we got to talking about death. As my friend was discussing her thesis (not to be divulged or really butchered by my ignorance on these pages), we began discussing just what you should do, or perhaps what your loved ones should do, with your body once you die. I always thought cremation was a reasonable plan, considering it's a total waste of space to bury bodies in the ground, we are running out of space, and I loathe cemeteries and don't want people to associate my life with such wastelands.
But then, apparently cremation is bad for the environment, and something like a third of mercury emissions are from burning our dental fixtures in the cremation process. And my brother once explained something about how burning bodies sucks energy from the atmosphere and creates more negative energy or something like that that skimmed somewhere just over my head.
Enter promession. Developed by a Swedish biologist, apparently it's a method of environmentally ethical body decomposition that involves freeze drying the body in liquid nitrogen, reducing it to a fine powder, removing all the artificial bits and then burying it in some kind of biodegradable casket. The idea is then the body will naturally become part of the earth, providing the proper nutrients for plant growth. I don't know much about it - in fact those last sentences were the extent of it. But so far it sounds like a more reasonable alternative to burial, which seems antiquated and unreasonable, and cremation. I understand it's still being developed, and from what I can see, it's slow to make waves in the U.S., but count me as a believer.
Which kind of brings me to the question: Should I have a living will? Morbid, I know, but I wonder when one is supposed to deal with such matters. I don't have any possessions to speak of, but should it be written somewhere who is in charge of my body and what I want done with it?
On a much lighter note, after much frustration on the job search front, I decided to dedicate some time each day to practicing Spanish. To this end, I went to the bookstore and bought a colorful children's book that I could read and translate. It's called El Capitan Calzoncillos. Already, I didn't know that last word, but bought it anyway, only to discover calzoncillos means underwear. I am reading a book called "Capitan Underwear and the perverse plan of Professor Pipicaca." I don't think Pipicaca translates, or perhaps it translates quite clearly. So that partially explains the cartoon picture on the cover of a bald, pink child wearing nothing but tighty whities and a red cape. Awesome.
Oh, and the title of this post is a quote I heard on NPR this weekend that seemed somehow fitting, or at least funny enough to share. It's from a Southern woman talking about the only circumstance in which it was acceptable for one to miss church: if you'vr got one foot in the grave and one on a banana peel.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Friday, March 24, 2006
more time-wasting career path debates as I struggle to get motivated to find a job
I just realized I haven't written anything all week. Maybe that's because very little that is noteworthy has happened to me this week. Nonetheless, here are some mindless ramblings:
On the job front, I did send out emails to two newspaper editors, and heard back from one who said there may be an opening in a month or so, but don't wait for it, because it might not happen, but if it does it would require me to use my brand spanking new Spanish speaking skills. I am not sure if that is promising or not. Plus, said newspaper is in my hometown, which brings me to question whether I could move back to a place I shunned and ran far, far away from the second I graduated high school. It's debateable. I always said I would never move back there. But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the town doesn't suck. In fact, there seem to be more young people there than I remembered from growing up, and something that in the right light mildly resembles a night life. I suppose I will take up this debate in full force if this position actually opens up. I guess in the meantime, I should be looking for work at more than two places.
I have also managed to articulate my immediate future into two potential paths:
Path A: Move to a random city - scratch that, tiny, one-horse town - somewhere in the country to get a job at a newspaper, likely covering the night cops beat or writing up the latest news from the town council hearings. The stories might be bird cage liner, but hey, I'd be cutting my teeth at a daily newspaper, earning journalistic credibility, proving my abilities to handle the rigors of daily deadlines. And there's always the chance that I'd hit the story of the year, like how the town commissioner is embezzleing money from the library fund to pay for underage gay prostitutes. Or something. My point is, Plan A means choosing job over location, and remember I did just drop a boatload of cash to go back to get a master's degree in hopes that I'd be better equipped for a daily.
Plan B: Scrap the newspaper deal and find a writing job in the city of my choice, preferably one where I have friends or the promise to make some. In this scenario, I have given up on the idea of earning stripes as a newspaperman and decided it's important to report and write regardless of the venue. I mean, who really reads newspapers anyway (besides my fellow J-school grads)? Aren't they a dying breed anyhow, and aren't most papers laying off reporters? And isn't now more feasable now to get good journalistic cred through online publications or magazines, rather than the traditional daily paper route? Plus, wouldn't it be nice to be paid more than mere peanuts? I mean, writing is writing is writing. Right?
I think this is a debate that I have bothered you with on this blog before, and now I'm doing it all over again. Part of me thinks I will continue to question this throughout my career, but I hope to at least settle on some kind of a choice soon so I can shut up and get a damn job.
In other less self-absorbed news, a man who owned a restaurant down the street from my father's house was found this week lying dead in the kitchen shot in the head. I know this happens every day all over the country, but I can't stop thinking about it, mainly because of the proximity to my family and the connections he and his family have throughout the neighborhood. It really is shocking.
On the job front, I did send out emails to two newspaper editors, and heard back from one who said there may be an opening in a month or so, but don't wait for it, because it might not happen, but if it does it would require me to use my brand spanking new Spanish speaking skills. I am not sure if that is promising or not. Plus, said newspaper is in my hometown, which brings me to question whether I could move back to a place I shunned and ran far, far away from the second I graduated high school. It's debateable. I always said I would never move back there. But, as I get older, I realize more and more that the town doesn't suck. In fact, there seem to be more young people there than I remembered from growing up, and something that in the right light mildly resembles a night life. I suppose I will take up this debate in full force if this position actually opens up. I guess in the meantime, I should be looking for work at more than two places.
I have also managed to articulate my immediate future into two potential paths:
Path A: Move to a random city - scratch that, tiny, one-horse town - somewhere in the country to get a job at a newspaper, likely covering the night cops beat or writing up the latest news from the town council hearings. The stories might be bird cage liner, but hey, I'd be cutting my teeth at a daily newspaper, earning journalistic credibility, proving my abilities to handle the rigors of daily deadlines. And there's always the chance that I'd hit the story of the year, like how the town commissioner is embezzleing money from the library fund to pay for underage gay prostitutes. Or something. My point is, Plan A means choosing job over location, and remember I did just drop a boatload of cash to go back to get a master's degree in hopes that I'd be better equipped for a daily.
Plan B: Scrap the newspaper deal and find a writing job in the city of my choice, preferably one where I have friends or the promise to make some. In this scenario, I have given up on the idea of earning stripes as a newspaperman and decided it's important to report and write regardless of the venue. I mean, who really reads newspapers anyway (besides my fellow J-school grads)? Aren't they a dying breed anyhow, and aren't most papers laying off reporters? And isn't now more feasable now to get good journalistic cred through online publications or magazines, rather than the traditional daily paper route? Plus, wouldn't it be nice to be paid more than mere peanuts? I mean, writing is writing is writing. Right?
I think this is a debate that I have bothered you with on this blog before, and now I'm doing it all over again. Part of me thinks I will continue to question this throughout my career, but I hope to at least settle on some kind of a choice soon so I can shut up and get a damn job.
In other less self-absorbed news, a man who owned a restaurant down the street from my father's house was found this week lying dead in the kitchen shot in the head. I know this happens every day all over the country, but I can't stop thinking about it, mainly because of the proximity to my family and the connections he and his family have throughout the neighborhood. It really is shocking.
Monday, March 20, 2006
tax time
I finally did my taxes this weekend and learned what I feared, but thought might be the case. I owe the federal government $2,000.
No, that's not a typo and as far as I know we didn't make any mistakes. That's two thousand dollars. What that is, friends, is highway robbery.
OK, that's not true. It's just how it is. See, I knew all year as I freelanced that I should be setting aside money for taxes, but I didn't. Instead I went to Central America for two months. And this morning I wrote two checks, one to the feds and one to the state, for nearly $2,000. Now the balance in my checking account is uncomfortably low and my savings account is nonexistent.
I realize around this time of year that my case is far from unusual. But as a friend of mine suffering similar financial woes put it, we had already mentally spent the little money we had. I had already started planning my next trip in a couple months, this time maybe to Mexico?
Instead, I am sitting in front of my computer, wearing all of my clothes and wrapped in a blanket, in the part of the apartment without heat - which is pretty much all of it except for one room closed off to contain the warmth generated from a demonically possessed gas heater. We're eating eggs and beans nearly every meal. I spent the afternoon scheming ways to make money, combing the job sites and subsequently getting disappointed at the prospects, and checking and rechecking my bank balance online just to see if a miracle had happened. Plus, one of my travel buddies is back in Roatan (after a while in Costa Rica), working to become a dive master, drinking endless Port Royals, sitting in hammocks and generally making my sub-freezing, penniless existence in upstate New York pale in comparison.
