I slept in a motherfucking bed with clean sheets and three layers of cotton, fleece, and knit fabric. There was a tv that played a HBO show in English before I went to sleep. It’s a wonderful life. But not for some of the cows here. Certainly not for any cow charged with being angry. Yesterday began early. I spent the night attempting to sleep in a hammock folded like a door hinge under a thin “Dora the explorer” fleece blanket. I was on the mountain and was so cold all night I never slept, despite my being desperately emotionally weary and absolutely exhausted. I got up at 5:30 to pack my bags onto the shuttle van…err…bus. Danny who had been so sweet to me, had decided to ignore my presence since I hadn’t wanted to go home with him the night before. (Assholes are never not present). We packed in and braced ourselves for a long ride to San Pedro. I had the battery pack my brother gave me to recharge my old iPod which is forever getting worse. That battery pack might be the most ingenious gift I’ve ever received and I thought about how I must remember to thank him again. We drove all the way through Guatemala City and I saw a glimpse of what the slums looked like from the main road. We got stuck in traffic. To call the air, “air”, would be a deceit. Although I had been excited by the big city, my eyelids weighed heavy. I fell asleep. When my eyelids flickered open, Alisa informed me that she had found the reason for the heavy city traffic- a dead, mutilated motorcyclist in the road, in plain sight. I was jealous up she didn’t wake me up, but it was too late. There was “RANCH” inexplicably carved into the side of the stoney cliff by the highway. There was a bicyclist with a big smoggy fart being exhausted into his face from a passing chicken bus. There were mountains and trees and expanse and cows and dogs and more small town slums. There were people with machetes, people with big metallic guns, children with abuellas, a woman riding a bike with a basket on her head, and many men with potbellies. We arrived to San Pedro from the top of the mountain. There was a wreck of garbage and some dogs providing the bottom frame for an incredible view all the way down to the water thousands of feet below us. We descended down the switchbacks. Upon arrival, the usual coyotes. Maybe the coyotes have been helpful to someone, at some point in time, but I think most of us travelers detest them. I can absolutely assume the Americans find it incredibly distasteful. If you are a Guatemalan and you aren’t a hustler, you will drown in your poverty. The tourist hustle is a game where they are each constantly praying on 1) the foreigner’s desire to not be rude and more importantly, 2) guilt for being there on vacation knowing that they will never really have one, because a Guatemalan is almost always about 3000x as poor as any white person. It hurts a soul to tell them no. I used to try to turn them down politely, but now I just don’t say a word. I ignore them, they ignore me, it’s a nearly foolproof algorithm for life. yet, we got stuck with two idiot coyotes we couldn’t shake. I almost started up my “do you have Jesus?” routine but that method might not work as well in Central America as it does in more godless

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countries like Sweden. And the US. It gets rid of unwanted company real quick without having to be rude myself. And we discover that although Danny had made reservations for us, nobody on the other end of the phone wrote them down. Or, maybe our reservation was taken seriously until precisely the moment when someone else came in ahead of us with cash in hand. For all the coyotes

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and the danglers and tourist information tables all along the gringo trail looking for a cut in exchange for help, travel advice, a hotel, whatever, nobody is ever ACTUALLY helpful. You end up feeling surrounded by well-educated surgeons acting like they definitely know how to immediately operate on your rupturing appendix, but they are full of excuses and you wonder why they are even there so you must go ahead and operate on yourself anyways if you want to get it done. So, Alisa, my German friends, and i were exhausted and weighed down with our packs of gear, but we had to hunt for some beds. We went all around San Pedro asking each hostel and hotel for a room and came up with nearly nothing. Every place was fully booked…. except for the two remaining rooms in the Jesus hotel- Casa Lola. Hugo is a nice guy. Book ’em. Cigarette. Vitamins. Shower. Make up. Dress. Message the Gingerbread Man. He had already messaged me. Buddha bar. 21:30. If he’s not there, it’s because he’s assisting in a birth. We meandered the back alleys of San Pedro in search of food as well as: Joe, the LA K-babes, and the Gingerbread Man. We never found those folks but we did find at least 7 Aussie friends we had made earlier in Mexico and Lanquin, two new Aussie friends and a Canadian. The Buddha bar had just one terrible bartender and about ten people clamoring for a drink. The place was brimming with good looking kings and queens of the underground. They played pool and smoked hookah. Alisa and I ordered rice balls, pho, a glass of red wine, and a Cuba libre. It took the spastic bartender about 15 minutes to complete the transaction. I wish I could telling you all about tripping in the remote jungle on the best acid I’ve ever had, but The Sorry Truth that all writers know is that it’s much easier to write about the mundane things. I sat. I drank. I watched people watch hockey above my head and pretended like their reactions of shock, joy, misery, and frustration were personal reactions to my presence. My rice balls arrived after an hour or so. They were rolled in toasted sesame seeds, stuffed with cream cheese, mint, and marinated shittake mushrooms, served with chili and soy sauces. It was mostly rice, and it killed the buzz I had been brewing, but they were tasty. I think I’ve been sustaining solely on tacos and rum for weeks now. Then, the Gingerbread man arrived in what I supposed was the same outfit he’s been wearing since we met last summer in rural Hungary. I realized I was wearing the same clothes too. He was with some friends, including the unforgettable Suzy, who was in labor. Gingerbread man, Suzy, Alisa, and I boogied on the dance floor as though her water hadn’t already broke. Nobody knew. The old school swing songs lifted our hearts and our dancing feet. We danced hard. Finally, it was time for Suzy to walk next door and bring new life into the world in the solar pools. Alisa and I said goodbye with damp eyes. She was beautiful. Lucho was born a few hours later in a

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warm pool amidst candlelight. We continued on our search for joe and met many wild characters in the meanwhile. At Sublime bar, we ran into our old friend Andrea whom we had met in Mexico. We toasted tequila shots and afterwards, finally blessed ourselves to sleep in the beds. ——- On Sunday, we work up

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and took breakfast at Nicks place on the lake. We walked next door and asked for a job. Franco said yes. We are here now in every way.