It's pissing rain. A torrential river courses down Santander Street. I charily hopped off the boat that carried me from San Marcos to Pana and was surprised to discover that although I had crossed Atitlan successfully, I still had an intimidating body of water to forge before concluding my journey. After twenty minutes of splashing through ankle-deep run-off, I settled my soaking wet self down at one of Cafe Kitsch's small metal tables. And although I appreciate the gluten-free peanut butter cookies, I do wish the internet wouldn't cut out every seventeen seconds.
My dress is completely soaked through. My underwear/shorts are sopping wet and my toes have wrinkled up into fat, pink raisins. I would have been worried about the wellbeing of my electronics had I not packed a towel from the Yoga Forest to take with me to Erin's. My couchsurfing host turned pupusa buddy (PUPUSA!) has been remarkably generous about letting me use her towels when I take my once-a-week-deliciously-hot showers, but I wanted to bring my own so that I wouldn't feel like I was taking advantage of Erin's generosity.
And thank goodness. During this monumental deluge, I was able to place the towel over my laptop and camera and all my valuables stayed dry. Well, dry-ish. Nothing stays fully dry during rainy season in Guatemala. Nothing. Nada. Rainy season is a state of perpetual damp/sopping wet.
A couple huddle in a store across the street, kissing cheeks, sticking hands into pockets (not their own) and generally taking advantage of the dreary weather to get nice and cuddly. A Guatemalan teenager checks his smartphone, consciously or unconsciously oblivious to the cuddling couple. Something that I've noticed about Guatemalans is that even though this is a relatively poor country, a shocking amount of locals own smartphones.
Smartphones they won't let anyone borrow.
Tuk-tuks splash precariously along, leaving behind a larger wake than the boat I rode in on from San Marcos. As no one else was desperate enough to cross the lake during such a downpour (I had Erin and a hot shower waiting for me on the other side of the lake. All the incentive needed by anyone), I had the boat nearly to myself. And the nice little Guatemalan captain charged me a reduced fare of 15 Q instead of the typical gringo fare of 20 Q. Because I was the only one on the boat and he wanted to talk with me.
"15 Q for you. Only for you. Special. Where you from?"
"Colorado."
"Oh, United States! How old are you?"
"26."
"No! No, you're not 26! No! You can't be 26. Maybe 23. Yes, 23. Not 26."
"Umm... pretty sure I'm 26."
"NO! 23. Only 23."
"Okay."
I've finished my third week of teaching at the Yoga Forest, and even though I've had three weeks to settle into this retreat center, I still can't believe how well I fit into this community and how happy I am. I was asked the other day how long I'd been teaching at the Forest, and the guests were surprised when I answered, "just two weeks."
"You look like you belong here," they commented.
"I feel like I belong here."
This is a common sentiment amongst guests, though. We all want to belong in a place this natural. This simple. This down-to-earth.
A place where we grind peanut butter on blender bikes.
And then mix the peanuts with chocolate, honey and coconut oil.
A place where wholesome food is freshly prepared every day. On a woodburning stove. Outside. Where the smell of blue corn tortillas and vegetables fills the dining room area three times a day.
Where there's no TV to distract anyone from talking with each other.
Where just about everyone shares the story of, "I was unhappy with my job. I quit my job. I don't know what I'm going to do next in life. I'm open. I'm exploring. But I'm here now, and I'm loving it."
I'm finishing this post from Circles Cafe in San Marcos. Today is some manner of religious holiday and a band plays upbeat, Christian music behind the cafe. The overcast sky looks like it's holding in another colossal deluge, and I'm hoping (without much optimism) that the sky will continue to hold it in until I make it back to the Yoga Forest.
My Skype date with Boy was full of interruptions. The internet cut out every seventeen seconds (as expected) and the street vendors kept harassing me. They'd sit down beside me and offer me their wares. When I said, "No necessito, gracias," they would then lean over to stare at my laptop. And at Boy.
"Tu amor?" they'd ask.
"Si. Mi amor."
"Muy hermoso," they would say, smiling and waving to Boy. "Hola!"
Then they would try to get me to buy their bracelets or scarves or skirts again.
At one point, a Guatemalan couple sat down in front of me and observed the persistent, toothless old lady relentlessly harassing me. They took pity on me and firmly told the old lady that I didn't, in fact, want to purchase anything. A point I'd been trying to communicate for the last fifteen minutes or so, to no avail. Then the barista came out to take the order of the couple, and the young man asked in Spanish if he could sing a song for me.
"You are... very beautiful," the girl said. "He likes you. He wants to sing for you a song. For your beautiful ojos. Eyes. Muy bonita."
"Umm..."
"Can he sing for you? Do you like him?"
"Well, I have a boyfriend."
"It's okay. He only wants to sing. Just as a friend. Amiga. Friend."
"Ummm... okay, he can sing."
And with that, the young Guatemalan whipped out his smartphone (as young Guatemalans do) and sang along with some Spanish rap music. For my beautiful eyes.
"Do you want beer? Cerveza?" the girl asked.
"No, I have a cappuccino. Thanks, though."
"Whiskey? Tequila? Rum?"
"No, I'm actually okay."
"Do you want to go out dancing tonight?"
"Maybe."
"How old are you?" the girl moved from her table to sit next to me.
"26."
"NO! You can't be 26! 26? Not 26. You're only 23."
"No, I'm 26."
"NO! 22! 21! Not 26."
And at that moment, the internet decided to work again and Boy was able to call me via Skype.
"Oh, is that your boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"OH, I LIKE!" the girl squealed. "He's so beautiful! Very, very beautiful."
"Um. Yes. Yes, he is beautiful."
"I LIKE SO MUCH!" her enthusiasm over my, um... beautiful boyfriend was unrestrained.
"Me too. I... uh...I like him too."
And the conversation carried on like this for the next fifteen minutes.
After the unusually eventful Skype date, I splashed my way through the flooded city to Erin's house across the bridge and twenty minutes away. When I arrived, bedraggled and shivering, she immediately gave me a pair of dry, comfortable pants to wear, made me a rum cocktail and we settled onto her couch to watch August Osage County.
Which was miserably depressing. But good art. And all that jazz.
We ate pupusas (PUPUSA!). We drank hot chocolate (with more rum) and balanced out August Osage County with Monsters University.
It was a beautiful night.
I'm afraid I'll be just as reluctant to leave Erin on the 17th of June as I will be to leave the Yoga Forest.
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