Jamaica

Girlfriend Getaway

We had an article in the magazine about Girlfriend Getaways. We made fun of it loudly and then found ourselves furtively stealing glances.

Girlfriend Getaway...a vacation just for girls. No boys. No couples allowed. Sun and drinks and dinner and massages and flirting with bartenders...

The more we said it, the better it sounded. So we picked up, and we went. Sunsets, cliff dives, oxtail stew.

Netting on the bed, the villa overlooking water that glittered a hundred shades of blue.

The hot sun beating down on us, in January no less. Pineapple drinks. Rum, rum, rum.

Bikinis and wet sundresses. Extra fries, rice and peas. The white-sand beach, the waves crashing on the bluffs. Flowers on the bed.

The shower? Outside.

Bare feet. Fashion photographers who asked us to party, waitstaff who asked us to dance. We said no and kept on in our pack, headed to the next piece of fruit, wave, snack and magazine. We laughed until we cried. We have a new nickname for everyone we know.

Ten new inside jokes, three new playlists, and hundreds of future plans now.

We did it. We went to Jamaica. It was phenomenal. Pics are a-coming, and I'm going to ice down my sunburn so it will turn into a tan.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

I left for France on Tuesday.

I did not arrive at my destination until late Thursday.

Don't. Ever. Travel. During. Holidays.

Also not with my brother. What a doofus. He brought 4 enormous suitcases. Which we had to get on the first plane, haul through customs and pick up after, run through the airport with them to the next connection, throw them all on an airport shuttle, then when we missed our connection because of said enormous bags, take all with us to the ticketing office. When we were told there were no flights at all until the following day whilst at Orly in Paris, we then dragged them back on the bus to the train station, pulled them over to the ticketing office there, and after waiting for an hour to speak with someone were told that the trains were all booked up, I took a moment to wipe a tear of frustration out of my eye and to buy cigarettes and coffee to wake me up, we waited for 30 minutes in the freezing rain to go BACK TO THE AIRPORT. There I got us on a shuttle for a hotel. once there, we split up because i was about to lunge at my brother, who while we were on the bus, whined "You'll have to carry everything now. I'm not sure I can do this any more. I think I have to stay on the bus for a while cause I need to sit."

Pardone?

I was the one talking in broken French with everyone. I was the one figuring everything out and I was the one carrying half his shit plus mine while he whined and moaned and got in the way and stood there with his mouth open, complaining that he hadn't had any sleep and he was tired. Indeed, I felt all these things too. But could I feel any of them? Being in charge of us both and all that stuff? Could I just give up because my credit card was not working and I had no money? Or that our phones were all screwy? Or that the airlines didn't want to even book us on anything and asked us to repay because of a problem in the system?

My brother swears Satan himself flew up from my throat and came out of my mouth in a cloud of black smoke. Because I didn't yell, I didn't swear, but I absolutely hissed in a Walt Disney-worthy villan's baritone:

"Give me a reason to leave you behind."

So we checked into (the) Paris Hilton. As I joked, it's about as clean as you'd expect but there were a surprising amount of Albanians in there. Zing! Zang!

Anyway, we are at the hotel and bro immediately goes to sleep. The moment I do, the phone rings. Our flight the next day has been cancelled too. All flights have. Seems a snow storm was coming. All the trains were booked as well.

My mother finally secured us a reservation on a different train at a very far away station. I stayed awake the entire night because there was so much to do the next day. I had been away for 42 hours. I had slept maybe a total of three hours. This will bring madness. Don't try it. I may never be the same again.

So we get to the train station by 4:30. There was no way in hell I was going to miss this train. We camped out in front of the ticket office for the next two hours until it opened. Like they were Superbowl tickets or something. Well, they were. When I got to the woman, who could not understand my sleepy, strung-out, awful, awful French and did not have our reservation and finally, after seeing me pull out my greatest asset, my ability to look like a third world child who is about to die, let us buy the last tickets on the train, I nearly leaped over the partition and squeezed her in my arms. J'taime mademoiselle! J'taime!

Six more hours on a train. The inevitable transfer and running up and down stairs and squeezing on to the new train with all those bags. Another few hours. Still no sleep. And we finally arrived in Cahoors, about an hour away from Bordeaux.

My dad met us. I haven't been so excited to see my dad since I was four years old and picked up at the babysitter's house (it smelled like the inside of a pumpkin and they had no good games).

