Home Again

As of last Sunday, we're home, back in the house, the swell, sweet neighborhood of West Asheville, where at moments it feels like we never left this place, and at others we're washed over by a lifetime of experiences that filled us up this year. What a wild, amazing time.

We’ve been back for a bit over 3 months now, tromping again on U.S. soil, flying up and down from one end of the country to the other visiting family and friends, relearning for ourselves how to mesh and meld in this fast-paced, driven America. We’ve experienced the yell out loud joy of being able to stick your mouth right under the bathroom faucet, swallowing the pure chlorinated water whole, brushing your teeth with big bold strokes without reaching for the bottle of purified water. For the first week one of us would get all tickled about this simple yet satisfying experience and yell, “hey, look at me!”

After 2 months, we stopped shocking our various house hosts with soiled toilet paper in the trash– we’ve now been fully retrained to throw our waste paper in the toilet and flush, and no longer have to stop ourselves from reaching for the wastebasket. Ice cubes, electricity and refrigeration have all become norm again, but for the most part don’t cause us a fuss if any or all are lacking. Other new noticeable traits about ourselves compared to our more civilized comrades is our high personal tolerance for lack of showers, creepy spiders, jumping crickets, or your occasional rat droppings in the house. All these things that years ago might have made you flinch or go on a crazy cleaning spree, now just roll right off us as no big deal.

Instead, it’s the endless choices and crazy high prices at the grocery stores, all the paperwork crap and people you have to talk to and fees you have to pay to set up house again or drive your car. It’s witnessing the frenzy that people go through for Christmas shopping, or the things this society markets at us for what you need to raise a new baby, and in general all the consumer products this country thinks you need to survive, to be happy - it all just blows our minds, and fires us up for a bit. Also the sad realization that one income at a good-paying job, with great benefits, an affordable house and no car payments - may not be enough to freaking survive in this country, it takes so much money to live here that it really is obscene, even when living on a simple budget. Just to give you an example, compared to 3 months living in Central America, we have spent in the same amount of time - 4 times that amount in cash just staying with friends and family and really only buying food, transportation, entertainment, some basic lodging, insurance and health care costs. In Central America we paid for everything, and it went an incredible distance.

You may wonder from my banter if we are actually glad to be home, and the answer is by far a big YES! Our surprise greeting at the airport, our welcome home party, multiple phone calls, belly-pleasing meals, lodging offers, help with job search, health insurance, baby needs, transportation, moving, your smiles, your supportive words, being able to reach out and physically touch your hands, hug your necks - all of these offerings embraced us and gave us something sturdy to lean on when we grew a little overwhelmed or weary.

We have had an amazing time visiting all of you - strolling along chilly Maine beaches, picking apples straight off the tree, stuffing scarecrows, having you rub and sing to my growing belly, sun-kissed and warmed by the swirling Santa Ana winds of Southern California, walking the goat, tromping through copper fall leaves, mesmerized by the giant Sequoias, and charmed by the first snowfall that coaxed us on an early winter magic hike, just the two of us, through perfect, joyful stillness. Perhaps some of the best moments though were just waking up in your homes, hearing your voices stir about in the kitchen or living room, wandering out of our bed to stand in the same space, next to you, being a part of your day in a way that so rarely happens due to time and distance.

And so, as I said, we are back at home, back at the work grind, almost unpacked from boxes and backpacks and trying to find our way, our space again, before our magic gift from Guatemala, our new sweet boy, makes his presence, and rocks our world for another exciting year.

Atitlan warms us back to life.

The Guatemalan mountains and byways, with flooding rivers and volcanic pointy peaks, look much the way they did in other Central American countries, but I could feel a rush of relief and sparked energy warming my belly as soon as we crossed the border, for the last time. Our ultimate dealings with Customs and Immigration will be with George and Homeland Security. An Orwellian yet reassuring thought.