I can't help but think I am living a version of the time our parents always talked about while we rolled our eyes. Something about living in squalor to follow a dream or struggling to make ends meet on the road to happiness or up hill both ways in the snow and whatnot. Am I going to one day lean back in my chair, my eyes glazed over, and reminisce about these tough times and how we cut corners but built character?
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. In a few days, I am sure the shock will wear off and I'll be borrowing the car to go to Target. In fact, I've already booked a bus ticket to visit friends in New York this weekend.
No, that's not a typo and as far as I know we didn't make any mistakes. That's two thousand dollars. What that is, friends, is highway robbery.
OK, that's not true. It's just how it is. See, I knew all year as I freelanced that I should be setting aside money for taxes, but I didn't. Instead I went to Central America for two months. And this morning I wrote two checks, one to the feds and one to the state, for nearly $2,000. Now the balance in my checking account is uncomfortably low and my savings account is nonexistent.
I realize around this time of year that my case is far from unusual. But as a friend of mine suffering similar financial woes put it, we had already mentally spent the little money we had. I had already started planning my next trip in a couple months, this time maybe to Mexico?
Instead, I am sitting in front of my computer, wearing all of my clothes and wrapped in a blanket, in the part of the apartment without heat - which is pretty much all of it except for one room closed off to contain the warmth generated from a demonically possessed gas heater. We're eating eggs and beans nearly every meal. I spent the afternoon scheming ways to make money, combing the job sites and subsequently getting disappointed at the prospects, and checking and rechecking my bank balance online just to see if a miracle had happened. Plus, one of my travel buddies is back in Roatan (after a while in Costa Rica), working to become a dive master, drinking endless Port Royals, sitting in hammocks and generally making my sub-freezing, penniless existence in upstate New York pale in comparison.
I can't help but think I am living a version of the time our parents always talked about while we rolled our eyes. Something about living in squalor to follow a dream or struggling to make ends meet on the road to happiness or up hill both ways in the snow and whatnot. Am I going to one day lean back in my chair, my eyes glazed over, and reminisce about these tough times and how we cut corners but built character?
Perhaps I am being a bit melodramatic. In a few days, I am sure the shock will wear off and I'll be borrowing the car to go to Target. In fact, I've already booked a bus ticket to visit friends in New York this weekend.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
365 days of this garbage?
Yesterday was this blog's one year anniversary. Or would you call it a first birthday? I'm not sure, and to tell you the truth, I am not sure that means a thing, except perhaps just that I have been sharing my mindless drivel with the online world - that is, all three readers to stop by here - for a full year. Again, am I proud or embarrassed? Anyway, I thought at least it should just be pointed out. Cheers to "it's better than a mass email".
Also of note is my recent realization of how much I have moved around in the last year and a half. Last September I left a cushy job and comfortable life to move alone to Chicago. Then six months later after surviving a Chicago winter, I moved to Prague. After three months there and a long weekend back in my studio apartment in Chicago, I moved to Washington, DC for the summer. September (and graduating) brought me back to Chicago, but to a different tiny studio a stone's throw from my previous one. In January, I left again for two months in Central America, one month of that spent living with a family in Copan Ruinas, only to return knowing I needed to move yet again, this time out of Chicago and to upstate New York. In two months or less, I'll move again to some as of yet undisclosed location. Recounting all of this makes my head spin. I'm exhausted.
Also of note is my recent realization of how much I have moved around in the last year and a half. Last September I left a cushy job and comfortable life to move alone to Chicago. Then six months later after surviving a Chicago winter, I moved to Prague. After three months there and a long weekend back in my studio apartment in Chicago, I moved to Washington, DC for the summer. September (and graduating) brought me back to Chicago, but to a different tiny studio a stone's throw from my previous one. In January, I left again for two months in Central America, one month of that spent living with a family in Copan Ruinas, only to return knowing I needed to move yet again, this time out of Chicago and to upstate New York. In two months or less, I'll move again to some as of yet undisclosed location. Recounting all of this makes my head spin. I'm exhausted.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
A day in the life
It's been a few days since I have written, and after you hear what I have been doing (a typical day's schedule to follow), you will understand my void of any insight, and perhaps wish I hadn't taken the time to write this.
7 a.m. - wake up. Look, I might not have much to do, but that does not equal a cure for insomnia. And I did watch three recorded episodes of The OC last night (I couldn't stop!), and my mind was swimming with the drama that is the lives of Ryan and Marissa, et. al. So I'm up, and I decide to read for a bit, wondering why I fancy myself a writer but have yet to come up with phrases and analogies mere fractions as funny or clever as this author.
8:30 a.m. - cereal and coffee while watching the Today Show. I marvel again at the tragedy that is Anne Curry's hair, and then remember my conversation with my step-mother a couple days ago: Me: What's with Anne Curry's hair? It's looks horrid! Step-mother: She cut it off and gave it to Locks of Love. Me: Oh. Oops. So that's why she's been growing it out so long, which is kind of unheard of when it comes to TV anchor women. Well, I'm an ass. Today, it was on to hard-hitting coverage such as how Al tried (and didn't quite make it) to lose 20 pounds and a mock quiz show featuring a 10-year-old who has already published a book on presidential trivia and plans to run for the slot in 20 years. Hey, I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm not a social outcast.
9:30 - 12:30 p.m. - work, also known as putting in a few calls and emails, and spending the remaining 2 hours and 45 minutes organizing and renaming the 900 photos from our trip while listening to bachata on my computer. For three days I've been trying to pare down and arrange the photos for an online scrapbook, but I've only managed to narrow them down to 450, and it's going to take awhile to do captions for all of those. I also took time - about a half hour - to craft a five-line email in Spanish to my friend. It's getting harder and harder.
12:30 - lunch break. I made grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches, with my new favorite food: avocados.
1:30 - 2 - unexpected nap on chair after reading roughly four and a half pages of aforementioned book.
2:15 - back to work. I come to the decision that this freelance assignment due Friday is just not going to happen, what with my sources not telepathically sensing I need to contact them and thus preemptively calling me with the proper answers, kindly saving me from exerting any minute effort on the story. So I email my editor to tell him I need more time and that so many folks are declining to comment, and just as I hit send, two sources finally call me back. Shit. Now it looks like I'll have to file after all.
4:30 - I realize at this point that I am still in my pajama pants, with no plans to don jeans and leave the house. I also begin to feel my eyeballs drying out from staring at the computer screen tiled with 900 images of me, my friends, tropical trees, horses, sunsets and random strangers who we've coaxed to give the requisite thumbs-up pose for each shot. I think my muscles are also starting to atrophy, so I decide it's time to revisit the gym I just joined. Something tells me it's geared to a more life-seasoned crowd, as it's called Forever Young and has an aerobic class called Silver Sneakers, but I'm not daunted. I can stationary bike next to grandma without hesitation. In fact, upon my arrival, I am surprised at the unexpected amount of 20-something jocks (one in particular who looks like he overstayed his welcome at the Fake n Bake by about 18 hours and smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and something close to bananas).
7 - dinner of enchiladas, another variation on my Central American culinary theme, which I have yet to tire from. While eating, we watch a downloaded copy of 8 Simple Rules, the show that should have gone off the air the second John Ritter died, but instead limps on with only sporadically funny moments overpowered by dead father coping family themes. This particular episode was just weeks after his death, which they wrote into the show, and the daughters grapple with returning to school and struggling with the guilt of feeling an ounce of happiness or normalcy in a time when they should be mourning their father. All of a sudden, as I am sucking down a third enchilada, I am catapulted back to the fall of seventh grade when I returned to school motherless, greeted by oh-poor-you eyes and too-eager smiles from teachers and peers when really I just wanted to pretend it was just another middle school days, and oh my gah I can't believe she wore that, and isn't he so cute, and similar teenage dribble drabble. All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat, and it was clearly time to get up and do the dishes. Add that to the list of TV shows that hit too close to home and I can therefore no longer watch.
9 - finally the moment I've been waiting all week for: the newest episode of The OC. I wonder how Marissa will get along now that she and Ryan broke up, and what is happening with Mrs. Cooper-Nickle and Summer's dad?! And of course, I won't miss a chance to hear my BF mockingly quip in a high-pitched and comically timed voice "Biotch!" or "Oh snap!"
7 a.m. - wake up. Look, I might not have much to do, but that does not equal a cure for insomnia. And I did watch three recorded episodes of The OC last night (I couldn't stop!), and my mind was swimming with the drama that is the lives of Ryan and Marissa, et. al. So I'm up, and I decide to read for a bit, wondering why I fancy myself a writer but have yet to come up with phrases and analogies mere fractions as funny or clever as this author.