Everything since being here has been fabulous: snow and chapel, Boxing day lunch, bookstore champagne parties, glittering blue Christmas lights, roast potatoes and the puppy and a beautiful bed. My bedroom here has shutters which give it total darkness. I have never slept so hard in my life. Each night I have been sleeping with a vengance. The fireplaces are always burning and Orangina is always close at hand. I was even invited by some incredibly stylish English girls all wearing over-the-knee Chanel boots, to spend the afternoon with them letterpressing stationary or whatever the big trend is here in Europe. I am also apparently, supposed to discuss my ideas for a magazine that is only available in application form--no print, no website, just an app, with a Dutchman who may or may not think that I am much smarter than I am.

I shall keep you in the loop on how that goes.

In the meantime it is the day after Christmas and everyone is in bed, even the dog, and I am left on the leather couch with all the suede pillows and the sinfully plush cashmere blankets (whether the couch is meant to be styled like it is in Versailles remains to be seen: I suspect Mom bought a bunch of luxe add-ons after hearing Satan leap out of my throat and into the phone after our seventh or so missed plane and train.)

So I'm left to the fire and the films, which are piled up next to the television as we have no channels yet. Planes, Trains and Automobiles is one of our family's favorite movies to watch during the holidays. Steve Martin. John Candy. They can't get home for the holidays. Everything goes wrong. They practically die about four times. Their planes, trains and automobiles fail them at every turn. It's usually hilarious.

Well, it was. Now, I can't bring myself to watch it. I'd sooner put escargots up my nose. I may never watch the movie again. Or travel again. But then, it is so nice here. Quiet and twinkling and lovely. I will enjoy it for a while before I have to venture back on the 2nd. Let's not think about that for now.

What A Difference A Lay Makes

Kidding! I had that plenty here. Kidding again! Joking about sex is not really my bag so I don't know how to do it right. The joking part.

But it is nice to go somewhere else and be surrounded by European men who tell you that you are lovely and beautiful and lie to you that your American accent is charming and don't even wince when you trip or sneeze on their arm, they just keep nodding along to your stories about camp or that time your fish was stolen (yes, it was, I swear) and ordering you more jack and gingers and smiling and walking you home at the end of the night and asking to see you again.

Europe was fun. Of course it was! It was most fun to get away from my beautiful life, which I didn't know was beautiful, or meaningful, or worthwhile for a while. Big mistake. While I was away the resounding chorus, in London, in Bruges, in Amsterdam (cough) was, how lucky I was to live in New York! Lucky?, I repeated, balancing a coffee and a cigarette and my bag on top of a bike as I wove in and out of small cars with fierce drivers, mothers with no shame cursing, delivery men with razor sharp spokes, and dum dum pedestrians digging in their backpacks for God knows what.

Lucky, me? But I'm just a writer...who lives a small life that is honest but perhaps nothing more.

Oh, what a brat I've been.

Self, readers, world, will you forgive me? I'm too old to be acting so childish, but it's in my nature.

Running away is medicine, more than laughter, more than chocolate milk and summer Fridays and mixtapes and grass fields and thrusting your feet into a fountain on a hot afternoon. It is all of that, it is more than the sum. You are with people, you are alone, no one complains. You fear leaving will make you less than, you will miss something monumental at home.

And then you get home. And you know what? The only thing that's been missed is you. Everyone wants to see you, everyone wants to talk to you, everyone is smiling. Work is tough but you realized you're needed. Your apartment feels like a palace. Your shower is ecstasy. Your phone is a magic controller. Your morning commute is different again, your head is higher, your step is lighter, you feel like this morning, this moment, could be played out anywhere instead of being the usual drudgery that you had made it earlier.

But you appreciate it all now. The light. The noise. The still and the not so still.

You have been away, in cobblestones, in open-air concerts, rolling greenery of parks. You have sat, quiet and read. You read all there was to read, you listened to all there was to listen, you sang to yourself and you skipped on your rented bike, in the unfamiliar train, hooked arms with unfamiliar people, danced all night, walked all day, rested only by sitting on a bench and watching a new breed of people trot by.

It was good and it was all yours and there was no reason for it, you just wanted it. Sometimes, maybe all the time, you should have what you truly want. Because it's good for you, and good for the world.

I took a vacation alone. Shouldn't you?

(Yes, you should.)

Stories to come...

Reasons to Quote

"Lust is easy, love is hard, like is most important."

