Stale brains and butter

ANTIGUA, Guatemala – I’ve found comfort, friendship and more reasons to love Guatemala ever since I arrived here, which was far too long ago for me to still be hanging around Antigua. I planned on leaving today, but couldn’t decide where my route leads to next. Que sera sera.

The drawback of busing from Alabama to Nicaragua is that one can get tired of moving so much, especially when there’s so many things out the window you want to stop and see. Guatemala has far too much to offer for the time I have here, and apparently it’s all gone to this colonial town and its thriving international community. Chela, Semuc Champay, Rio Dulce, Tikal, etc. They’ll have to wait for some other adventure.

Speaking of adventure, I’ve done most of it at night here, then spent my days laying around, walking lazily to artisan markets and then coming back for more napping before hitting the streets again after dusk. For example, things got wild at Café No Se last night following a really good pianist/traveler's rendition of Billy Joel's "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant," the whole thing ending with two British guys, two Canadians, a girl from Connecticut and myself storming the fountain in central park at 3 am and getting strange looks from stray dogs. Yes, there are photos.

But with that night now gone and over and my brain seemingly going stale on this pillow, all I can do is lay here and play Michael Jackson for the maids in my dorm room right now at the Gato Negro Hostel. They said it’s musica bonita.

Some girl from Michigan who just checked into the room chuckled far too hard and for far too long after I told her I’m from Alabama. The only other time I met someone from Michigan traveling was in Costa Rica, and he wouldn’t talk to me at first because, as he later revealed in a disparaging lecture on everything that was wrong with my Fatherland, he expected me to just be some redneck. He was from a city where they have better standards than the ilk of Alabama, called Detroit, one of the most prosperous, safest and least corrupt cities in the world. Its nickname is The Equality City.

The funny thing is that everyone chuckles or looks at me with great surprise when I say I’m from Alabama, be they from Michigan or Israel or Belgium. There’s usually something they want to say, but if it’s not Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” then it’s something bad and they just bite their tongue. You can’t judge someone for his or her race, sex, disability or social class, but it’ll never go out of fashion to mock someone for where they’re from, and no one has to deal with that on a global scale more than people from the South.

The girl from Michigan just informed me, sort of like a tour guide would say to people stopping too often to take pictures, “It’s going to rain tonight, so sitting in bed while it’s dry probably isn’t a good idea.” Who the fuck are you? Now she’s barking something about what I need to know if I cross the border into another country. Thank you so much for this unsolicited advice, I almost want to show you what I’m writing so you can know the exclusive, refined and intellectual group of followers of Bamaragua will see what a pompous pile of shame you are.

I had set out today to write a colorful essay about my hike up the Pacaya Volcano the other day, but this turned into something else didn’t it? I’ll tell you about that later today, maybe after I decide where I’m going next. I’m at a cozy yet precarious part of my adventure. I need to be in Granada no later than two weeks from now, but I’ve easily covered three-fourths or more the distance between there and Mobile, where I started. I could even take a grueling overnight bus to Granada from Antigua if I wanted. Most likely tomorrow I’ll head across the border to El Salvador and hit the capital, San Salvador. Either that or head northeast to Honduras and spend a few days at the ruins in Copan.

Time to find someone in the street and get me a luncheon.