The Final Dance -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

The season is about at an end for San Marcos. The event board in front of Circles Cafe is nearly empty, and I watch loads of hippies walk down Gringo Alley, bearing stuffed backpacks and sharing promises of "see you next season." 

There was a time I thought I'd be back next season. 

...

What a different time that was. Before the rampant giardia and sinus infections, etc. Part of me, a big part of me, is disappointed that I won't be here next season. That this place didn't end up becoming some sort of home for me. 

But that doesn't mean I don't have a place I'll be happy to call home. It just means I still have to search for it. Which means I have more adventures in store. 

Which isn't all that bad.

Fred arrived at the Forest a couple weeks ago, speaking of things that aren't all that bad.

I wish Fred had arrived at the Forest a couple months ago. That would have been great. Months in the Forest with Fred. Happy days.

Fred is Jonas' best friend's little sister. And when he talked about Fred coming to join us Forest Folk, he always referred to her as "little." 

"My best friend's little sister." 

Hence, my logical brain pictured Fred as a petite German girl. Just because Jonas had used the word "little" so often and not "younger."

And then Fred arrived. And Fred is German and a girl, but definitively NOT petite. Which threw my deceived brain for a bit of a loop.

If this is a "little" sister, what does the other guy look like? 

To get to know this lady a bit better (and because I needed some time away from the Forest) I led Fred to San Marcos' legendary Japanese restaurant. The nearly impossible to locate, hole in the bamboo fence restaurant which serves mediocre food and has the most absurd, eclectic collection of  -- 

"How do you even wear this?" 

-- clothes? 

Fred and I laughed our way through mountains of -- 

"I think this is the sleeve?" 

-- garments, drank mojitos and had some good, old-fashioned girl time. Wherein we didn't talk about spiritual growth, our personal meditation practices, or how to always stay positive. 

I need more time like this. Just... easy time. Where normal life feels like enough.

So I joined Fred for an adventure to San Pedro a couple days later. The lakeside village Tammo and I have dubbed "Sodom and Gomorrah," for its, uh, plethora of hedonistic activities. And, I, uhh... may or may not have showed Fred the best place to get her nose pierced. Like the fabulous influence I am. 

Maybe it's a good thing Fred didn't join the Forest months ago. If this is what I've done to her in the first week, I don't know how she would survive months with me...

At the beginning of our friendship, Fred was just nice. Just unbelievably sweet. As in, "Holy bananas, I didn't know people could be so genuinely kind." However, as our friendship progressed into week two, Fred's sweetness began to slip as she let her sassy side seep out.

"Oh god, I just left my dirty cup next to the fire. Why would I do that?" I shuffled back to retrieve my empty cacao cup from beside my abandoned seat.

"Typical," Fred muttered under her breath.

"FRED," was the best response I could muster. Her smart-assery had knocked the wind out of my sails.

For my final Saturday at the Forest, the volunteers all dressed up, bedecked themselves with glitter (I've always found the hippie obsession with glitter a little ironic, given the environmental impact of micro-plastics...) and headed to the Ecstatic Dance at Eagle's Nest.

I have lived in San Marcos for six months. Most volunteers hit the Eagle's Nest Ecstatic Dance at least twice a month. I, on the other hand, have successfully, deliberately avoided it for six months. Because, a) I dance like Mr Bean, and b) it seemed like it would be hippie overload for me. 

But you should go at least once, Bourget. It would be silly to spend THIS much time in San Marcos la Laguna and NOT go to a dance at Eagle's Nest. 

So after my space-holding shift on Saturday morning, I grabbed my camera, slipped into a dress, and hiked up the hill (pausing ever few minutes to dredge up a considerable amount of phlegm from my poor, persecuted throat) to Greg's epic platform overlooking the lake. The cloudy horizon dimmed the sunset, but the hippies were colorful enough to compensate.

And then there was Fred.

Fred will compensate for any disappointing sunset.

Because Fred is fucking fantastic.

And then there was the sunset silk performance.

Which was cool. But not as cool as Fred.

 I didn't dance much at the Ecstatic Dance (Kayla's words kept echoing in my head), but I had a magical time snapping photographs of my Forest buddies.

I wish I had paid the 50 Q to just come here and people watch every week. WHO is this giant overall-clad hippie clutching a MASSIVE crystal? Just walking around, cradling this piece of rock with a blissed out expression on his face? 
 

 
I dodged feathers, whirling rainbow scarves, other photographers with faces smeared in black and white paint, as I tried to photograph my friends.

Crystal guy again. Still blissed out. This is how I look when I hold giant hunks of Parmesan 

Fred, Tammo, and I headed down the hill early that evening, relinquishing the platform to the rest of San Marcos' hippie community while we snagged an early dinner of fried pollo y papas.

"Fred," I told Fred, "we're going to travel together someday. And I will blog about it. A lot. And all the blog posts will be called, "The Adventures of Aimee and Fred." And it will be amazing."

Fred agreed. And gave me a hug. And then said something sassy. As Fred does.