-Rob Reiner

When you spend three plus weeks with someone navigating through plates of deep fried concrete discs under the guise that they are patacones, cracked out drug hordes, Panamanian sailors, pork soup with a fine veneer of grease floating on the top for breakfast, weak beer, too-strong rum, crusty old Germans with swastika and Che tattoos, the stopped-up toilet that the entire Mondo Taito hostel shared (and its Monday Martini Night vomiting), the dive shop that insisted we go out in the rainy boat and salt-spraying ocean that immediately killed the new camera bought to replace the one stolen, the flight cancels, the barge leaves early, the bus far too late, stinking of urine, freezing cold at four AM with the radio blasting, "Me gusta! Me gusta! Me gusta!"...you remember stupid things like quotes and forget important things like giving your traveling partner some slack for not wanting to talk after being awake for forty hours.

Things like love can't get you through that, the rib that was nearly cracked, the Codeine tablets popped every six hours after the clinic sets you free, talking your way into getting a Yellow Fever card to get you out of the country instead of receiving the second Yellow Fever shot in ten days (that's a live vaccine, meaning they GIVE it to you a second time, what do Colombian officials care if you'll surely die from such a thing? A different Colombian official took your card upon entry and never gave it back, so they consider you WITHOUT A CARD.). Love is nothing. Love isn't easy, sure, but to really enjoy, really like someone, that's something special. To spend all that time with someone, the hards, the have nots, the bruises and broken everything, the mud and blood-spattered clothing, no money, no clue, no way out, and to come home and immediately rent Deep Cover and get hot and sour soup and spend the day in your bed falling in and out of consciousness, that is something special.

I think.

More Cheating...

Mountains, highland cows, white beaches, Christmas lights and coconuts...not bad for a month where it was three degrees back home...

Cartagena...

Is all decaying splendor, horse carts and drug dealing kids who dance on the rooftops of historical buildings and flick cigarettes onto the glittering lights below. Thumping beats from clubs, happy throngs and short skirts, it's hot as Hell here and I am covered in backpacker marks, bruises, bites, the wear and tear where the nylon digs into my skin, where the sun burns my nose, where the streets are cobbled and I trip and slip in my flip flops.

Happy New Year and we've celebrated too long, we didn't sleep, and who would let us, long hallways and bottles of rum on the street, the group from Bogota who wants to take us to their fathers' beach house on the remote side of...somewhere, but we're running on empty, salsa screams from the corners, fried maize wafts in and we're off to a beach where the only colors are blue and white and the pink of hammocks and someone is catching fish for our dinner and we have to sleep, sleep, sleep.

Colombia

We arrive in the Bogota airport wary of the "world`s most dangerous drug", the one where captors blow it into your face, rendering you so placid you help them rob yourself, harm other people, rob banks with candy bars and frozen loafs of bread, etc. and wake in the morning or even days later without any recollection.

In fact, it´s clean, just as the Nicaragua airport was clean, and we have no trouble at all. The people are nice. The signs are easily read. The cocaine is fabulous (just kidding, you´d think the entire country was made of one big white sandcastle, but alas, that is a myth). So we start in the mountains and there is a dewy mist, cloud forest, a long walk in the cold with our sweaters bundled but our backs sticky from the journey, stray dogs follow us, we have water but nothing else, we arrive in a national park that is most treacherous, no signs, nowhere to go (down to the valley and other towns, up to the summit where no one lives, what kind of park is this anyway!!), we climb through thick jungle for hours, lamenting, wishing we had machetes, peeing in bushes and scared of animals biting our bare white butts, complaining, should we have turned left or right, was it your fault or mine, God will we be alive come nightfall? Where did the path go, where did our minds go, the visibility is less than 3 feet in any direction and any grab to a tree is a potential snake´s lair. We are dirty, tired, scared, and finally hours later come upon a sign that doesn´t mean what it says, but there are ducks and turkeys gobbling and llamas and a nice farmer who points us up the summit, says three more kilometers and we will be safe.

We descend upon a lodge, we eat fried dough and try to catch our breath, we`re served lemonade with no sugar, it`s merely lemon juice, and the llamas start eating other people`s picnics and we jump on the strongest horses in the world who slip up a forty-five degree angle slick with moss, somehow, someway we get on a van to a bus to a collectivo to a long walk home and that´s before the craze Jafakian (that`s Fake Jamacain) kicks my traveling partner because he won't follow him to buy a knife or drugs or whatever the hell he is trying to sell and I shout his name and we run in the other direction, but we aren`t scared, we are happy and safe and sleep in our sweaters because these are the misty mountains and this is Bogota and we will be spending New Year`s in a neon street party in Cartegena on the coast and have booked a sailboat which will stop on islands on our way to Panama and my sunburn has just begun.