8:30 a.m. - cereal and coffee while watching the Today Show. I marvel again at the tragedy that is Anne Curry's hair, and then remember my conversation with my step-mother a couple days ago: Me: What's with Anne Curry's hair? It's looks horrid! Step-mother: She cut it off and gave it to Locks of Love. Me: Oh. Oops. So that's why she's been growing it out so long, which is kind of unheard of when it comes to TV anchor women. Well, I'm an ass. Today, it was on to hard-hitting coverage such as how Al tried (and didn't quite make it) to lose 20 pounds and a mock quiz show featuring a 10-year-old who has already published a book on presidential trivia and plans to run for the slot in 20 years. Hey, I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm not a social outcast.
9:30 - 12:30 p.m. - work, also known as putting in a few calls and emails, and spending the remaining 2 hours and 45 minutes organizing and renaming the 900 photos from our trip while listening to bachata on my computer. For three days I've been trying to pare down and arrange the photos for an online scrapbook, but I've only managed to narrow them down to 450, and it's going to take awhile to do captions for all of those. I also took time - about a half hour - to craft a five-line email in Spanish to my friend. It's getting harder and harder.
12:30 - lunch break. I made grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches, with my new favorite food: avocados.
1:30 - 2 - unexpected nap on chair after reading roughly four and a half pages of aforementioned book.
2:15 - back to work. I come to the decision that this freelance assignment due Friday is just not going to happen, what with my sources not telepathically sensing I need to contact them and thus preemptively calling me with the proper answers, kindly saving me from exerting any minute effort on the story. So I email my editor to tell him I need more time and that so many folks are declining to comment, and just as I hit send, two sources finally call me back. Shit. Now it looks like I'll have to file after all.
4:30 - I realize at this point that I am still in my pajama pants, with no plans to don jeans and leave the house. I also begin to feel my eyeballs drying out from staring at the computer screen tiled with 900 images of me, my friends, tropical trees, horses, sunsets and random strangers who we've coaxed to give the requisite thumbs-up pose for each shot. I think my muscles are also starting to atrophy, so I decide it's time to revisit the gym I just joined. Something tells me it's geared to a more life-seasoned crowd, as it's called Forever Young and has an aerobic class called Silver Sneakers, but I'm not daunted. I can stationary bike next to grandma without hesitation. In fact, upon my arrival, I am surprised at the unexpected amount of 20-something jocks (one in particular who looks like he overstayed his welcome at the Fake n Bake by about 18 hours and smells overwhelmingly of vanilla and something close to bananas).
7 - dinner of enchiladas, another variation on my Central American culinary theme, which I have yet to tire from. While eating, we watch a downloaded copy of 8 Simple Rules, the show that should have gone off the air the second John Ritter died, but instead limps on with only sporadically funny moments overpowered by dead father coping family themes. This particular episode was just weeks after his death, which they wrote into the show, and the daughters grapple with returning to school and struggling with the guilt of feeling an ounce of happiness or normalcy in a time when they should be mourning their father. All of a sudden, as I am sucking down a third enchilada, I am catapulted back to the fall of seventh grade when I returned to school motherless, greeted by oh-poor-you eyes and too-eager smiles from teachers and peers when really I just wanted to pretend it was just another middle school days, and oh my gah I can't believe she wore that, and isn't he so cute, and similar teenage dribble drabble. All of a sudden, I felt a lump in my throat, and it was clearly time to get up and do the dishes. Add that to the list of TV shows that hit too close to home and I can therefore no longer watch.
9 - finally the moment I've been waiting all week for: the newest episode of The OC. I wonder how Marissa will get along now that she and Ryan broke up, and what is happening with Mrs. Cooper-Nickle and Summer's dad?! And of course, I won't miss a chance to hear my BF mockingly quip in a high-pitched and comically timed voice "Biotch!" or "Oh snap!"
Monday, March 13, 2006
looking for the "right" job
I got an email this morning from a mentor who said she heard I was having a hard time finding the right job. Interesting. This raises two questions: a) who's talking about my job search, and b) is it fair to say I can't find the "right" job, when technically I haven't started looking for any job?
Jobs. Oh, jobs. It took me many months to free myself from the competitive judgmental grasp that was graduate school. The pressure to find the most amazing journalism job in all the land was enough to stifle me into not looking for work at all. So I freelanced. And then I traveled. And how I am back - with hopefully a somewhat clearer mind to determine what it is I want to do for a living and a renewed motivation to dive head-first into the hunt.
The "for a living" part here is key. I think so many people forget that jobs are just that - work. What you do each day to earn a paycheck and contribute to society does not define you as a person. It might sound basic, but I think people tend to overlook that, giving too much weight to occupation and not enough to hobbies, friends, interests....
That said, I fear that it has been so long since I got up in the morning to go to an office, that entering the workforce again is going to be a struggle. I mean, if I work all day, how am I ever going to find the time to listen to Latin music and look at the pictures from our trip for hours on end (which is just what I have been doing for the past three days)? My friend says we should allow ourselves this time to reminisce about the trip, rehashing stories and pine for the tropical adventures. I hope she's right, because right now we can't seem to get enough. No, she doesn't have a job either, which might also contribute to the current state of affairs.
I came home this weekend to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My step-mother arranged it, and after a week of trying to coordinate the surprise, we have decidedly determined she would be a terrible covert CIA agent. Her whispers into the phone with my dad in the next room and her plans to call my cell phone, let it ring once and hang up to signal they are ready for my grand entrance just didn't come across smoothly. Perhaps the biggest mistake was her asking my dad to lunch on Saturday. She never wants to go out to lunch, much less pay for it, on a weekend day when there is yard work to be done and no doubt days-old leftovers that can be resuscitated into an acceptable meal. My pops was a little suspicious, but when we walked into the BBQ restaurant (that's right, this is the South, after all), the look on his face was priceless.
Jobs. Oh, jobs. It took me many months to free myself from the competitive judgmental grasp that was graduate school. The pressure to find the most amazing journalism job in all the land was enough to stifle me into not looking for work at all. So I freelanced. And then I traveled. And how I am back - with hopefully a somewhat clearer mind to determine what it is I want to do for a living and a renewed motivation to dive head-first into the hunt.
The "for a living" part here is key. I think so many people forget that jobs are just that - work. What you do each day to earn a paycheck and contribute to society does not define you as a person. It might sound basic, but I think people tend to overlook that, giving too much weight to occupation and not enough to hobbies, friends, interests....
That said, I fear that it has been so long since I got up in the morning to go to an office, that entering the workforce again is going to be a struggle. I mean, if I work all day, how am I ever going to find the time to listen to Latin music and look at the pictures from our trip for hours on end (which is just what I have been doing for the past three days)? My friend says we should allow ourselves this time to reminisce about the trip, rehashing stories and pine for the tropical adventures. I hope she's right, because right now we can't seem to get enough. No, she doesn't have a job either, which might also contribute to the current state of affairs.
I came home this weekend to surprise my father for his 60th birthday. My step-mother arranged it, and after a week of trying to coordinate the surprise, we have decidedly determined she would be a terrible covert CIA agent. Her whispers into the phone with my dad in the next room and her plans to call my cell phone, let it ring once and hang up to signal they are ready for my grand entrance just didn't come across smoothly. Perhaps the biggest mistake was her asking my dad to lunch on Saturday. She never wants to go out to lunch, much less pay for it, on a weekend day when there is yard work to be done and no doubt days-old leftovers that can be resuscitated into an acceptable meal. My pops was a little suspicious, but when we walked into the BBQ restaurant (that's right, this is the South, after all), the look on his face was priceless.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
I'm a big winner
I have been getting calls for a Mr. or Mrs. Foley for several months now, or sometimes just for Ilene, and each time I tell them they have the wrong number and don't think much of it.
Until today, when apparently I won a giant sweepstakes. After I told the caller that once again he had the wrong number, he said "Look, I am just trying to reach the man or woman of the house with this phone number. It's been entered into a sweepstakes and we have been trying to reach you for a while to claim the prize, which is a new Mercedes Benz or a $1,500 shopping spree."
Me: Right. Okay. Well, I guess I am the woman of the house.
Man on the phone: Great, then you are eligible to collect these prizes. You just have to take down this 800 number and call Mark Foley.
Me: Mark Foley?
Man: Yes, he can arrange for you to collect your prizes.
I know, I know. There is a catch. There is always a catch, but I have to tell you, a significant part of me got a bit excited, and I would be lying if I hadn't already pictured my hair flapping in the wind as I screeched down the street in my new sleek Mercedes, windows rolled down, reggaeton blaring. Oh and all the things I could buy with $1,500..... Shoot, I'll call this Mark guy.
A woman answers the 800 number, saying something about a sweepstakes collection center. I ask for Mark. He's busy, but maybe she can help me. I explain the situation, how I'm not Mrs. Foley but apparently my phone number won and so I'd like to kindly collect on these prizes and by the way, can I choose the color of the car?
Enter the catch. All you have to do is take a 90-minute tour of some suburban Illinois resort and then I will be directly ushered to the garage where my shiny black sports car is waiting with the keys in the ignition.
