Listen, I’m proud to say, I’ve never been to San Marcos La Laguna. I’ve heard it’s a hippie nightmare (not a nightmare for hippies, a nightmare of hippies) and, if I had gone there looking for a good time, I would have thought just that. Instead, I stepped foot in San Marcos to say: “I’ve been to San Marcos” and I brought low expectations. People (I mean, Guatemalans) rave about the jump-off point into the lake in San Marcos, but I plan to spend my entire service never touching the lake water (or letting it touch me) because the lake is like gross with poop and algae. Also, I get enough unwanted attention for being foreign and I don’t need anymore by putting a bathing suit on. So there, my treatise on San Marcos La Laguna.

(I should clarify, I don’t hate hippies. I don’t even care. But it’s being lumped in with pothead tourists, simply for having the same skin tone, that drives me nuts. One girl actually zoomed pass Zayra and me singing: “Don’t worry about a thing… cuz every little thing…” It was so predictable it felt like farcical, but it wasn’t…. So I knew that going to San Marcos might have me feeling some type of way, especially the tourists who wear traje típico. That one is a tough pill to swallow (all of the appropriation going on). But also, I wear the traje too, so I’m not sure my use of it is any different. I am not anymore connected to the roots of the clothing than they are. I am just living here a little longer.)

So I woke up on Saturday with big plans for the weekend. As any frequent reader knows, I’ve been recently quite heartbroken, the kind that makes things like the weekend seem insurmountable. “Where do I put my grief when I go places? Do I have sufficient space in my bag? Or will it come spilling out everywhere like tampons from a purse?” I slept in, made my coffee and sat, slowly sipping and remembering where I am and for how much longer.. (Santa Clara, 3.5 weeks), preparing myself to leave the house for a whole night and to remain in one piece the entire time.

I left the house with my backpack on and even caught a bus that would take me to San Pablo for Q5. The bus began to make it’s way down with a transmission that should have retired years ago. I sat on the inside of the green bus and wondered for a moment if I might die on these hairpin turns.. But we made it, safe and sound, and I quickly exited the metal monstrosity.

I got to Zayra’s house, who I have never visited even though she’s lived close for over a year! And I got to see her view and her sweet set-up and meet her host family. I’m doing a lot of things I’ve never done so I can cover my bases before I leave…. I met her host family before we hit the trail to San Marcos.

It’s about a 30 minute walk on gravelly, unkept roads from her site, up and down some intense hills. Guatemala looks tan and dusty because we’re almost at the end of summer and into rainy season, but not yet (don’t rush us! I don’t want rain my last few weeks here). When we arrived to San Marcos, we turned down an alley and I saw what everyone was talking about… It was hippie row. We grabbed pizza and sodas and I just let the San Marcos ambience settle-in around me…. Lots of English and strange accents and restaurants that accept cards. We got gelato, with a host of screaming children in front of us in line (maybe it was just two) and we headed to the park to finish our sweets. There were beautiful flowers and non-Guatemalans ambling about (just like us, me and Zayra, but not at all like us because we are not on vacation). Then we decided we could handle the walk back and started again with the hills.

The view on the walk home was nice, and it was good for the pizza, soda and ice cream to settle in. Several tuk-tuks passed us and said: “Taxi” to which we said: “No, Gracias.”

I got my things from her house and she helped me secure a tuk-tuk to San Juan. San Juan is the neighboring town where my friend María lives, and has hosted me several times. I only called her two hours before to tell her I would be coming. It’s not a problem for her if I drop in. What I love about Seño Mary, among so many things, is her easy laughter. When I arrived to her house, I told her there was a shop with a beautiful shawl that I wanted to buy. I asked her to help me buy it because I knew she could get a lower price (being local). She was in the middle of washing a corte in the pila but she said: “Let’s go!” and we made our way out the door. Her niece, Emily, remembers me because I once painted her nails blue. Her round face appeared on a plastic wheelie car, and she peered in at me. Seño Mary’s whole family lives along one thin alley, so you can find anyone in their house by just walking to the next door over. It’s really sweet. I always see her parents and her siblings when I walk past the other windows and doors until I get to hers.

As luck would have it, the store was still open. I crept around outside like a total weirdo, trying to hide from the view of the sales’ lady. I even tried to call Seño Mary so we could do this thing walkie-talkie style, but of course she didn’t have her phone! Before you know it, she asked the store attendant if I could come in. I thought the jig was up, but she had already locked in the price I was comfortable with! So I went in and I saw my favorite shawl, hanging, light purple and black squares woven throughout, and I knew it had to be mine.

She gave it to us for Q150 and I was thrilled (that’s $30 USD, but it’s a splurge on a volunteer budget). This is my shawl for good times to come, for job success and establishing myself in my post-Peace Corps life. I tried to buy a shawl for Seño but she refused, saying the cost was too high for the value (which made me feel like an oaf, but okay. I knew she meant good by it). On the way home we picked up beans and ate them with tortillas. Two single women who don’t cook for themselves (every meal) so there, machismo universe. I pranced around her house in my new shawl.

I’ve never seen anyone eat slower, in the whole world, than Seño Mary. She can make three tortillas and a small bowl of beans last an entire lifetime. You wouldn’t believe me unless you saw it. I know I eat fast compared to Clareños, who take their time with their food while I simply scarf it down, but Seño Mary takes it to another level of devotion. I chatted with her while she nursed her remaining beans.

She has a big bed, and a small bed, and she always offers me the big bed. It’s brand new and the mattress “es como dormir en los nubes!” I told her to which she laughed. I even wanted to sleep in my new shawl.

Seño Mary worked on her Sunday school lesson preparation while I tried not to tinker too much with my phone. Phones are bad for heartbreak. I just posted my new shawl to my Whatsapp status and set it to charge.

And I left my grief tucked away in my backpack, turns out there was space. It didn’t fly out of my purse like a pack of loose tampons. It just stayed in there for another day.