Funny, in my mind, I was waiting all along to go to El Salvador. It was my secret ambition on this pan geographic trip, the verdant country most recently ravaged by another stupid war, where the bad guys upset by farmers striving for land and social reforms were funded by another stupid American president and Congress to the tune of 6 billion dollars. Alas minimal socialism was held at bay and thousands of innocents and guilty died, and corporate CEOs can sleep at night. Siemens, 3M, Goodyear, they are all there.

Going in it had everything an adventure and cultural whore like myself could ask for in the way of language, culture, and scenic splendor. But the truth is, we did not give it a fair shot, we just could not focus anymore, and now of course we will have to go back on vacation some day in the future. An opportunity lost it seems. One thing that San Salvador did drive home, really continued to drive home for us is this; every one of these capital cities is so incredibly polarized in prosperity. The glissening malls, chain restaurants like Hooters, wide avenues and opulent hillside mansions and neighborhoods match anything we have at home, but only a short distance away, often directly behind in the runoff ditches, disparity pulls your heart cords with communities crafted out of nothing more than cardboard and corrigated metal. Fifty dollar pairs of Adidas and the latest Hollywood smash hit, and people with no means of potable drinking water and sanitation, are separated by only a chipshot and chainlink fence with razorwire at the top. Managua, San Pedro Sula, Guatemala City, and to a lesser extent San Jose.

Anyway, somehow Guatemalan seems like a familiar friend, almost a mom with big arms holding us. We have grown so much in seven months, everything is so much easier now. The language, for one thing, we can actually understand the accents here. Navigating the buses has been a breeze. We are unfazed by hawking vendors and delay. We have retreated back to Lake Atitlan, really where it all began, and we could not be happier. We are in awe of the beauty and power of this spiritual place once again, and seemingly in a better state of being to appreciate it. It`s cool air and waters, and mountains that appear to fall on top of you, exhaust a person`s vocabulary. We have nestled into, by happenstance, the most delightful lodge carved into the side of a mountain, where there is a big sweet akita dog to lay on the floor with, funny and charming new friends from Australia, a clever one year old baby that is learning three languages, and tastey foods filling our bellies. We are happy. I held Heather`s belly in my hands today and felt the New Dickens pat my fingers four times this afternoon. The Maya are everywhere here, this has always been their stronghold and it still is. Their colorful garb and quirky language surround us.

Three more days.

All in a day

Just a day down here can bring forth such a sensitized mess of emotions. Take a few days ago, maybe a week ago in El Salvador. At this point of our travels we`ve lost a bit of our awed souls, just wanton for home and familiarity and a bit ashamed to admit the lessening of the drop-jaw wonder. We`ve decided to hunker down at the beach again, our consistent refuge from constant travel and unrelenting heat. The beach is an awesome rocky surf beach with long point breaks, big swells and strong currents that amaze but don`t dazzle much for the non-surfer. We stay in a tranquilo place but decide to book up to Guatemala after 2 days.

I awaken in the raw morning light with a hardening of the belly, strong and stiff with one side poking way higher than the other, and then there comes this rolling wave like a bitty bowling ball being released with ease from the hand. It`s wild, it`s weird, it commands every bit of my attention and I just lay there on my back, hands spread wide across my tightening skin and for the first time really feel the growing life, the strength of our baby. I could just lie here like this for hours, smiling, oozing joy. It`s taken me so long to internalize, to accept that this gift is real. Matthew wakes, joining my hands, feeling the earth moving, thumping, kitty-flopping through my belly.

Later that day we grab a bus, and then another to make the 35km journey back to the capital - San Salvador. At home, this might take 20 min, but here 2 hours. But we`ve grown accustomed and the sun is not so hot today, so we sink back for the bumpy ride, space out at the mountainside, sway to the Latin music, and gaze out the window. The bus grumbles up the hills and then comes to a stop. We spot 2 police vehicles, guys with guns, a woman in a white medical coat. I look and immediately wish I had not. A severed, dirt-mucked head of a young man lies on the side of the road. Yes, I said head, nothing else, no accident. My body stiffens, I want to scream, to cry, to get out of here now! I look around the bus, others look shaken, but as we move along they gain their composure, continue their conversations, and I just continue to tremble with this stifling reality of a life so different, so harsh. Or is it just so blatantly in my face here? This was showy El Salvador gang violence, where they leave a reap of their execution for the media to take hold of and shock the world, the onlookers.