There are many stories to tell, and even more to make...I hope you are having a Happy New Year and I will write soon!

And I'm off

I've been scrambling to finish chapters, fill in at odd jobs, wrapping up an article and enjoying my family for Christmas (quiet this year, just us and I glazed a ham and help bake a cranberry-walnut pie). And tomorrow at 4:30 AM, for all intents and purposes TONIGHT, I leave for South America!

First up, Colombia...with many many stories to come, hope you are all having a wonderful holiday and I'll tell you how Cartegena does New Year's...

And I'm off...but not gone by a longshot...

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

A great quote from my dad who used it when I would plaintively point out that he was breaking a cardinal rule he set forth for me: get your chores done before you engage in any play (little did I know that every phone call he ever took was about work--I saw the phone as made only for planning playdates not scheduling the electrician), don't skip meals (here he was too busy doing chores to eat--what can I say, I've never met harder working folks than both my parents), and so forth.

I'm hardworking too, I swear. But the economy doesn't want me to be: full-time writing jobs slashed across all magazines in the building, even my fun and very regular food-writing has vanished (and my boss, and my boss's boss--gone in a flash). So I'm going in a flash. To Colombia and Panama for 3 weeks. More backpacking, more money I don't have. Because I've got the time and at 27 years old, do I ever have any time?

And at 28 and 29 I'll be paying for it. I should be deep in the throes of pre-30s depression by then so hey, why not.

So, any of you been? Have recommendations? Remember, I survived Nicaragua and I'm only going to the safest of places in Colombia...

Anyone else just up and doing something crazy since the job market tanked?

Nica, Rica

Costa Rica and Nicaragua streets and beaches....

More Cheating (Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica)

That beautiful Costa Rican drive, our bag of lychees, a sunset across a volcano cloud, the ruins of the Yucatan and the tropical cliffs below them, the before-sunrise jungle hike through the ancient Mayan city of Tikal, and my very dirty feet high above the green limestone pools of Guatemala...

Cloud Forest, Hot Springs

Costa Rica is the last leg of our Central American journey and everything's changed: a new arrival brings a new dynamic, we've rented a car and are armed with a faulty road map, we've picked up two stranded travelers we recognize and the weather turns to torrent rains. Our bodies are a rainbow of bruises and bites and at the pool we point them out, play a game and sport them as badges of honor, can we name that injury on eachother? This sprain, that gash, where did it come from and who has the best, the biggest? We don't mention by the time we're healed, we'll be far away from the storymakers and street chickens, Imperial beer and the British we keep bumping in to.

Prices are up and we're counting our colones aloud...is there enough for rice and beans and ziplining both? It's hard to break the mold of cheaper places, we decide that we'll do whatever we want, a rule that should have gotten us into a lot more trouble by now.

So we walk in the clouds and slip in the mud, fly down lines over green valleys and turkey-necked cows, shacks and barns, coffee farms, we jump into the Tarzan swing and into a freefall and the forest echoes our screams. We get lost, we get found, leave blood all over the ATVs, Pina Colada glasses on the edges of beautified hot springs until the dignified waiter takes them away, eat mealy corn cakes at the Volcano Festival, drive many hours to find that the lagoon at the top of the crater's edge is closed and the view is sparse. We fight, laugh, shake our heads, sadly pack our bags and then, get on with our real life and try to remember how it felt when our biggest worries were how we'd ever manage to find a shower...

San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua

Black sand beaches, tidal pools and breaking surf surrounds us around here. Surfers from every corner, overtanned Brits, natural Californians, one amazing guy from New Mexico with a tattoo across both of his knees (admittedly done whilst incredibly drunk) in gangsta font that says on the right one ¨Save the¨...¨ and on the left one ¨...world dude!!!¨

There is the trio from Oxford who played their instruments on the black sand beach while twelve of us drank beers, then got stung by a sting ray. There is the rock skipping contest, of which my traveling partner is disarmingly good at, and the Nica local who says I look like his ex-girlfriend and then teaches me the word for cool. The bumpy path here is only 8 KM from town but it takes more than a half an hour because of the horrible state of the road, a boa constrictor stopping taxis, and when seventeen school children in uniform scream out as we pass, joyfully jumping on the back of the open truck just to get a ride. The air smells like burning wood at night, there is no fog and the sunsets are saturated orange, waves crashing, everyone hugging their knees on flat rocks, perfecting Spanish, perfecting the art of downing buckets of rum and Coke until 4 AM and then jumping up at five to catch the chicken bus, to sleep while standing like a horse would, walk across a border with our bags sticking sweat to our backs, our feet are dusty, our fingernails are dirty and we only have one week of wonderful discomfort of sandy beds and random conversations left...