Instead, tomorrow I will be behind the wheel of a giant boat of a rental car - I am banking on a Cutlass Supreme? - packed high with the last of my belongings, shedding a small tear as I leave this fabulous city of mine.
Until today, when apparently I won a giant sweepstakes. After I told the caller that once again he had the wrong number, he said "Look, I am just trying to reach the man or woman of the house with this phone number. It's been entered into a sweepstakes and we have been trying to reach you for a while to claim the prize, which is a new Mercedes Benz or a $1,500 shopping spree."
Me: Right. Okay. Well, I guess I am the woman of the house.
Man on the phone: Great, then you are eligible to collect these prizes. You just have to take down this 800 number and call Mark Foley.
Me: Mark Foley?
Man: Yes, he can arrange for you to collect your prizes.
I know, I know. There is a catch. There is always a catch, but I have to tell you, a significant part of me got a bit excited, and I would be lying if I hadn't already pictured my hair flapping in the wind as I screeched down the street in my new sleek Mercedes, windows rolled down, reggaeton blaring. Oh and all the things I could buy with $1,500..... Shoot, I'll call this Mark guy.
A woman answers the 800 number, saying something about a sweepstakes collection center. I ask for Mark. He's busy, but maybe she can help me. I explain the situation, how I'm not Mrs. Foley but apparently my phone number won and so I'd like to kindly collect on these prizes and by the way, can I choose the color of the car?
Enter the catch. All you have to do is take a 90-minute tour of some suburban Illinois resort and then I will be directly ushered to the garage where my shiny black sports car is waiting with the keys in the ignition.
Instead, tomorrow I will be behind the wheel of a giant boat of a rental car - I am banking on a Cutlass Supreme? - packed high with the last of my belongings, shedding a small tear as I leave this fabulous city of mine.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
It's snowing here.
Really. Snowing. These shenanigans have been going on for hours now. I know what you are thinking: Sara, you live in Chicago. It's still winter there. It snows in Chicago all the ever-loving time.
And yes, the weather would not be that big of a deal if a) I didn't just get back from the freaking island tropics where I was tan and constantly sweaty and b) I didn't have my winter jacket stolen from the bar this weekend. Who, by the way, steals coats? Especially since it's (hopefully) mere weeks until spring breaks, stores have already shipped out their coats and are stocked with sun dresses, and I have absolutely zero dollars in the bank to shell out for a new coat. Curses.
Nerd alert for the day: One of my traveling buddies and I have been emailing back and forth each day in Spanish, each note including four or five new vocab words. Nerdy, we know, but I am hoping this will help us retain the Spanish. Words for today included asombroso (amazing) and pasmoso (awesome). Surprised?
In other news, I am moving from Chicago. I recently came to the realization that it was high time for me to live in the same city as mi amor, so I am moving to be with him. Enough of this crappy long-distance business. And as I am subletting my place, selling my stuff, packing up my clothes and having last nights dancing and last mornings afters eating at Clarks, I am finding that it feels just right.
And yes, the weather would not be that big of a deal if a) I didn't just get back from the freaking island tropics where I was tan and constantly sweaty and b) I didn't have my winter jacket stolen from the bar this weekend. Who, by the way, steals coats? Especially since it's (hopefully) mere weeks until spring breaks, stores have already shipped out their coats and are stocked with sun dresses, and I have absolutely zero dollars in the bank to shell out for a new coat. Curses.
Nerd alert for the day: One of my traveling buddies and I have been emailing back and forth each day in Spanish, each note including four or five new vocab words. Nerdy, we know, but I am hoping this will help us retain the Spanish. Words for today included asombroso (amazing) and pasmoso (awesome). Surprised?
In other news, I am moving from Chicago. I recently came to the realization that it was high time for me to live in the same city as mi amor, so I am moving to be with him. Enough of this crappy long-distance business. And as I am subletting my place, selling my stuff, packing up my clothes and having last nights dancing and last mornings afters eating at Clarks, I am finding that it feels just right.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
"Jesus hates peanut butter"
I just saw this scrawled on the bathroom at the Melrose Restaurant (I know, it took me less than 24 hours to get my ass there.... I love me some sweet and sour cabbage soup....). I thought the phrase was hysterical. And unequivocally wrong. I am sure Jesus loves peanut butter.
I have spent the entire day listening to reggaeton and I only threw the TP in the garbage can a couple times. Yep, I'm settling right back in.
So it's 3 p.m. and I just realized I have no idea what to do with my life. Career-wise, that is. Am I back to asking the annoying journalism questions that have chased me for the last half year: Newspapers or online? Back to magazines? If I forgo newspaper work, have I failed? Why do I feel pressured to get an amazing job which will thus define me as an amazing, successful person? Will I ever be able to find a job?! (OK, I haven't really started looking for a job, but I am sitting at my computer and I have visited Journalismjobs, so that's a start, right?)
Right as I felt the life-changes come-apart sneaking up and I was feeling overwhelmed by the site of my train wreck apartment and utter lack of order, I did what every sane woman does. I made a hair appointment. Joel seems to make everything OK and feeling cute puts everything into perspective.
I have spent the entire day listening to reggaeton and I only threw the TP in the garbage can a couple times. Yep, I'm settling right back in.
So it's 3 p.m. and I just realized I have no idea what to do with my life. Career-wise, that is. Am I back to asking the annoying journalism questions that have chased me for the last half year: Newspapers or online? Back to magazines? If I forgo newspaper work, have I failed? Why do I feel pressured to get an amazing job which will thus define me as an amazing, successful person? Will I ever be able to find a job?! (OK, I haven't really started looking for a job, but I am sitting at my computer and I have visited Journalismjobs, so that's a start, right?)
Right as I felt the life-changes come-apart sneaking up and I was feeling overwhelmed by the site of my train wreck apartment and utter lack of order, I did what every sane woman does. I made a hair appointment. Joel seems to make everything OK and feeling cute puts everything into perspective.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos
I'm home. The past few days have been jam-packed with traveling. We left Roatan at about 6 a.m. on Saturday (with four new friends in tow, which I expected to be a huge pain in the ass since we were on a tight time schedule - and I am neurotic - but it actually worked out quite well... The only mishap was that in a sleepy hungover haze, we got into the wrong cab, thinking we were piling into the one we arranged and paid $10 for the day before), and got to Copan in time for the discoteca.
Being back in Copan for the weekend was a nice way to end the trip. Although a few things had changed in just a couple weeks (for example, the school had moved to a new building, and of course, all our teachers had new students), it felt familiar. It was also quite a test of our Spanish skills. We had dinner one night with one of our teachers, and basically flubbed for the first 20 minutes. But by the time we started playing Spanish scrabble with her 6-year-old, we were right back on the Spanish-speaking track, albeit at an elementary level.
Now that I have landed home safe and sound, I can voice a few things I didn't want to say for fear of jinxing us. For one, now I can honestly say no major tragedies happened on this trip; none of us was mugged or bags slashed or luggage lost or travel plans foiled. Sure we all had diarrhea for weeks, I had violent food poisoning, two others were out with a bacteria for a week or so.... but nothing too detrimental. Not a bad trip.
There are already a few things I miss, topping the list are eating baleadas and speaking Spanish. But here a few things I welcome upon my return to the States: hot showers, washing machines (and dryers for Pete's sake!), high speed Internet, flushing the TP down the toilet... I guess it's the little things.
And I am sure I will do some more reminiscing about the trip as I put in my Reggaeton CD and cook up some huevos y frijoles, but really I guess now my blog will return to more mundane musings. Like my shower regimen experiment and whether I am really Jewish.
Being back in Copan for the weekend was a nice way to end the trip. Although a few things had changed in just a couple weeks (for example, the school had moved to a new building, and of course, all our teachers had new students), it felt familiar. It was also quite a test of our Spanish skills. We had dinner one night with one of our teachers, and basically flubbed for the first 20 minutes. But by the time we started playing Spanish scrabble with her 6-year-old, we were right back on the Spanish-speaking track, albeit at an elementary level.
Now that I have landed home safe and sound, I can voice a few things I didn't want to say for fear of jinxing us. For one, now I can honestly say no major tragedies happened on this trip; none of us was mugged or bags slashed or luggage lost or travel plans foiled. Sure we all had diarrhea for weeks, I had violent food poisoning, two others were out with a bacteria for a week or so.... but nothing too detrimental. Not a bad trip.
There are already a few things I miss, topping the list are eating baleadas and speaking Spanish. But here a few things I welcome upon my return to the States: hot showers, washing machines (and dryers for Pete's sake!), high speed Internet, flushing the TP down the toilet... I guess it's the little things.
And I am sure I will do some more reminiscing about the trip as I put in my Reggaeton CD and cook up some huevos y frijoles, but really I guess now my blog will return to more mundane musings. Like my shower regimen experiment and whether I am really Jewish.