Eventually, we roll into town, weary through the vendor thick streets selling watches, plastic bowls, American clothes, baseball caps, tortillas, tamales, mangoes, nike shoes, plumbing parts, live turkeys and chickens, 12 inch thick, smelly, unrefrigerated cheese - really anything you could think of is here. It is like the annual state fair melted with the grandest of flea markets, all packed full of people, lively sounds, pungent smells. And here we are on a decorated school bus, weaving our way through the maze. And later, that day end up in the biggest mega-mall I`ve seen in Central America, snacking on a bloomin onion, later buying apple danishes.

Like I said, all in a day.

Cannon Ball Run from Rivas to Granada

I am your travel guide today because my wife has already discussed more eloquently my own feelings than I ever could.

The power is out here in Granada, as it is most days. The rumor grinder says it is because the electric, curriente, company is Spanish owned, and Nicaragua nevers pays the bill accrued by governmental offices. Entonces, therefore, no power for the people during the day. It is a nifty story but I do not believe it. I saw this written yesterday on Ometepe: I wanted a bicycle so I prayed to Jesus everyday. Then I realized he doesn`t work that way, so I stole one and asked for forgiveness. The people here are both humble and worldly, and have strong wills that pull towards laughter.

Last week, we drifted down south to the border, frontera, with Costa Rica, and settled into a community of Pacific coast hostels, surf shacks really, and infrequent houses all together called Mahjagual. In between the clear waters and potent surf, the horizen was dotted with sea stacks more akin to the likes of Oregon. No bugs to speak in the way of bad mosquitos, and that`s always a plus.

The first couple of days the olas, waves, were huge and a bit thrilling. Probably in the 10 to 20 feet high range. When they broke and the sun shined through, the aquamarine colors seemed more like the carribean, and the sound as though a building had been leveled. Water temperature was perfect, slightly cool, as Nicaragua is by far the hottest country to ever boil my skin and vital organs. I swam my ass off all the days. Food was bad. I ate hamburgers with fries repeatedly. Eventually, to save a little money with our friend Jen, we rented a little house for two days about a 10 minute walk through pastures and monkey trees inland.

Exhausted by good times, we left and stopped in a close by town called San Juan Del Sur. Here, unfortunately, and soon for Mahjgual, are American and Canadian developers and realtors everywhere. Housing developments completed, under construction and some just a dollar pipe dream are chopping down the rain forest and every hillside. Just south of the border in Costa Rica is Tamarindo Beach. When I went there 13 years ago it was nothing more than a few houses, a good break, and a bunch of old surfing hippies living in pop up trailers. Now there is an international jetport, highrise condos, endless developments, where never a spanish word is spoken between tee times and tea times. Heather and I sneeked into a fancy resort in San Juan, to swim in their infinity pool that was oh so nice, and there were gringos and laptaps spilling into the deep end. Get here now. Think Tamarindo, Nicaragua in 5 years.

We split up with Jen in San Juan, she had to go back to work and could not hang with us slackers, or as my friend Jamie in Asheville calls us Team U. unemployment. Anyway, we caught the ferry on nearby Lake Nicaragua, which is about the size of the state of New York and used to part of the ocean and has fresh water sharks, which never tried to eat us by the way, to the picturesque two volcano island of Ometepe. Thomas Wolfe is eating his heart out after that last run on sentence.

You can not help but be awed by an area where herding and riding horses is not just still a part of life, but is the predominant way of life. The giant volcanoes overshadow everything, and why I argued last week with my wife that I was going to climb one without a guide, I turned tail pretty quickly once I actually saw them. Other adventurism of note, we went for a bicycle ride down a rocky dirt road, and while I was taking pictures with one hand and steering with the other, I was cut off by an oncomer and promptly flipped over the handlebars. Shaken, sore and dirty I pushed on, until I said I needed to stop and check my groin region because of a particularly stubborn pain. Where upon, my wife screamed because I had blood running through shorts between my legs. Broken superficial vein in my ball sack was my self diagnosis. Everything else intact and we continued on, and Heather is pregnant now already. Anyway, between surviving tyhoid fever, stitching my own leg up, and busting open my testicles open, I should avoid any wimp like heckling this year.

