The bad-Spanish dreams have finally started. Last night I think I was trying to tell people I was afraid (of humiliating myself?) and kept yelling Tengo mierda! Tengo mierda! — and then to my horror realized what I was saying.
This morning I saw what I thought was the ugliest, most disorganized spider ever. Its legs didn’t know what to do with themselves. It turned out to be eight columns of ants carrying a piece of my breakfast.
My nice landlady calls my Jenny. I’m not going to correct her. I’m on vacation.
I hiked up Cerro de la Cruz today with a group escorted by the Policía Municipal de Turismo. The very reason the tourist police was formed, I read, was because of muggings up there. A woman staying at my boarding house three months ago got knifed (she was okay) when she wandered away from the crowd. I admit to being slightly unnerved when I realized I was the thirteenth person on the signup list for the walk. I almost did the elevator trick of putting my name on line 14, but I wouldn’t have fooled myself.
En route I had my first mildly lonely moment, since everyone was in little matched sets, holding hands. Even the police were in pairs (but not in fond embrace).
A guy rode by on a horse dabbed with spots different-colored paint. Because I detest puns, I’ll resist the obvious observation.
The vista is”¦ well, vista-like, with cloud-enshrouded El Volcan Agua towering behind Antigua. From the hillside I saw a mass of people in a street off in the distance (see arrow). It turned out to be a Maya hand-craft market.
I explored town again for a couple hours. Too much to see. Like the Kinky Afro Hair Salon — “designing the image of your dreams” — whose logo depicts a very white woman with very smooth hair.
The dulces tipicos store was interesting if not appetizing, with shelves of gooey blonde blobs, and gumdrop assemblages bound with slender palm fronds.
Here’s a faucet trick I’ll bet Martha Stewart hasn’t thought of yet.
There are lots of army and national police here on account of tomorrow’s swearing-in (in Guatemala City) of president-elect ílvaro Colom. The army guys in particular give me the creeps, machine guns at their chests and testosterone practically glistening on their young-boy faces. It’s easy to picture them capable of what their predecessors did during the war.
Home again. The view from my portón…
There’s a fascinating and delightful English family staying here tonight. I only wish they weren’t playing cards right by the bathroom; I’m too shy to avail myself while they’re nearby. They told me about someone I want to look up when I get home: a North London obstetrician turned faux country western singer”¦ goes by the name of Hank Wangford. They sang me a few bars of one of their favorites: Jogging with Jesus.
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You shoulda bought the cloths off her back. I love to look at the pictures, Gin. Thanks. Give a kid an AK47 and there’s no telling what he can accomplish. What wonderful streets in the towns! Take a few straight down shots of the stones beneath your feet sometime. Inspiring! MB