A New Chapter -- Antigua, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Cafe Boheme, a classy little French cafe in Antigua, Guatemala. Colorful cloth umbrellas and lanterns dangle from the ceiling. The chairs are covered in burlap coffee sacks and Guatemalan textiles. The walls are painted brick red and faded just the right amount to toe the line between tasteful and derelict. French music plays in the background, and an old-fashioned lamp that emanates that old-school yellow glow hangs from a chain above the counter. 

Yeah. This is my kind of cafe. I can't wait to bring Cathy and John here. 

Cathy and John are coming to visit me in two weeks. 

And Girl is excited. Muy, muy emocionado. 

I'm definitely going to take them here. And to Samsara. And to Cafe No Se. And to that place with really sublime gelato near the arch. And to that one corner of the Local Mercado where that one lady sells fucking phenomenal coconuts for five Q each. 

  

Can you sense the excitement? 

I've been away from the Forest for four days now. And I will admit to already being nostalgic for bits of pieces of my old hippie home. For the breakfast, for the adorable kitty who would occasionally come out for a cuddle/to surreptitiously sneak food off my plate -- 

Isis is having none of this photography business.

Most of all, I'm nostalgic for the community. Being surrounded by people who knew me and with whom I could always sneak up from behind and give a hug. People with whom I had inside jokes. With whom I felt completely comfortable discussing the most intimate details of my bathroom adventures (going to the bathroom is always an adventure at the Yoga Forest). 

I also miss having a routine. Because even when routines are unhealthy, just being able to have a routine is comforting to this vagabond. 

But no matter how nostalgic I feel now or how nostalgic I will become during the next few months of hobnobbing around Central America, I know, without an inkling of doubt, that leaving The Forest was the right decision for me. 

And that's a good feeling. 

I started my homestay yesterday. And if I'm being entirely honest (as I usually have the annoying habit of being), I'm a little disappointed. The homestay was advertised as a way to practice Spanish with a Guatemalan family in between going to classes. In reality, it's staying in a clean, basic home on the outskirts of the city with two very nice people from New Zealand, two very nice people from Texas, and one lovely Guatemalan housekeeper/cook. And regardless of how nice everyone is, we aren't exactly great at teaching each other Spanish -- which was the entire reason I chose a homestay instead of couchsurfing. When we eat dinner, we all fumble around with Spanish for a few moments, but then we inevitably burst into English. And Carmen (the housekeeper/cook) doesn't even join us for our meals. She just prepares the food, serves it, and then cleans up when we're finished. 

This. Feels like a bit of a ripoff, I thought as I stared in dismay at my breakfast of runny oatmeal with a single sliced banana and some instant coffee. 

Oh well. I'll make the most of this week and I'll figure something else out for next week. 

I spent my first night in my homestay not sleeping. At all. I spent the night reading Homo Deus, watching Chef's Table, and painting a very serious unicorn for my uncle. 

Not quite finished, but almost there

 It's strange to be in a city again. To cross busy streets, to walk ten minutes and, you know, still be in the city. Not off somewhere in the jungle watching fireflies twinkling below the stars. To have so many options of cafes, of supermarkets, of street food.

 

It's strange to not have to leave my house with a flashlight/headlamp. I still feel like I'm missing something when I check my backpack and realize I don't have it with me. I experience a brief moment of panic, then relax because I remember that hey, I'm in a city.

And in cities, there are streetlamps. Imagine that. 

 The increased pollution has been tough on my sinuses, but my belly has ceased its perpetual, portentous rumblings. This could have something to do with the epic amount of eggs and bacon and sausage and cheese I've consumed since leaving the Forest (and the lack of chickpeas and lentils and fucking quinoa), or maybe everything here is just much cleaner.

This is a new chapter. You've finally closed your six month season at the Forest, and it's time to dive into this new adventure. Where you will learn (hopefully) much more Spanish, you'll make more friends through couchsurfing, develop some new routines, and you WILL keep yourself safe as you continue to travel alone through Central America. You won't spend money frivolously, but you will spend as much as you need to be safe and to learn what you need to learn.  

And, you know, to cover the cost of your coffee, wine, and cheese habit. 

You're allowed to experience as much melancholy and loneliness as you need in order to process moving on from community living. But try not to let that get in the way of enjoying all the things you can accomplish alone. Take full advantage of having more time for introspection, for painting, for studying, for music, for writing. 

"The only way to make sense of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance."

~Alan Watts

Plunge into this change, Bourget. Join this dance.