Stillness

Stillness. Yes, absolute, utter stillness. We´ve had endless amounts of it since leaving the orphanage and I am sure, by now, are both well qualified for holding some sort of metaphysical enlightened seminar in Asheville. To feel the exacting warmth of the breeze, the patterned lapping of the waves- taking notice when they falter or quicken, the rapid rate of growth of my husband´s nose hairs, or the horses splashing their front hooves, cutting into the water, biting at it like some dogs do, and then lunging their bodies sideways into the lake, scratching their backs on underwater rocks, throwing their feet high into the air and then getting up to do the whole routine again. We can now recognize the difference between the calls of the toucan and parrot, are keen and can predict the hours that the howlers will heckle, can free up huge empty spaces of our mind as one´s body gets into the rhythmn of washing all of your clothes by hand against a cement board, and then there are those sweet pleasures of floating in the ocean being graced on your cheek by a robin size blue morph butterfly.

We are lucky, we know it, for all of this time to be mindful, to see, hear, and notice more than the normal being who is always in motion out of necessity and/our rapid culture. But the flip side of all this luxuriant stillness and traveling comes the cravings to hear the Rolling Stones cranked up loud, to sink into a movie at an air conditioned cineplex, to have a piece of dark chocolate or cheddar cheese soaking in your mouth, to lounge on the porch with friends slapping off the mosquitos and being mesmerized by the fireflies. Or hiking up in those sweet Appalachian mountains, skinny dipping in the steal your breath away streams, knowing where you are sleeping for the next few days, cooking a wholesome meal, picking blueberries, hearing Matthew strum and croon away on the guitar, being near to those you love, digging in the red clay soil of the South, giving to others instead of having them wait and serve you, again being part of a community, contributing, feeling whole.

With only 20 some odd days left on this adventure, we are coming home with something a bit of a surprise. Of all our amazing travels and brilliant or gut-wrenching experiences, we have lost a smidgen of that wanderlust for somewhere else, the endless journey, the paradise lost, the more perfect way of life in someone else´s land, someone else´s culture. We have found home and packed deep within us now is a much greater sense of what very little we need to be happy and how most of what we get wound up in a wad about in the states, just doesn´t matter at all. Not at all.

Nicaragua here we come.

I know I am not really qualified to say this, but for all the scaryness the name seems to conjure in us Americans, Managua does not seem to have much of a bite these days. And probably never had all the meaness that conservative war mongering pundits wanted us believe in the first place. But hey I was only 11 years old and what did I know then and what do I know now, for that matter.

Tree lined avenues. Glistening new malls. Helpful taxi and bus drivers. Passable tourist infrastructure. We only stayed a night and saw just a fraction of this huge city, but it made a nice first impression anyway.

We are quasi living with our friend Jen, in this terriffic colonial home only a few blocks from the central park in Grenada. The house has an inner courtyard with flowers and open to the stars and bats, and that´s where we are sleeping just under the overhanging terracotta eaves. I opened my eyes yesterday morning and focused on a humming bird. The place is mostly unfurnished and I like to run around on the ancient tile floors and pretend I am in the Russian ballet, which after published would again kill any chances for my ever getting elected to public office. Poop. We have a nice hammock and a few chairs, and the beds of course. Jen, who we worked with at the orphanage, is renting this place for just 90 dollars per month from some New Yorker. Our share is $2.50 each per day.

Grenada has all this old and enchanting architecture, with five bold cathedrals and streets lined with the most diverse doorways. Our place, for instance, has five sets of doors, each 12 feet high made from wood, that line the exterior walls to the street from our corner building. Beautiful. And there are tons of these, and I have tried to catch a bit the magic with my camera.

