¡Bienvenida! 
After being sardined on Spirit Airlines for a total of five and a half hours, I finally lifted my head and opened my blurry eyes just in time to hear “Bienvenidos a Guatemala Ciudad” over the speakers. I had absolutely no idea what to expect, I was just excited to be able to get up and move. People always tell you to prepare for hours and hours of waiting in line for customs’ inspections, but I breezed through in ten minutes. (Don’t tell, but sometimes I think it’s the luck of being American). I made my way to baggage claim, handed my declaration slip to a security officer and went outside the terminal. As the sun stung my eyes and I was forced to put on my shades, I was immediately accosted by dozens of car service representatives trying to entice (or rather scare) me into using their services. Luckily, I had already prearranged for a driver to come pick me up. I scanned the vast crowd and squinted to read some of the name boards until I finally saw a short, tan man holding a sheet of computer paper with my name on it all in capital letters.
My first glimpses of Guatemala were viewed from the front seat of a dark green, 1980’s Toyota minivan. Rusty pickup trucks zoomed all over the road with an average of four or five occupants sitting in the trunk bed and tons of motorcycles slipped in and out between cars. I could not have dreamed a better introduction to this country and its people. I watched children, possibly brothers and sisters returning home from school, I saw grown adults sweating with the wear and tear a whole day’s hot work on their faces and I even spied a Taco Bell—Just another reminder that it is becoming increasingly difficult to escape the evidence of American globalization. I turned and became engaged with a scene of middle aged men in the back of an ancient Chevy, stationed on top of stacked plastic crates like beetles on a Jenga tower. They held on for dear life with one hand and feasted on dewy oranges with the other; I half think they’re skilled acrobats instead of day laborers. My heart jumped into my throat, as it seemed like they’d all topple over any second at the next pothole. But they prove to be seasoned veterans and stayed aboard for a while longer.
We drove past dirty, gritty car dealerships, decrepit factories, sheet metal houses and dusty bus stops. I was so busy taking in the bustle of this new city, it really surprised me when the mountains interjected. I guess I had read somewhere during my pre-departure planning that there was a lot of mountainous, volcanic scenery in Guatemala, but it didn’t really sink in until gaping hairy green monsters popped up, almost crushing the road. We drove past sparse roadside vendors—flowers, vegetables, the usual—for another thirty minutes until we hit cobblestone. The van shook like an amusement park ride past its prime. I sat up, ready for the challenge, and stayed focused on my new surroundings. Antigua, from the outside, looked as though it had been trapped in time. Colonial architecture harkened back to past eras of imperialism and buildings the color of sea foam and hay gave the city of sense of coziness.
We bump and brake our way through a labyrinth of calles and avenidas until we finally stop in front of a golden facade reading: Centro Lingüístico Internacional.
Gente corto 
I began the day with jugo de naranja and quickly set out to explore. Not one foot out the front door and I came across a couple of older women, no taller than a generous 4’10’’, heavily dressed for eighty degree heat with baskets on their heads and embroidered aprons spotted with homely stains. Obviously, these were the true, indigenous Mayans covered in traditional ropa passed down for centuries. The dark skinned women looked at me and immediately asked if I wanted to buy something. “No, pero gracias” I said and continued walking. As I navigated through the town to the main square and the mercados, more and more of these short, ethnically dressed, ochre colored people came to view.
I have never in my life felt like a giant because of my height. I consider myself at the upper range of average height for American women. “Low” and behold, there is a first time for everything. These were the shortest people I had ever seen in my life. Legitimate, pureblood Mayans aside, the regular Guatemalans still don’t even rise up to be much loftier because so many of them are of mixed descent. It just makes the ruins at Tikal or Uaxactun—towns and temples attesting to the art of masonry and the raw, physical power of man without the advances of industrialization—that much more of an amazing feat now knowing the builders weren’t big, husky meatheads.
Tacos gringos 
Ang, the friend I had met up with in Antigua, and I walked back to CLI after a day of sightseeing and shopping at the Ruinas de San Francisco and the Mercado de Artesanías. We were welcomed with the pungent aroma of browning beef smothered in copious amounts of garlic and onions. Mmmm...Taco Night. Vendors all over Antigua sold homemade tortillas around the clock and Linnea, another CLI student and quick canuck friend, had managed to bargain two dozen of them at the mercado. “Almost ready!” she said, as we present the finishing touches for our meal. Fresh avocado mashed with lemon and salt, pulverized frijoles negros that had been cooking all day in preparation for this communal meal, crispy little cubes of chopped onion and, of course, queso. Lots of queso.
All of a sudden, the doorbell rang. It was late, by the school’s standards and none of the administrative employees were in the office. The door opened and a meek-looking guatemalteca started asking us in Spanish if Linda (another student) was home. “No está aquí, lo siento” we said, but invited her in to wait. She sat on the garden patio and started writing a note to leave on her friend’s door while we finished setting the table. Ang felt bad (we all kind of did) because we were about to eat and the poor woman was alone, a bus ride away from her town and sitting just yards away from us. We invited her in, in broken, beginner Spanish and the woman, Cristina, giggled and happily accepted.
As soon as she walked into the kitchen and saw exactly what we’re making she burst out laughing at the diligent efforts of one Canadian, one German and two Americans to make a traditional Hispanic dish and simply exclaimed, “¡Tacos gringos!”
Camionetas guatemaltecas (o autobúses de pollos)
TripAdvisor and LonelyPlanet (not to mention my boss and my own father) all advised to beware of the “Chicken Buses”. Obviously I had to ride one. These old, donated L.A. school buses had been painted a ridiculous array of colors oddly similar to that of the veggie Mercado and looked like the semblance of a quasi-motorcycle/schoolbus gang. I climbed aboard for an excursion to the Museo de Cafe, Ropa y Musica and instantly started scouting for farm fowl.
