April 7, 2009 Perpetual Stagnation

Sunday was our one-month anniversary! We’ve been living here at the Casa Blanca for a whole month now. My Spanish still sucks, we don’t necessarily have any new friends, and we haven’t saved any money. But still, it’s been a good start. I’m comfortable here. This house feels like my home, as much as it can.
I’m still infuriated by a few things, spiders no longer the most prominent on that list. They’ve backed off, mostly, recognizing that this is human territory. I still get shivers at the sight of them, but I can coexist. And that’s all that matters. The garbage situation annoys me mostly because we have a bin for “organic” waste right under the kitchen sink. You know what goes in there: all the stinky stuff: eggshells, banana peels, onionskins – and that attracts these tiny little flies like nobody’s business! I don’t like trash in my kitchen, least of all when it attracts flies.
Water is also a little bothersome. You can’t drink what comes out of the faucet, it’s lake water and the lake is polluted. So you buy these big jugs (water cooler jugs) for drinking and cooking, and when you run out you have to call a tuk tuk driver and pay him to bring you fresh water jugs.
But the most annoying thing. The thing that most keeps me from feeling completely comfortable is that I can’t communicate with most of the people around me. My Spanish is appalling. I can’t even think of what I want to say. Except very simple things, and even then I’m too shy to actually say it. I stay quiet nearly all the time when we’re around Spanish speakers. I’m embarrassed to have people hear me speak English. I’m embarrassed to be such a stupid gringo that I can’t even speak the language of the country I’m in.
So on Sunday we went down to the Hotel Jinava, our next-door neighbors, and had breakfast (they gave me a menu in English, could tell just by looking at me what I am) and asked about using their beach. They said we could use the beach anytime we buy anything, so after breakfast we went and got our beach towels and our sunblock and sat out on their little strip of sand. We even got in the water! It’s full of grass and who-knows-how-many critters, but it felt really refreshing.
I think it was a good way to celebrate our first month. Jumping in this magical lake that beckoned to us from over two thousand miles away and called us out here. It’s been a great experience. I get along well even not knowing Spanish. And I’ll learn. I think it’s time to go to the Spanish school here in San Marcos, immersion doesn’t work too well if you’re chronically shy and self-conscious. I’ll get it. I will. We’re planning to stay here at least until the end of August, if I don’t know Spanish by then, please kick me in the shins.
I don’t know if any Oakland friends read this. Maybe Oaklanders are too cool to keep up with silly blogs. But we’re too cool for Oakland, so there. I’m just kidding, we’re not too cool for anything I know of. But Sal and I have decided not to return to the Land of Oaks this April, as was our plan originally. So who knows when we’ll be back in those United States? We probably won’t go to California soon anyway; we need to visit Sal’s family in Georgia. Hopefully I’ll know Spanish when we go visit them! I’d love that, and I bet his parents would too.
Sigh. You want to know the truth, Internet? I don’t want to wait another year to get married at all. I want our future now. I want to marry my sweet wonderful perfect man this summer and go on a relaxing honeymoon for a week or two in Jamaica (and get my dreads back while we’re there) and then go live cheaply in Europe for about six months. And then I want to publish my book and win lots of money for it and build us a house and finally adopt a puppy. And once the puppy is grown up we could make a baby. That’s what I want.

April 3, 2009 A Night in Pana

Sal and I are sweet, if not predictable creatures. We eat almost the same meal every night. We adore the same TV shows over and over again. We systematically celebrate the third of every month as our “monthiversary” a tribute to the night, three years ago, on August third, when we first locked lips. But every once in a while we like to shake things up.
So it was that, Tuesday, March 31st, Sal was invited to the percussion jam session at Solomon’s Porch by Cush, we think that must be short for percussion, he’s a great percussionist. It was a great time. To start off the day we got coffee at the stand outside, sitting in the wooden chairs while I read (I’m now onto “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides) and Sal worked. It was also payday so we wanted to go put a deposit on a little cottage here in Pana that we’re renting for the summer. Our future landlady, Dianne, has a beautiful big house near the lakeshore and we met her there.
She served us tea and entertained us with stories about her life sailing around the Caribbean and tidbits of useful information on the Atitlan area. When we mentioned we were trying to figure out how to stay late in Panajachel (since we almost always catch the public boat before 6pm) she offered us the use of one of the extra bedrooms in her house. We graciously accepted.
I’m always a little apprehensive to try new things, especially when they disrupt my sleep schedule. After all, I’ve only just become used to sleeping in my bed in San Marcos. But Sal was excited to play music with other children. He almost always plays alone. He works feverishly writing new songs, recording them, mastering the complicated fingering for the few seconds long enough to immortalize it on his MacBook. But so rarely does Sal find others to play with. He’s had bands. He’s been in bands. But they never did what he wanted. You see, from what I understand, Sal is more of a composer. He writes the most beautiful songs.
So my love got up on that stage and played the djembe with a bunch of guys. He got on the drumset but, apparantely was playing too loudly and one of the older musicians had to trade him for the congos. His smile was euphoric. The sweat dripping down his forehead, pushing his glasses down to the tip of his nose, was like a crown of joy. Sal, musical Sal, with the sweet pulse of beat, of rhythm, coursing through his veins like the sweetest drug. I watched, took pictures, and drank more beers than I usually do.
Around midnight, the energy of music still jarring Sal to frantic grins and “let’s get one more beer to go” we finally burst out into the street. Panajachel is different by night. As quiet as the small village we claim is more peaceful (San Marcos). But getting a Tuktuk was easy, Dianne had given us the keys to her house so we only had to be careful not to wake her three, big, beautiful dogs as we tiptoed through the garden. She’s a big believer in feather mattresses and left a jug of water out for us. It was perfect.
In the morning she gave us coffee (tasted too sweet for one reason or another) and we were on our way. She recommended a restaurant called “Deli” (it has a longer name, Llama de fuego, or something) at the end of Calle Santender and there I found the one breakfast item I prefer to the Chapin breakfast (plantains, eggs, beans, and tortillas) a vegetarian omelet. Chopped zucchini, broccoli and bell peppers spilled out in a mass of cheese and pepper from under well-cooker eggs. Perfecto.
We spent yesterday at home (I can call it that now) and I continued reading. Jim, the handyman at our house, told us about a big celebration happening, Semana Santa. And I guess it’s going on right now. I can hear, from my comfy the forceful lumbering of marching band drums and the whoops and hollers of clerks coming out from behind their counters to gawk at pretty girls twirling batons. It’s a Christian holiday (surprise!) having to do with Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter. All the gruesome days relating to Jesus’ bloody death and ghostly revival. Sorry if I’m sacrilegious here, I can’t say this stuff out loud or I’ll get in trouble! I don’t think anyone here should ever know just how blasphemous I can be…..
Now, the sweet sweet weekend awaits. For the weekend we won’t be broke. So hopefully I’ll have fun pictures up of whatever we end up doing. The evening fast approaches and a boat is out there waiting for us before returning to the sleepy dock of San Marcos.