Laguna

Sunburned and flipped on our inner tubes along the floating dock, today was spent at the swimming hole, all green and blue, all lapping waves and clear water jumps, all our new Irish friends pushing us over and now back to the hostel for the world´s best burrito...and the only thing we can afford...we´re supposed to rest up because it´s Saturday night, and regardless of the fact that every night seems like Saturday night, we´re expected to show up in full form at the Beach Party where locals grind to blasting beats and gringos sweat it out just trying to keep up.

Yesterday´s bottle of tequila at one PM on a rainy day must be put far behind, and the British guy who was crafty enough to take evidence, more than fifteen pictures of me, in various states of card games and sugary shots. Who won and who lost is one and the same...

In Nicaragua there have been steam venting volcanos, my purchase of Nica punk rock CDs, the guard yelling at us for jumping on a plastic sheep, the worst milkshake in the history of milkshakes, the crumpled pages of so many books, swapping stories and countryside pictures, fans and open air, and very long open nights. Our clothes are in a rainbow jumbled corner, we´re sleeping in a loft where the rain crashes down, if you could call it sleeping at all, and there are less than two weeks left and all I can think is how I can manage to miss my plane home.

Vamos, Panteras!

Things that I have learned on this trip:

Do not assume that just because a boy is under seven years of age that he is incapable of wiping the floor with you via the worst chess game of your life (he plays professionally! What a little hustler!! Acting all cute so I would play with him). Castling? WTF is that? Has anyone heard of this move? I feel like I´m in the outtakes of Searching for Bobby Fisher over here. You beat me in eight moves, huh? Well you know what kid? There´s no Santa. Yep, it´s all made up. How do you like me now? Hey! There´s no crying in chess, buster.

No worries, only the biggest and hairiest spiders can swim.

Vamos, Panteras! is an exceptionally cute saying when shouted by a native Guatemalan guide who takes us into a volcano, with a gold tooth and her hands wrapped around her only nutrients for the day: a bottle of orange soda.

Sleeping is optional.

Stereotypes ARE hilarious. As in, the British can have a forty five minute discussion about the proper cake to serve with tea and then devolve into a near brawl over it. I met the most British guy of my entire life and he was such a foppish dandy hiking up his black socks and his little shoes and calling himself The Tulip Man that I could barely stand it. Also the Irish drink an astounding amount and call mushrooms ¨mushies¨, the Dutch can swim really well and have bad shoes, Kenyans run really fast and the Swedish do not smile at other people on the street. Please note, all these hilarious tidbits were actually brought up by the individuals themselves, and when I asked what their American stereotypes were, one paused before shouting ¨You go girl!¨.

Coconut bread is an acceptable meal. Also, gum, popsicles, or a mouthful of salt water.

While we´re at it, jumping into a body of water is an acceptable shower.

Cranium is a really great game for when it rains. The footnotes of Crime and Punishment? Not quite as fun.

I do not need, nor want, a cell phone, email address, or calendar. I do need, and want, a new sweatshirt, as this one should be burned immediately after what it´s been through.

Snorkeling in a thunderstorm in Nicaragua is the coolest thing you can ever do.

It is not, under any circumstances, a good idea to buy hot sauce and then put it in your bag and then break the bottle all over everything unless you want to smell picante. Really, really picante. All the time. So much so that stray dogs approach.

Accidentally leaving important personal items in every country you visit does not make your bag any lighter.

Taking the time to get away from your daily grind, and yourself, is actually easier done than said. So do it whenever you can, no matter what the monetary or supposed drawbacks, because your life is only your own, and no one else will ever make it as meaningful for you as you can, all by yourself.

Grit and Bear It

The Corn Islands in Nicaragua are sloping green, with frothy waves every shade of blue, barefoot children with monkies as pets, little thatched jungle bungalows and communal dinners, free-flowing rum drinks at 2 PM, downpours every day at 3 PM, crowing roosters, and unripe mangoes hitting the dirt with a thud as we trek to the lighthouse to view it all.

