June 8- July 10
I am always going to remember laughing and crying with my poor Spanish instructor, Jazmín. She had no idea what a troublesome student was walking into her life, Monday, June 15th, but her bravery must be noted.
I was earnest. I took copious notes. I nodded in understanding. But when summoned to speak, my brain was full of spaghetti noodles. Not a single word could emerge from that carb-laden land.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME. ¿Cómo te llamas? I looked at Jazmín. She looked at me. I looked into spaghetti land. She looked at my notebook where all the answers were neatly copied. We weren’t quite laughing or crying yet, but just tune back in after another thirty six hours.
Shouldn’t this be easy? Hadn’t I been on level one of Duolingo for three years? Didn’t I take TWO Spanish classes in high school, watching no less than five movies with no subtitles?! Didn’t I email my teacher a complete paragraph IN SPANISH on March 30th, 2010? Wasn’t I surrounded by Spanish speaking neighbors, colleagues, and friends for ten years? How could I have not picked up, “Mi casa está en el centro, a la izquierda?” Even now I question the grammatical accuracy of that statement.
We spent most of our time in a language school in San Pedro alongside Lake Atitlán. The 1:1 instruction was grueling in the “I’m an introvert starring in the high school musical” sort of way. Is it just me, or are ALL my heroes embarrassed on my behalf? Rocky, already proficient in three languages and happily learning his fourth, was flummoxed. My teacher, mystified. I was also baffled. I thought to myself, “this requires investigation” and took binoculars to a hill above the spaghetti sea, to see what I might see. My best day with Jazmín only arrived after this. We sat in the grass and I made up a story about gossiping chickens and cheesecake. There was an ease. Honey-sweet mango wafted in the air.
San Pedro unfolds in the skirts of a volcano. If you leave town, heading straight up, you will eventually meet your ego, and maybe the summit. I found the most relief on our volcanic hikes where speaking is unnecessary. With the volcanic stone crunching like chopped ice underfoot and mist swirling above the crater, the trail was in charge. I soaked in the mystery of that place and felt deep respect for the indigenous traditions which have honored that landscape for two millennia, cultivating their own bodys of languages, dreams and fears. I felt trust in myself (I mean, hopefully I could make it back down). I didn’t have to prove myself, be relevant, or charming. I could just be there and that would be enough. ¿Puede ser cierto? (I had to look that up).
I had mixed feelings as we said goodbye to San Pedro and my vivacious Jazmín. She had patted my arm through my tears of frustration; she had taken me to see her daughter singing. She wears her traditional huipil and round glasses to work and washes her family's laundry by hand in keeping with the culture of her mother and grandmother. On the weekend she wears a high-top braid, jeans, and proudly tells me about her tattoos while laughing with her friends. She is formidable. She is funny. She is a full person. We said goodbye to the dogs napping on stoops and roofs, to the beautiful garden in the school, and to the lake I swam in zero times.
On our way to the airport, back in Antigua with its cool, recessed doorways and lush courtyards, my ears strained to pick up familiar words in an undercurrent of World Cup commentary. Was that, “a la derecha”? I questioned my articulation of “lo siento” but got a nod from the bicyclist rattling over the cobbled streets. Some twenty hours later, during our ride into Lima, I realized I could understand about 20% of our driver’s commentary. Lejos. Viajar. Trabajar. Japón. It turns out I was learning all along, just not at the pace I had expected.
Other Observations of San Pedro
The communities around the lake are primarily Tz’utujil and Kaqchikel Maya. There is no road circumnavigating the lake and for one town in particular, the only way to reach it is by boat. This area was devastated by its own government during the Guatemalan Civil War, just 30 some years ago, and still wages against poverty, corruption, and religious strife.
Everyday life: We were surrounded by teeming life: shopkeepers, marketgoers, construction workers commuting, students paddling their feet to and from school. We woke to the gossiping gobble of chickens, were spied upon by white cats on tin roofs, and patrolled by a small army of dogs. The narrow roads were designed for walking and not the cacophony of tuk-tuks, trucks, and the monolith of Hoka shoes and Cotopaxi bags that held us all. Checkered huipil and bead-bedazzled textiles were donned by almost every Guatemalan woman, and almost every wall in sight. I have never seen such a dense population of murals. The textiles are their own textbook of cosmology, nature, and community identity.
Celebration: America 250 can’t hold a candle to an annual Guatemalan celebration. For three weeks, the town celebrated the birthday of San Pedro. Fireworks exploded day and night. Performers from the dance pavilion thunder, somehow damaging your chest cavity. The Catholic Church, attended by 60% of the population, held hundreds of Guatemalan parishioners in special services. (Attending with my teacher, I was shocked to see the church completely packed with others watching via Facebook Live. A culminating event was a procession from the church through the town carrying their saint. Between beaming onlookers, he sat atop the shoulders of weary, proud men. Girls with delicate bows in their hair sang sweetly while their grandmothers in giant sunglasses from the early 2000s looked on with pleasure.
Bizness: Tourism is a primary source of income in this region. High school students operate a network of ice cream stands at traffic intersections. Our host sells cakes on WhatsApp stories while running several other enterprises. Another host family, operates with the smooth repartee of a hotel concierge thirty years in the making. They sweetly share, “We are painters and many tourists buy our paintings.” There is an interesting article about this family and the art of marketing, here.
Things I enjoyed listening to/reading while I avoided learning Spanish:
Wiser Than Me a podcast with Julia Louis-Dreyfus (simultaneously light and deep)
Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking (might have been found in an airport lounge circa 2014. Highly cathartic for aspiring ambiverts)
Toni Jones (have you listened to her mantras?!)
‘Creative Power, Civic Purpose’ presenter, Holly Doll: "A challenging thing is swallowing the fact that you will fail. Because you will fail, and it’s ok. The goal of the work isn’t perfection, it’s to stay in relationship. Trust isn’t built from never making mistakes, it’s built because people see how we respond when we do make those mistakes."
The Little Prince (I watched the animated movie and was enchanted, of course, but I was already in a Frida Kahlo inspired Airbnb, designed by a Guatemalan photographer with a riveting life story, so who wouldn’t be overcome?)