Friday, February 24, 2006
"Divers are special people"
We are now certified open water divers, which I suppose is kind of surprising considering that less than a week ago, I had never considered diving before and even when we got here, I was sure it didn't interest me at all. Now, we are pretty much hooked.
I must admit, though, I don't think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift - as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don't blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don't forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.
The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand - which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about - and taking out your respirator to use your buddy's, in case you run out of air.
Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn't have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.
But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn't going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn't explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.
A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.
One more thing that's tough about diving: you can't really laugh underwater. You can't talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying "that was fucking amazing" a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).
I must admit, though, I don't think I am a natural at it. I was the one in the small class of four that was slowest to pick it up. For the few few dives, I found myself close to panic attacks, struggling to feel comfortable breathing and not feeling like my head was going to explode. Really, I had a hard time getting over the idea that we were breathing air underwater (even though I was strapped with a heavy ass air tank). It all feels a little counter-intuitive. Also, it felt much like learning to drive a stick shift - as you descend you have to remember to breath deep, exhaling fully to allow yourself to sink, equalize the air in your nose and ears constantly so you don't blow your ear drums, go slow and relax and don't forget to use all the appropriate hand signals.
The first day or so of diving was mainly a bunch of underwater skills, the worst being the one where you drop to the bottom and then have to take off your mask then put it back on and clear the water out of it. I am not sure why, but that was one of the hardest for me. We also got to do fun stuff like hover over the sand - which the first few times more closely resembled flailing about - and taking out your respirator to use your buddy's, in case you run out of air.
Yesterday afternoon was our fourth dive, and the final dive of the course. We didn't have to bother with skills, so we just got to go down about 60 feet and swim along the coral and the fish. It was amazing. We saw turtles, crabs, vibrantly colored parrot fish and trumpet fish and entire schools of fish that seemed to be swimming with us. A couple folks even saw a massive eagle ray. And more than looking around and identifying sea life, the whole experience of slowing moving along with them underwater just feet from the intricate and delicate coral was just breathtaking.
But it kind of took me a while to relax, which for those that know me well, is probably not surprising. See, I tend to be a little high strung, perhaps a bit tense. Rather than just let go and enjoy the experience, I find myself preoccupied with worst-case scenarios or slight discomforts. It was hard for me to shake the concerns of making sure my airspaces are equalized or that my mask wasn't going to fill up with water or that my head wouldn't explode. I did get more comfortable with each dive, and I expect the fun dive we have planned for today will be fine.
A self-reflective note: With all my anxieties and inabilities to relax, this trip has been good for me. I might be a little slow on the uptake with new experiences, but there have been a few times in the past two months that I have really pushed my boundaries and been pleasantly surprised. For example, the first time we went horseback riding, every single muscle in my body was tense and all I could picture was me flying forward head first and smashing out all of my teeth. By the second and third ride, I was ready to move to the country and buy a horse. It was similar with diving. The first few times, I was convinced my head would explode or I would drown or have an underwater come-apart. The third and fourth dive were progressively more enjoyable, and I am excited about getting in the water today.
One more thing that's tough about diving: you can't really laugh underwater. You can't talk or giggle, and signaling for your buddy to see what you are seeing is tough (which is why we are incessantly chatting and smiling the second we get back in the boat, after saying "that was fucking amazing" a few times the second our heads are above water and our respirators out of our mouths).
Monday, February 20, 2006
"There isn't much to do here unless you're diving"
It seemed that everyone we talked to told us that if we were not diving here in Roatan, we'd have nothing to do. We thought that would be fine, but then I realized that I am the kind of person who needs an activity, some kind of outside stimulation, rather than simply sitting in the hot sun for the entire day.
So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.
By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.
The only catch is that I don't have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer "yes" to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.
First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor's brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there's no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor's advice.
So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.
So we decided to get certified to dive. Apparently this is the cheapest place in the world to learn and has some of the best conditions for diving. Not that I know a thing about diving, or even considered it until about 9 a.m. yesterday when sitting outside drinking a cup of coffee, we began chatting with some of the divers and decided maybe this is something we should do.
By 5 p.m. yesterday, we had our books and three chapters of homework. Today, we watching videos and I guess tomorrow we get in the water.
The only catch is that I don't have the most ideal sinuses, which I understand could be a hitch in diving. Filling out the questionnaire yesterday, I had to answer "yes" to a couple questions, including one about sinus surgery and allergy medications. This prompted orders from the dive instructor for me to visit the local dive doctor, which as expected, was something of an adventure this morning.
First of all, this doctor sounded kind of like a wack job when the instructor was describing him. For example, the instructor's brother has severe asthma and his doc at home warned him against any form of underwater activity. But this doctor here said it was fine, just ascend a bit slower. In fact, that was his advice for another woman whose condition was infected bug bites on her legs. No, I agree there's no connection between ascension speed and bug bites, but that was this doctor's advice.
So I went to see him this morning and paid $15 for him to look in my ears and nose and tell me I am good to go. He explained a few things about what can happen to my ears if there is too much pressure, but that I should just equalize more frequently (holding your nose and blowing out so that your ears pop a bit) and, of course, ascend slower.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
our trip to the beach
Por fin, we are at the beach. We made our way to the Bay Islands of Honduras on Thursday, which turned out to be yet another adventure. Here's a rough sketch of the day's events:
6 a.m. - Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.
7:15 - Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba.... then on to Roatan).
7:25 - Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.
8:10 - Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.
9 - The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses - this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.
About 10:30 or so - We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town's name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it's the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.
Sometime after 11 - I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That's just how it's done, I guess.
12:15 - Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.
The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping - all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can't complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.
I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.
Querida Port Royal,
Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo - delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.
Con amor,
Sara
6 a.m. - Wake up, pack, order some breakfast, pay for our room and suck down some fruit and granola.
7:15 - Run out of the hotel and down the street, lugging our packs, with little knowledge of how we are getting to Roatan, save for a recommendation that we hitch a 7:30 speed boat ride to Puerto Barrios, Guatemala. This was to avoid ever having to set foot in Rio Dulce again (which was the original plan, return to RD and catch a bus to La Ceiba.... then on to Roatan).
7:25 - Make our way to one of the docks, where some man asked us where we were going. We say Puerto Barrios, and he hurries us into a speed boat, which was empty except for three open buckets of fish and three locals. About 30 Q and a few seconds later, we were speeding to Puerto Barrios.
8:10 - Arrive at PB. Off the boat, we tell another stranger where we are trying to get. He says there is in fact no direct bus to La Ceiba (where we know we need to be to catch a ferry to Roatan). He says we first have to go to this tiny border town, then to Puerto Cortez, then to San Pedro Sula (a total shithole that we were hoping to avoid) and then to La Ceiba. Geez. So we agree and pay an inordinate amount of money for a less-than-an-hour shuttle ride to a nothing border town.
9 - The driver pulls over and tells us this is our stop, but it looks more like a construction site with a few school buses parked along the road. This, we suppose, is the border crossing. He points to the line of buses and says they will take us to Puerto Cortez. After paying the immigration guards an exit fee, stamping our passports and hovering around the pseudo bus depot, we board one of said chicken buses - this one painted white and green and souped up with booming speakers mounted above the back door and a blinking license plate cover mounted near the front door.
About 10:30 or so - We arrive in Puerto Cortez, after having traveled through some tiny coastal towns, each marked by a blue Pepsi sign with the town's name under the logo. We talked with a few people (including a police officer from San Pedro Sula), and just sat back and enjoyed hearing the much-welcomed blaring Reggaeton and seeing Port Royal signs out the windows. (If I have not already mentioned Port Royal, it's the best beer ever. Honduran and awesome. More on that later.) We felt relaxed, like we were on our way home, sort of.
Sometime after 11 - I lose track, but at some point around 11, we arrive in PC, board yet another bus, this one a smaller shuttle, for an hour long ride to San Pedro Sula. Pretty uneventful, but yes, to answer your question, we went from riding along the coast to them back tracking inland down to SPS in order to go back up to the coast. That's just how it's done, I guess.
12:15 - Arrive at the bus station in SPS, buy ticket to La Ceiba and then wander across the street for cheese empanadas from a street vendor. We had been talking about empenadas (and baleadas and Port Royals) since we left Copan, and were really craving them. We inhaled them just in time to board the final bus of the day. About four hours later, we got to La Ceiba.
The next morning, we left one of the many danky hotels we have stayed in to catch a 10 a.m. ferry ride to Roatan. Yesterday was gorgeous: clear blue skies over sandy white beaches, lush tropical plants and palm trees, and of course cold Port Royals. The only catch here is that it is inordinately expensive. First of all, most prices are listed in American dollars, which I find annoying since last time I checked we were in Honduras and I was trying to experience the country and the language. Hotels, food, shopping - all of it is close to American prices (OK, except for lodging but $10 a night each feels like a lot after spending mere dollars to crash). But really, I can't complain. We are settling in for a week of sunning and relaxing.