NONE.
Why are they called “chicken buses” in English then? I decided to ask at the tour guide at the museum:
“There are two different stories of the chicken bus, both of which could very well be true. One is that the village women that rode the bus in and out from the more remote mountain areas would literally cart everything they had to sell and anything they had bought while in town back and forth on the bus—a lot of times this included small livestock so there were literally chickens on patrons’ laps and even on the hood of the vehicle.”
The other explanation is more relatable to the buses’ uses today...the drivers want to make as much money as possible, obviously, and sometimes let many more people than say a fire code would allow (sometimes even four or five people to a seat, plus their bags), so it was described as if they were all cramped like chickens in a coop. They got a bad rap internationally because they would speed around the mountainside—like a chicken with its head cut off, perhaps?—with all these people crammed inside and needless to say, there have been a few tragic accidents.
But out wonderful experience ended with: “That was it?”
Palabras malas
“Here! Write down everything you know!” said Ang as she passed her little notepad the the Norwegians we’d just befriended on the bus ride home. Martin and Oda passed it back and giggled as soon as they heard Ang stutter through fitte and kukhode. She shared some of the other words she had gathered from various other languages: schlampe, puffmuter, chinga, puta, vaffanculo, melones...It was clear to everyone around us just what the Americans like to do when they meet foreigner: aprender muchas palabras malas!
We had started this practice in Monterrico, while sunbathing on the roof of Mananitas. We were listening to children play in las olas, breathing the salty air of an ocean none of us had ever seen and stealing glances at the chocolate colored lifeguards in shiny red speedos. Muy guapo. There had been a group of Guatemalans partying at a bed shaped/sized booth behind us shouting things we knew were inappropriate and singing the only English words they could understand from Mike Posner’s song, “Baby please don’t go..” Ang, the only person I can think of without a true fear of embarrassment, got up the nerve to try and thank them for teaching us “palabras malas”. They drunkenly howled and asked us to take a picture of them.
We then convinced our German friend, Julia, to spill all she knew of the dirtiest deutsche words. And so on and so on...it became sort of a hobby. Meet someone new from another country, have them write down swear words in their native tongue and proceed to laugh obnoxiously as you try to read and/or pronounce them. Most people found our little project hilarious. Others took it as, well...they just didn’t get our sense of humour.
Cena del Día de la mujer (o “martes gordo”)
After setting a second dinner date with Cristina, I realized that we would be having our big, familyesque dinner on Mardi Gras. I was sure someone in town would know what I meant when I ran around asking about “martes gordo” festivities. “¿Qué?” was the common response. After discussing it with some of the teachers at CLI, I realized that the Mardi Gras that we all knew and loved was not celebrated in all Latin cultures, despite Guatemala being a highly Catholic nation. They knew what Ash Wednesday was, but no one seemed to be able to discern mardi gras.
Oh well, we thought. We would plan on just trying to celebrate with all of our new friends over a big, delicious meal. We made recently met two Norwegians, a Peruvian, and a Japanese man to add to our motley crew. When Cristina arrived, she explained that there were festivities going on, but they were in commemoration with Día de la Mujer or International Women’s Day. I felt a little ashamed, personally, that I had never heard of this holiday (supposedly every year on March 8th) but saw it as yet another reason for our celebration.
In between the plates, pots and pans of lasagne, pasta casserole, fresh salad and nachos being passed around, we gathered more bad words and practiced Spanish. I have to say, one of my favorite things about traveling is realizing how much you have in common with someone half way around the world.
‘Course…that only matters for a little while ‘til the wine kicks in.
Adios a amigos buenos y tierra bonita...
I woke up early the next day to walk with Julia and Linnea to a neighboring town, San Felipe, to see their church’s festivities to commemorate the beginning of Lent. We walked about twenty minutes outside Antigua until we came across a warm, vanilla colored baroque cathedral, filled with the faithful. As we drew closer and waited for mass to let out, we stopped at a roadside vendor to sample churros. As I munched on perhaps one of my favorite fried desserts ever, I spied tons and tons of school children, all dressed in adorable plaid uniforms with black smudges on their foreheads.
We entered the church and gazed at the scene laid out before us. Center stage was a life-size, mannequin recreation of Jesus being led away to Pontius Pilate. On the floor before him was an immense, intricately designed carpet made of meticulously placed sawdust and fruit. The hot pink and neon green colors almost made it a joyful scene as I snapped photo after photo.
We left just before noon so I could meet Ang at the San Francisco for mass. We tried very hard to pay attention to what the Spanish-speaking priest was saying, yet still managed to falter in our responses and gesticulations. You’d think it’d be really easy to participate in any religious service in a different language just by following those around you, but we got thrown off more than once.
After one last trip to the mercado for some last minute shopping—bootleg DVDs, jade earrings, some coffee, etc—I returned to CLI to pack. I didn’t want to leave. But I knew I couldn’t stay. I’d already run out of money and the idea of schoolwork loomed over my heard like a fat bird.
What was I supposed to say to this place as good bye? Every new place ought to be treated differently—appreciated differently—because they are, after all, extremely different in the absolute least.
As I rolled my bag out to the van and turned to see the school one last time, I told myself I would do this again. I would plan a trip without anyone else’s input. I would make a decision without the interference of boring, stay-at-home people.
I would do everything in my power to return to a place I felt happy just reading Spanish poetry and sipping café negro con leche.
With a swift Adios! I was on my way back to Fort Lauderdale thinking of the next plan.
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