Jen is volunteering here in the schools, and to keep ourselves busy a bit, until Jen can join us on a longer adventure next week, Heather and I have started volunteering for two hours per day at the Hogar de Ancianos. The home of the ancients. Old folks, you get the pictures. Sister Sonja wants me to do some exercise with them, but mostly I have been giving some sweet old ladies arm, hand and back messages, and Heather and I just chat it up with the fellas: the best we can anyway because it´s in Spanish, and they don´t have much teeth and hear poorly for the most part. One of them is 102 years old. Nice. Another told me he has 18 children. I told him Heather is pregnant with my ninth kid, and with my young age that seemed to impress him. Today, Heather was sitting with a woman who was singing the most delightful songs.

Three days ago, we joined two San Franciscans here on vacation and went to Lago De Apoyo for a day, a crater lake surrounded by forest with howler monkeys and with clear water the color of a blind blue eyed Husky dog. Refreshing swimming and ice cold babyruth candy bars.

Tonight, we are meeting some new friends for pizza. Grenada has a decent tourist infrastructure too and lots of decent restaurants, and cheap, three bucks for pizza. We are also going to see some documentary, which hopefully my Spanish will not totally fail me and allow for some bit of understanding and enjoyment. This afternoon, Heather hopefully is going to get another ultrasound. We tried to get one yesterday at another ultrasound clinic, but they told us they were not actually getting an ultrasound machine until next December.

Next week, Jen is going to join us in traveling a short distance to the Pacific, the San Juan Del Sur area, which is only a handfull of kilometers from the Costa Rican border. If it is nice and the waves don´t scare the shit out of us, we will stay for the week, and then return to Grenada for another week.

Vamos a Nicaragua

Before we even get on the bus, I´m reminded that this journey, as all bus rides go, will be memorable. The taxi driver chases down the bus, Matthew scrambles out to see if they have any open seats for us since we don´t want to stand knee-knocked for the next 3 hours. We throw our bags below and hop aboard. The guy collecting the money, isn´t allowed to make change, so the driver is driving while pulling bills out of his pocket, looking for change, navigating the wheel. In less than 15 minutes the money collector pulls out a briefcase and with the bravado of a young minister fires of an infomercial on the attributes of natural medicine, tinctures of avocado and lime to reduce blood pressure, the importance of drinking water, etc. culminating in the sale of a few books to bored passengers.

Later we come to a halt on the side of the road. Women circle the bus singing out ¨mangoes¨, ¨coca¨, ¨agua pura¨. They echo back and forth and people are buying up like kids at a candy rack. More folks pack onto the bus, some standing, but not many, for today, we are on a ¨fancy¨ bus that has a bathroom, solely for peeing (which has us both a little worried).

¨Beep, beep, beep, beep¨ hammers out the driver as we truck along honking at bikes crossing our path, the slow chicken bus that we´re passing, the vacas (cows) scattered across the road that are now running with the herd over the asphalt. There´s a different series of beeps that the driver employs when he spots a friend or fellow driver. Those beeps always are a bit softer, shorter, easier to take. But still, one must work the honks and swerves into one´s slumber if you want to attempt to catch any shut eye. We swerve closely avoiding going off the road. Sudden breaks pull from me a quick anxious look through the front window, often revealing an unsuccessful pass calling upon the quick reflexes of all drivers.

In the middle of nowhere, a man steps upon the bus with a huge basket in his arms selling galletas, tortillas, fried pork skin - all the delicacies to tempt one. I´m always wanting the likes of a sundae vendor, but none yet aboard. And then again, after Matthew´s earlier foray with typhoid, we are wimps when it comes to most street vendors, but everyone else buys up. When they´ve eaten or drank their fill, the windows open wider - the plastic, the styrofoam, napkins, all, are tossed out the window crashing on to the earth, the black tar, or carried to the wind. You would think with this frequency that there would be snowdrifts of trash on the sides of the road, but notsomuch. Having been impressioned by the crying Indian commercial of our youth, our mouths still hang open in shock, wanting to say something, whisper something to a young one, phrases run through my head, one´s I think might not sound so offensive. And then you get the stares back as we crush our trash and bury it in our backpacks rather that throwing it to the wind.