I will end this entry with an open letter to Port Royal. In Spanish.
Querida Port Royal,
Te amo. Cuando yo viajaba en Guatemala, te extrane. Tu estas la mejor cerveza en todo el mundo - delicioso, fresco y mas barrato. Me gusta tomarte con limon y sal. Cuando estoy tomandote, me recuerdo nuestro viaje en Honduras y estoy feliz. Espero que nosotros podamos tomarte en los Estados Unidos cuando regresemos. Pero ahora, nosotros vamos a tomarte mucho. Gracias.
Con amor,
Sara
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
living is easy in Livingston
If you are every considering going to Rio Dulce, Guatemala, don't. We arrived by the insane chicken bus and checked into probably the worst hotel on the face of the planet. For 35Q each (way too damn much for this shithole), we got a bright blue concrete room with three beds - one of which was more like a warped wooden palet with a sheet - no blankets, no running water, no flushing toilets and a night filled with a cacophany of noises. We woke up, or rather, we sat up after laying in this dump for most of the night, and promptly left Rio Dulce.
After a two and a half hour boat ride up the river, we arrived in Livingston, a place unlike any other in Guatemala. (Sidebar: the boat ride was billed as a tour, with stops at a bird island, hot springs, and a random oasis of lily pads, but calling it a tour is pushing it. The boat driver would pull over, say nothing, we would all take pictures of what we guessed were hot springs or a bird sanctuary, and then the boat would pull away. Strange, but the scenery was breathtaking.)
First of all, the people here in Livingston are mostly black, which we haven't we haven't seen much of since traveling in Central America. The majority of the people are Garifuna, which is decendant from African slaves and Caribs here. Livingston is on the mouth of the Carribean, and at one point we were standing on the Guatemalan beach looking out at Belize to our right and Honduras to our left. The Garifuna call it La Boga which means The Mouth, since it's the mouth of the Carribean. It's incredible. Anyway, the people are beautiful and kind and laid back and everywhere you turn, there is fish frying and drum music playing. Oh, and the landscape is much more tropical than we have seen so far, complete with lush jungle-like brush, palm trees, white sandy beaches, and crystal clear water.
We are staying at this gorgeous little hotel complete with thatched hut cabanas and fresh fish dinners. Today we wandered down the beach today (for about an hour and a half) and made it to Siete Altares, which were seven waterfalls... really today they were like five pools of cool water and a ton of rocks since it hasn't rained in so long, but it was amazing. This place really is unbelievable.
This morning, we also met a man on the street named Polo, who suggested we eat at a Garifuna's house to get a real authentic experience. He then proceeded to lead us down the beach, stopping into his friends' houses until he found a friend who would cook us dinner tonight. So we went back this evening and had grilled red snapper and rice cooked in coconut milk. The meal was amazing, mainly for the experience of being in these people's home and talking with them. Polo told us all about the Garifuna, the lifestyle (really, really laid back), the history, racial tensions between the blacks and the Hispanics here (some things are univeral around the world, I guess.) It was a good way to really get a better understanding of Livingston, the people, the culture.
As much as I have fallen in love with every place we have visited (besides Rio Dulce, that shithole), Livingston really struck a chord with me. Just walking down the street and feeling the energy... this whole town feels alive and happy, and the people just seem to be enjoying their lives. It's been nice to experience a culture so vastly different than what we have been living in the past month or so. I understand it's similar at the beach on the Bay Islands, which si Dios quiere, we will be heading tomorrow... that is if we can tear ourselves away from this place.
After a two and a half hour boat ride up the river, we arrived in Livingston, a place unlike any other in Guatemala. (Sidebar: the boat ride was billed as a tour, with stops at a bird island, hot springs, and a random oasis of lily pads, but calling it a tour is pushing it. The boat driver would pull over, say nothing, we would all take pictures of what we guessed were hot springs or a bird sanctuary, and then the boat would pull away. Strange, but the scenery was breathtaking.)
First of all, the people here in Livingston are mostly black, which we haven't we haven't seen much of since traveling in Central America. The majority of the people are Garifuna, which is decendant from African slaves and Caribs here. Livingston is on the mouth of the Carribean, and at one point we were standing on the Guatemalan beach looking out at Belize to our right and Honduras to our left. The Garifuna call it La Boga which means The Mouth, since it's the mouth of the Carribean. It's incredible. Anyway, the people are beautiful and kind and laid back and everywhere you turn, there is fish frying and drum music playing. Oh, and the landscape is much more tropical than we have seen so far, complete with lush jungle-like brush, palm trees, white sandy beaches, and crystal clear water.
We are staying at this gorgeous little hotel complete with thatched hut cabanas and fresh fish dinners. Today we wandered down the beach today (for about an hour and a half) and made it to Siete Altares, which were seven waterfalls... really today they were like five pools of cool water and a ton of rocks since it hasn't rained in so long, but it was amazing. This place really is unbelievable.
This morning, we also met a man on the street named Polo, who suggested we eat at a Garifuna's house to get a real authentic experience. He then proceeded to lead us down the beach, stopping into his friends' houses until he found a friend who would cook us dinner tonight. So we went back this evening and had grilled red snapper and rice cooked in coconut milk. The meal was amazing, mainly for the experience of being in these people's home and talking with them. Polo told us all about the Garifuna, the lifestyle (really, really laid back), the history, racial tensions between the blacks and the Hispanics here (some things are univeral around the world, I guess.) It was a good way to really get a better understanding of Livingston, the people, the culture.
As much as I have fallen in love with every place we have visited (besides Rio Dulce, that shithole), Livingston really struck a chord with me. Just walking down the street and feeling the energy... this whole town feels alive and happy, and the people just seem to be enjoying their lives. It's been nice to experience a culture so vastly different than what we have been living in the past month or so. I understand it's similar at the beach on the Bay Islands, which si Dios quiere, we will be heading tomorrow... that is if we can tear ourselves away from this place.
Monday, February 13, 2006
"if we make it through this...."
About ten minutes into our bus ride from Guatemala City to Rio Dulce, my friend leans over to me and says, "Sara, if we make it through this bus ride, you have to write about it on your blog." We lived, so here goes.
We paid the gringo price for a shuttle from Lago de Atitlan to Rio Dulce, and we expected to take a shuttle the entire way, with a change in Guatemala City. Well, we did change, but rather than the posh tourist shuttle, we boarded one of the infamous and god-forsaken chicken buses. Without knowing entirely what was going on, we trusted our bags in the trunk of the bus, seriously wondering if we would ever see them again. The bus was packed (or so I thought it was to capacity when we got on) and we filed to the back row. This said back row was slightly elevated from the other seats, giving us a clear view through the windshield, sharing the same line of the site of the driver.
Ah, the driver. For the entire four and a half hour ride, he had this scary maniacal smile on his face (which we were able to admire from the rear view mirror). Like the other drivers we have seen so far in Central America, he wasted no time to pass the slow drivers, but I think this guy took it to a whole ´nother level. For each turn, he would throw his whole body into it, like he was playing an intense game at the arcade, sitting in one of those car seat booths with a large steering wheel and a screen in front of him. He´d lean to one side and throw his arm all the way across his body to make a turn. And it was quite interesting to see just how fast he managed to get this massive school bus-turned-chicken bus to go. It was equal parts terrifying, thrilling and nerve-shattering to watch as we sped past trucks, heading straight head on toward another truck, and then swinging back into the proper lane. None of us knew whether to laugh or cry or scream, so of course, we giggled incessently.
Even though every single seat was taken, we stopped every once in a while to pick up some folks. At first, we thought maybe he was looking out for his friends, and giving them a ride, since he would wave and smile and then bring the bus to a screaching halt. Then, as people began to pile into the isles, it clicked. This must be why they call them chicken buses. At one point, we saw a few guys get on, one of which had a gun. It was at this time that I had to take a few deep breaths, and just resign myself to the fact that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Maybe we were going to get robbed blind, or shot up, or go flying above the 30 rows of seats and through the windsheild after colliding with one of the many 18-wheelers we were playing chicken with. Or maybe everything was just fine, and this is how it´s done.
It does appear that the latter was the case. But not without some pains. For one, Senor Know-it-all sat down next to me, and after telling him that we were from Alabama, he proceeded to give me the history of the state´s name, and then list all the states, towns and rivers in the US that were Native American in their origin. That´s a lot of names, folks. My friend was ready to scrap with him after he insultingly told us we were dumb for going to a travel agency and that as three young women traveling alone, we really were safe and shouldn´t worry about anything. Right. I managed to ignore him for most of the trip, but that´s just because he fell asleep and allowed his arm and leg to flop about, sqeezing me into half of my oh-so-comfortable bus seat. At least he wasn´t talking to us then.