Also, the walk around the deserted beach, untouched by tourists, unknown by most and the narrow path that leads into the forest. And in the water's edge, a dead dog being lapped by the waves, entangled in a rope.

We walk around it and assure ourselves that the dog died of natural causes before scurrying away...and I can't help but joke to myself the next wave of tourist ads for here.

Welcome to Nicaragua. Come for the waves, stay for the dead dogs.

Pineapples are juicy, but prickly f$ckers..

What adventura we´ve been getting into:

The deepest lake in Guatemala, a kayaking accident extravaganza where I was the most awesomest and nearly helpful in my entire life, jumped out to help an overturned passenger, then jumped back in my kayak like a spring, was then overturned by the effort of said person getting back into theirs and using me for leverage, and then a huge jungle spider jumped on my shirt scaring the bejeezus out of me, and then I plunged once again into 900 feet of dark blue water fabled to have an enormous sea snake that swallows swimmers, and then both kayaks were too full to get into, so I swam three-quarters of a mile, in my clothes, towing the boat and, for part of the way, the person as well. And finding it hard to swim because I was laughing so hard.

I am rewarded by the following prize; even more Irishmen (different ones) at our magical little hostel on the lake with family-style dinners, learning some fabulous and hideous slang that cannot be spoken in mixed company, a game of story telling that resulted in the new phrase PINEAPPLES ARE JUICY, BUT PRICKLY F$CKERS and a game of pool that I helped win, and four that I helped lose. Plus a cool looking bandage on my wrist from the battle of the day...

Backpacking stories are cliche for sure, but damn if they aren´t the most fun to tell later...

The lake in Guatemala

is described as Italy´s Lake Como, but with volcanos. There are women selling chocolate cake and will come by as you are sipping your tea on floor cushions under a bamboo roof. There are hammocks everywhere, ex-pats and plantains. There is more than one tourist who bought a wooden flute and this, somehow, is very, very funny. Bright bags, little kids with firecrackers and hot vents in select parts of the lake steam out.

There are also old men talking about their favorite mushrooms. I´m waiting for the girls to catch on up, it was a long journey getting here, riding in the back of a Guatemalan truck with a bunch of men who thought we were hilarious, blue green secret pools, a cloud covered ride through the mountains, and of course, a bout of bedbugs for one of us in the hostel in Antigue (not me! I spent that night hanging out until way past twilight).

We still have a few days left here, and it´s more beautiful than I ever thought it could be, and then we´re off to Nicaragua where we´ll part with all the kids we keep bumping into and even one of our traveling companions and trek out to beaches and this time I swear I will learn a little bit at least, how to surf. I know I´m supposed to be learning a lesson, gleaning some sort of true self, furiously scribbling in my journal and becoming some sort of young woman. But I´m too busy counting the robots painted in my room and passing bottles over guitar circles and my inescapable ability to devolve into laughter about jokes that no one at all understands. (Are we the only animals that hold it (aside from domesticated pets)? I wonder aloud as a horse lets forth a river of urine on the volcano.) Right. No actual world revelations yet I suppose...

Until then, I am thinking about what we´ve seen and done, mossy Mayan ruins, a lava river of red, an inordinate amount of time spent with the Irish football team I keep running into and all the days I have left...

Hostile

The hostel has swinging branches, little corner patches of wood and bright striped cloth, palm fronds and rope chairs, a canopy of cover. There´s an old guy with two parrots on his shoulders who doesn´t even work here and all the inhabitants look like they´re sharing blue mushroom teacups. The walls are moving man, the music has colors dude, the commenters have skinny limbs, the good sunglasses and the interesting haircuts and there are almost as many half eaten bowls of rice and beans as there are half-baked philosophical conversations.

Yesterday, six hours on the horses through the mud and jungle road and I pulled the brown one into a canter and nearly got bucked right off, then our crazy Swedish guide suffering perhaps from a touch of Tourette´s called her own horse an asshole, took us into a tomb with bats and proceeded to tell us about the three children found sacrificed with their skulls bashed in and hoped aloud that the cave would not collapse and bury us all.

Tomorrow we leave at 3 AM to see the sunrise over the ruins and then run our packs to Semuc Champey, where green pools sit in limestone and only those that can make the difficult trek can even hope to catch a glimpse, let alone jump in.

I´m missing July 4th, but I hope you have a good one while I remind myself it´s not a bad consolation prize to be in Guatemala...plus I got the good bunk bed this time and I´m not giving it up...not for anything in the world...