Another guy gets on the bus, pays for a ticket and immediately start selling B-12 vitamin injections. People are taken by his compelling story of healing with this medicine, but once he pulls out the syringe, the method of administration, he loses all takers and they hand back the packages. He does make a few sales of a green skin salve, which is purchased by my fellow passenger and then quickly suggested to me that I use some to rub on my face to help my pimples (gifts of pregnancy), which of course, I willingly do and spread around the green stuff.

So, all this was just yesterday. Today, we awoke at 3:00 a.m., got to the bus station at 4 and left on the bus at 5:00 a.m. By 6:30 we were at a bus stop break, getting coffee, using the bathrooms, and then the bus driver tells us to forget boarding the bus. Seems there is a protest happening today. A demonstration of farmers, townspeople taking the main highway to protest mining that is contaminating the environment. So far, we´ve been here 7 hours. Maybe we´ll be able to leave tonight on the bus, but really no idea. Buses, 18 wheelers, are crowded down the highway as far as you can see. Their occupants rest underneath the riggs, their heads supported by an empty coke bottle. But here I sit, after a bit of walking, having found an internet cafe to pass some time and do one thing I´ve learned best in Central America - to just peacefully wait. At least we have plenty of food, and possibly ice cream.

Healing Up

I landed in Guatemala with a broken, barely hanging on big toenail. Other parts of me bore similar characteristics, but this one was of the physical type that could be bandaged, buried in a shoe and forgotten about. Wasn't until Rio Dulce, the orphanage, the heat that dragged me to pull off the shoe, the plaster and welcome it to the freeing sandal. Immediately the kids spotted it, pointed, made disgusted faces calling it "feo", ugly. Several showed me their more ripe missing nails, others wanted to know what had happened, my story, but I didn't really know. Now, 6 months later, it's all anew, bright, shiny, bleached out by the sun - healed.

And now we are in Utila, Honduras, the cheap diving isla of the world surrounded by coral reefs and aquamarine sea. The ferry ride over was hairy, making many riders take full use of the plastic barf bags handed out, but not me, in the splashing, gut-wrenching seas I felt right in my glory of the usual nauseated state of my being over the past month and embraced the fact that I was much less green in the face than my husband and most others in the boat. We've rented an apartment on the point where we are surrounded by surf and constant ocean breezes.

Our sublime mountain house in Chajaneb combined with early pregnancy sent me a bit over the edge. Ten days of constant rain, the soaring keeness of my canine nose, the aversion to most food- even Matthew's hot new pizza rolls, the waif of mice droppings between the walls, the ill-plumbed Central American bathrooms that swell the house full of sewer gases, the ever present nausea that made me want to tear through my skin to the outside of my body and just run.

Even now I can barely think about the house in Chajaneb without gripping tight to a saltine. There were sweetened moments wandering in the hillsides up mud-covered paths that twirled between rows of corn and coffee plants. The way the clouds hung low letting your whole being disperse amongst them. Or those crazy rides to town, standing up, holding tight to a single metal bar, packed into the back of a flatbed industrial-size truck full of over 50 men, women, babies, children, chickens, turkeys, baskets of vegetables, tortillas, maize. As we tumbled up and over the rock roads, hillsides, bright green valleys all planted with crops woven in lines and patterns that mesmerize like the Mayan cloth weavings.

And now on Utila, life and my body feel a bit easier, a little less heavy minus the breasts which could now do a decent plump add for an implant surgeon. At the apartment I can keep all the windows wide open, am constantly wrapped in breezes and when a wave of nausea knocks at me, I can plunge into the tepid water for relief- really all quite nice. It helps, but traveling at this point in pregnancy is a drag and makes one want for the familiarity and comforts of home, but hey island paradise ain't bad. Often I want for Matthew's jumping around lightness and bodily strength, his good humor and ability to stay awake beyond 9 PM. He's been a great sport of it all and I'm ever so thankful for him. Every day he goes snorkeling for hours, finding spotted eagle rays, sandcastles of coral formations in brilliant colors, dog-size puffer fish, and schools of sergent majors surrounding and swimming with him, the big fish. He is in sheer delight and claims he could carry on with days like this for the rest of his life- but for now, it's one more week of island bliss and body recovery for me, then a way too long 17+ hour bus trek to Nicaragua.