Then we pulled over for a few women to hop aboard and sell food. Gallinas con tortillas y salsa. Despite the fact that I was starving, it didn´t seem right to gnaw on a hen leg in the back of a bus (especially next to my vegitarian friend.... and I am trying to go veg for the rest of the trip), so I asked for just a few tortillas. The woman promptly said no, gallinas y tortillas. OK, no thanks. There were a couple other stops, at which point men and women would swarm around the bus holding up baggies of cut fruit or bread for passengers to reach out the window and buy.
Somehow, I managed to snag a nap amongst this death-defying, video game of a bus ride. As we approached Rio Dulce, we began to fantasize about the cold beer, cold but much-needed shower and perhaps a plato tipico for dinner that awaited us, assuming we stepped off the bus in one piece. And we did, with our bags intact as well, and I think I am a little surprised we made it alive.
We paid the gringo price for a shuttle from Lago de Atitlan to Rio Dulce, and we expected to take a shuttle the entire way, with a change in Guatemala City. Well, we did change, but rather than the posh tourist shuttle, we boarded one of the infamous and god-forsaken chicken buses. Without knowing entirely what was going on, we trusted our bags in the trunk of the bus, seriously wondering if we would ever see them again. The bus was packed (or so I thought it was to capacity when we got on) and we filed to the back row. This said back row was slightly elevated from the other seats, giving us a clear view through the windshield, sharing the same line of the site of the driver.
Ah, the driver. For the entire four and a half hour ride, he had this scary maniacal smile on his face (which we were able to admire from the rear view mirror). Like the other drivers we have seen so far in Central America, he wasted no time to pass the slow drivers, but I think this guy took it to a whole ´nother level. For each turn, he would throw his whole body into it, like he was playing an intense game at the arcade, sitting in one of those car seat booths with a large steering wheel and a screen in front of him. He´d lean to one side and throw his arm all the way across his body to make a turn. And it was quite interesting to see just how fast he managed to get this massive school bus-turned-chicken bus to go. It was equal parts terrifying, thrilling and nerve-shattering to watch as we sped past trucks, heading straight head on toward another truck, and then swinging back into the proper lane. None of us knew whether to laugh or cry or scream, so of course, we giggled incessently.
Even though every single seat was taken, we stopped every once in a while to pick up some folks. At first, we thought maybe he was looking out for his friends, and giving them a ride, since he would wave and smile and then bring the bus to a screaching halt. Then, as people began to pile into the isles, it clicked. This must be why they call them chicken buses. At one point, we saw a few guys get on, one of which had a gun. It was at this time that I had to take a few deep breaths, and just resign myself to the fact that whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Maybe we were going to get robbed blind, or shot up, or go flying above the 30 rows of seats and through the windsheild after colliding with one of the many 18-wheelers we were playing chicken with. Or maybe everything was just fine, and this is how it´s done.
It does appear that the latter was the case. But not without some pains. For one, Senor Know-it-all sat down next to me, and after telling him that we were from Alabama, he proceeded to give me the history of the state´s name, and then list all the states, towns and rivers in the US that were Native American in their origin. That´s a lot of names, folks. My friend was ready to scrap with him after he insultingly told us we were dumb for going to a travel agency and that as three young women traveling alone, we really were safe and shouldn´t worry about anything. Right. I managed to ignore him for most of the trip, but that´s just because he fell asleep and allowed his arm and leg to flop about, sqeezing me into half of my oh-so-comfortable bus seat. At least he wasn´t talking to us then.
Then we pulled over for a few women to hop aboard and sell food. Gallinas con tortillas y salsa. Despite the fact that I was starving, it didn´t seem right to gnaw on a hen leg in the back of a bus (especially next to my vegitarian friend.... and I am trying to go veg for the rest of the trip), so I asked for just a few tortillas. The woman promptly said no, gallinas y tortillas. OK, no thanks. There were a couple other stops, at which point men and women would swarm around the bus holding up baggies of cut fruit or bread for passengers to reach out the window and buy.
Somehow, I managed to snag a nap amongst this death-defying, video game of a bus ride. As we approached Rio Dulce, we began to fantasize about the cold beer, cold but much-needed shower and perhaps a plato tipico for dinner that awaited us, assuming we stepped off the bus in one piece. And we did, with our bags intact as well, and I think I am a little surprised we made it alive.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
tan(ish) and happy
We just spent the day in Chichicastenanga, which roughly translates to the gringo marketplace rip off madhouse. Or something like that. It´s basically endless rows of textiles, jewelry, useless Guatemalan nick-nacks, and of course gingos. That said, it was fun.
The highlight was when I decided I really wanted this beautifully colored fabric with birds sewn into it. Sounds lame, but it is beautiful. The woman wanted 600 quetzales for it, which was like $80, ridiculous and way more than I had in my wallet. We finally got her down to 400 quetzales when I realized I only had 300 to my name. After much wrangling, we got her down to 300, as long as we had a regalito (small gift) for her. We dug around in our bags, and my friend came up with a pink luggage tag with a butterfly on it. The woman´s daughter liked it, so she agreed, and I got this lovely textile for a somewhat more reasonable price. It was strangely fun talking with this woman and haggling a bit.
This weekend was the 10th anniversary of the hotel where we are staying in Santa Cruz, which is a few minutes boat ride from Panajachel. (There aren´t any roads leading to the towns surrounding the lake - each of which consists of about 2 or 3 hotels and some fancy houses perched precariously on the mountainside.) This means about 150 people piled into this tiny hotel for free dinner, a live band and much drinking and dancing. We met a ton of neat people from all over the world (including a Chicago contingency that I hope to see again when I get home) and have been having a blast. We also went on a boat ride out in the lake as part of the celebrations, ending the day with a wet, sloshy, somewhat perilous kayak trip in the chopping waters.
Tomorrow, we head to Rio Dulce. Now that we have changed our flights and have much more time on our hands, the tenor of the trip has changed for the better, as we are all more relaxed and soaking in our time here. Oh, and por fin, I am tan. OK, kind of tan, but for a blancita like me, it´s a start.
The highlight was when I decided I really wanted this beautifully colored fabric with birds sewn into it. Sounds lame, but it is beautiful. The woman wanted 600 quetzales for it, which was like $80, ridiculous and way more than I had in my wallet. We finally got her down to 400 quetzales when I realized I only had 300 to my name. After much wrangling, we got her down to 300, as long as we had a regalito (small gift) for her. We dug around in our bags, and my friend came up with a pink luggage tag with a butterfly on it. The woman´s daughter liked it, so she agreed, and I got this lovely textile for a somewhat more reasonable price. It was strangely fun talking with this woman and haggling a bit.
This weekend was the 10th anniversary of the hotel where we are staying in Santa Cruz, which is a few minutes boat ride from Panajachel. (There aren´t any roads leading to the towns surrounding the lake - each of which consists of about 2 or 3 hotels and some fancy houses perched precariously on the mountainside.) This means about 150 people piled into this tiny hotel for free dinner, a live band and much drinking and dancing. We met a ton of neat people from all over the world (including a Chicago contingency that I hope to see again when I get home) and have been having a blast. We also went on a boat ride out in the lake as part of the celebrations, ending the day with a wet, sloshy, somewhat perilous kayak trip in the chopping waters.
Tomorrow, we head to Rio Dulce. Now that we have changed our flights and have much more time on our hands, the tenor of the trip has changed for the better, as we are all more relaxed and soaking in our time here. Oh, and por fin, I am tan. OK, kind of tan, but for a blancita like me, it´s a start.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
bienvenidos a lago atitlan
After a three hour shuttle bus ride (we chose to forgoe the chicken bus ride, which is just old American school buses painted different colors and given cool names like Esmeralda), and then about a ten minute boat ride across the lake, crammed in with a dozen other people, our bags, a German shephard and splashing waves into the boat, we arrived. We are now in Lago Atitlan.
As far as we can tell, the activities here are much like those at Earth Lodge - sitting around, enjoying the view (equally stunning this time with a massive lake and towering mountains), drinking beer, talking to people from all over the world except Central America. I think we are itching for more activity, more sights, something a bit different. So we´ll see how tonight goes and determine our next move. If I have learned anything, it´s that nothing on this trip is set in stone - from itinerary to departure date to hotel .....
As far as we can tell, the activities here are much like those at Earth Lodge - sitting around, enjoying the view (equally stunning this time with a massive lake and towering mountains), drinking beer, talking to people from all over the world except Central America. I think we are itching for more activity, more sights, something a bit different. So we´ll see how tonight goes and determine our next move. If I have learned anything, it´s that nothing on this trip is set in stone - from itinerary to departure date to hotel .....
three days sequestered on a Guatemalan mountainside
You haven't really lived until you have taken a shit in a 30-foot long drop toilet. Or perhaps, watched the sun set behind an active volcano in the mountains of Guatemala, while a second active volcano rummbles and releases steam off to your right.
We meant to stay one night in this place called the Earth Lodge, which is nestled on the side of a mountain overlooking three volcanoes, a roughly 15 minute drive from Antigua. As soon as we got there, we fell in love with the owners (a 28-year-old American girl and a 27-year-old Canadian guy.... and an Isreali guy who has been there five times, more recently for three months with no plans to ever leave), the views, the food, the entire atmosphere.
We heard about it from a couple we met in Copan, and it turned out we were the only guests at the time. We bunked in a dorm room with out electricity or Internet or a phone, and as I mentioned, the bathroom consisted of a long drop toilet, a sink and a freezing cold shower that broke after the first morning. But the location was unbelivable. Each night, we went to sleep to knock-you-over winds and amazingly bright moonlight and a plethora of stars. The nights and mornings were cold, but the sun warmed us up considerably during the day. One day, we decided to help out by painting avocado trees. (It's an avocado farm, and you have to paint the tree trunks white so they don't sunburn.)
The couple had four dogs (including the new edition, months-old huskie puppy Lola), two cats, seven goats, two pigs, a mountain side of avocado trees..... Really, nothing I say about this place does it justice. The views of the volcanoes were unlike anything I have ever seen before in my life, and each night we ate mounds of vegetables, which if you have been following, we a welcome change.
It looks like we are going to extend our trip. We delayed for a bit around Antigua and I was nursing a cold that slowed us down a bit more. But now were are off to Lago Atitlan, after I call American Airlines and see what I can work out.
We meant to stay one night in this place called the Earth Lodge, which is nestled on the side of a mountain overlooking three volcanoes, a roughly 15 minute drive from Antigua. As soon as we got there, we fell in love with the owners (a 28-year-old American girl and a 27-year-old Canadian guy.... and an Isreali guy who has been there five times, more recently for three months with no plans to ever leave), the views, the food, the entire atmosphere.
We heard about it from a couple we met in Copan, and it turned out we were the only guests at the time. We bunked in a dorm room with out electricity or Internet or a phone, and as I mentioned, the bathroom consisted of a long drop toilet, a sink and a freezing cold shower that broke after the first morning. But the location was unbelivable. Each night, we went to sleep to knock-you-over winds and amazingly bright moonlight and a plethora of stars. The nights and mornings were cold, but the sun warmed us up considerably during the day. One day, we decided to help out by painting avocado trees. (It's an avocado farm, and you have to paint the tree trunks white so they don't sunburn.)
The couple had four dogs (including the new edition, months-old huskie puppy Lola), two cats, seven goats, two pigs, a mountain side of avocado trees..... Really, nothing I say about this place does it justice. The views of the volcanoes were unlike anything I have ever seen before in my life, and each night we ate mounds of vegetables, which if you have been following, we a welcome change.
It looks like we are going to extend our trip. We delayed for a bit around Antigua and I was nursing a cold that slowed us down a bit more. But now were are off to Lago Atitlan, after I call American Airlines and see what I can work out.
Monday, February 06, 2006
staring down an active volcano
Yesterday, I peered into the mouth of an active volcano. With the lung-singeing smoke swirling around me, and three people tightly grasping me, I leaned over the edge of the volcano. As the wind moved the smoke, I could see a bright orangish red lava below. It was amazing.
We arrived in Antigua, Guatemala Saturday afternoon after a 6 hour ride in a tiny knee-cramping bus. It's very different from Copan, and considering that we have been feeling very nostalgic for the place where we just spent nearly a month, we didn't fall in love with Antigua. In fact, we were a little surprised how hard it was to leave Copan. I guess we hadn't realized how much we had built up this community of friends and peers and family (although I do not miss Juancho, and the goodbyes with my family were short and pressed). We always had people to hang out with and place to go, and always when we walked down the street, we were waving at people we knew. Now we are tourists, which we are finding is a tough transition. I think it's making us all homesick, since we no longer have the comfort of a home base.
That said, we hiked to the top of Volcan Pakaya in Antigua, which next to the horse back riding (which we did one last time before leaving Copan), was one of the best days on our trip. (Side note on the horseback riding: When we went Friday, Don Beto took us to the Frontera, near the border of Guatemala, where we pretty much had free reign to gallop with the lush green mountains spreading out in front of us. Truly breathtaking. I was riding Muneca, who I had grown quite close to, and all the horses were excited to have the room to run. Now I am toying with the idea of one day moving to a farm with horses and land and veggies and whatnot. We'll see.)
The hike to the top was roughly three hours, with the last hour being more of a scramble than a climb. One step forward, two slides backward. It was so hard, unbelievably steep, and much like climbing an escalator the wrong way. But all of the scramble was worth it when we reached the top, where we could see Guatemala City, three other volcanoes, one of which was also active and steaming from the top, fantastically green pastures, and of course, the depths of this massive volatile mountain. We were surrounded by vivid yellow, red and white rocks from the chemicals, and our guide pointed out several craters from recent erruptions, one three months ago, and a more intense one in 2000.
After resting a bit, we ran down the top part of the volcano, digging our heels into the dark ash dirt and sliding down. It was amazing.
We are trying our best to use our Spanish, but Antigua is painfully toursity and we are meeting more people from other parts of the world (which is cool in its own way, yes), but few that are fluent in Spanish. We did talk to the guide and a woman we met who weaves tapestries, but it's tough to find more opportunities to practice. We have tried to institute time during the day to talk in Spanish, but we'll see. I just don't want to loose all that we have worked so hard on.
We arrived in Antigua, Guatemala Saturday afternoon after a 6 hour ride in a tiny knee-cramping bus. It's very different from Copan, and considering that we have been feeling very nostalgic for the place where we just spent nearly a month, we didn't fall in love with Antigua. In fact, we were a little surprised how hard it was to leave Copan. I guess we hadn't realized how much we had built up this community of friends and peers and family (although I do not miss Juancho, and the goodbyes with my family were short and pressed). We always had people to hang out with and place to go, and always when we walked down the street, we were waving at people we knew. Now we are tourists, which we are finding is a tough transition. I think it's making us all homesick, since we no longer have the comfort of a home base.
That said, we hiked to the top of Volcan Pakaya in Antigua, which next to the horse back riding (which we did one last time before leaving Copan), was one of the best days on our trip. (Side note on the horseback riding: When we went Friday, Don Beto took us to the Frontera, near the border of Guatemala, where we pretty much had free reign to gallop with the lush green mountains spreading out in front of us. Truly breathtaking. I was riding Muneca, who I had grown quite close to, and all the horses were excited to have the room to run. Now I am toying with the idea of one day moving to a farm with horses and land and veggies and whatnot. We'll see.)
The hike to the top was roughly three hours, with the last hour being more of a scramble than a climb. One step forward, two slides backward. It was so hard, unbelievably steep, and much like climbing an escalator the wrong way. But all of the scramble was worth it when we reached the top, where we could see Guatemala City, three other volcanoes, one of which was also active and steaming from the top, fantastically green pastures, and of course, the depths of this massive volatile mountain. We were surrounded by vivid yellow, red and white rocks from the chemicals, and our guide pointed out several craters from recent erruptions, one three months ago, and a more intense one in 2000.
After resting a bit, we ran down the top part of the volcano, digging our heels into the dark ash dirt and sliding down. It was amazing.
We are trying our best to use our Spanish, but Antigua is painfully toursity and we are meeting more people from other parts of the world (which is cool in its own way, yes), but few that are fluent in Spanish. We did talk to the guide and a woman we met who weaves tapestries, but it's tough to find more opportunities to practice. We have tried to institute time during the day to talk in Spanish, but we'll see. I just don't want to loose all that we have worked so hard on.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
todo es macanudo en Copan
Tomorrow is the ultimo dia of classes. On Saturday we leave for Guatemala, and the plan so far is that we head first to Antigua and surrounding areas, then to Rio Dulce and then back down to the much-awaited playa in Honduras.
After roughly three weeks, we feel ready to leave to Copan, and hit the open Central American calle with our Spanish, or Spanglish or whatever happens to come out of our mouths at this point. I think I will be sad to end classes, and will miss the amazing people we have met here (save for my loco family), but we are anxious to get to traveling.
Among the plethora of slang words and dirty words that we have picked up alongthe way is one word that I understand is mainly used in Honduras: macanudo, which means cool. And yep, todo es macanudo en Copan.
After roughly three weeks, we feel ready to leave to Copan, and hit the open Central American calle with our Spanish, or Spanglish or whatever happens to come out of our mouths at this point. I think I will be sad to end classes, and will miss the amazing people we have met here (save for my loco family), but we are anxious to get to traveling.
Among the plethora of slang words and dirty words that we have picked up alongthe way is one word that I understand is mainly used in Honduras: macanudo, which means cool. And yep, todo es macanudo en Copan.
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