Buses, baby and babylon.

Whether it is an unwarranted sense that I´m tired of writing or just don´t want to be bothered, I can see that our blogs have become fewer and smaller in length. Forgive us, I´d say, because we want to tell you our sappy and happy stories but often just don´t feel like wandering into an internet cafe. It just isn´t or does not jibe or seem appropriate with our general vibe at the time. Expats. Humph.

It is official, we have the plane tickets, and we will be coming home on September 7. We´ll spend two weeks trying to arrange health coverage for heather and the baby in Asheville, that is if the great satin George didn´t axe that program while we were gone. We will hang out and see and mooch off of friends and then, hopefully, do a world wind tour of Maine, Indiana and California and possibly if the pocketbook sees favorably come through North Dakota and Seattle. Ah, money, burn it if you still have it. I will join my comrades in labor at the beginning of November.

After we left those impossibly verdant slopes in Chajaneb, Heather and I reluctantly returned to Guatemala City to do what all good citizens of civilization do, battle with the bureacracy. It seems that visa laws changed on June 1, for what I could only make out was little more than a money making scheme. The hassle, or so we thought, would be waiting three days for them to process the paperwork. But in the end, we found a decent little hotel and spent time seeing the ornate National Palace, fountains and cathedrals. All in a all, it went pretty fast except for the times when Heather´s nausea was overwhelming. She is tough, though, and besides the moments when I´ve already become shamefully jealous of the strength, care and time my new offshoot requires, my beautiful wife fared pretty well.

From Guatemala City, we traveled over five hours by four different buses to Copan, Honduras, a tiny colonial town with cobbled streets, whitewashed walls and tile roofs and if I may say so, a bit like an Epcot Center exhibit. Almost too perfect for Central America. Anyway, all of it in a green valley nestled by miles of corn fields, shadowed by the Rio Copan, and home to Copan Ruins, a 1500 year old Mayan homestead and our reason for traveling, of course, there.

Lodging was fine, 10 dollars for a clean room with two beds and a fan, with a shared bathroom. The food in this town was generally horrible, as it seems the case with all the towns where there will be lots of gringos. Try as they might, you just can´t make three thousand years of corn tortilla technology into a Philly steak and cheese. And you know it will be bad, but you are sick of tortillas and want KFC, and so you sucker in and curse the gods for this bad food after.

The next morning, we walked the two klicks to Copan Ruins, an ambling path past fields pregnant with tall grass and horses. The ruins were not cheap, 10 bucks a person and that didn´t include the price of going into the archeology tunnels or the museum, which we did not do. They were not needed.

We have been to four major Mayan ruins this year, and while yes they are separated by hundreds of miles, thinking about it last year I couldn´t but imagine they would mostly be the same. Stone, carvings, pyramids, same time different burg. How wrong it seems I was. They do look a lot alike, but they all have different pervialing feeling. Hard to explain, really. Chichen Itza, in Mexico, was dominated by a single gigantic and wide pyramid, much like they look in Cairo, and it seemed to affect you in a fatherly, motherly way. Protecting and snuggling you. Tikal seems to rise out of the Guatemalan jungle, like a warrior general and most of the temples, at times, feel like they are pressing down on you. I can´t say I was scared, but I felt uncomfortable. Tulum felt like the Mayan Club Med on the shores of the Carribean. And Copan, was less about structures and location, but the fantastic carvings. Hundreds of faces and hyrogliphics, beneath mountain like Ceiba trees. It was soothing, like a neighborhood. All these ruins had, at times, thousands of people living there but this was the only place it was still obvious after two milleniums.