It´s Pronounced Shay-La, Kinda Like Shangri-La

Today I paid for my room ($4) and set out to find some breakfast (coffee and pastry, $1) and wander the city. Downtown Xela is perfect for the purpose, with a number of big parks for strolling and lots of friendly people. Everyone says buenas, and if you look confused people ask if you need help.

The first person I spoke to here was an older indigenous woman who stopped me on the street. ¿Estas soltera? she asked. When I replied yes, she launched into a laundry list of people who could be accompanying me. ¨Where are your parents? Where are your grandparents? Where is your husband? Where are your children? Where is your teacher? Where is your boss? I tried to explain that being alone was part of my grand adventure, but she was having none of it. It was incredibly sweet. She left me with an equally long list of advice about street food, taxis and personal hygiene, and away I went.

The only unfriendly parts are the catcalls and cars. The catcalls are an incessant and unintelligible mix of Spanish and English. Every once in a while, someone will lean out of a car window, or over on their bicycle, and touch me. I aways wonder what the men expect from all this unpleasant attention. Me to reply ¨Ay, Papy¨? It´s another manifestation of machista culture, meant to annoy rather than to attract, but it´s already getting to me.

As for the cars, it´s a bizarre mix of new and old. Sputtering, rusted out models 80s and early 90s drive in droves here. However, the age of the cars dosen´t seem to stop the owners from pimping their rides with tinted windows and decals. and occasionally, chrome mufflers and rims. There are also all manner of microbuses, a misnomer for minivans modified to hold fifteen to twenty passengers. They speed down the streets, with a kid hanging out the front window, yelling the names of the destinations. All of the drivers here, even the ones with higher end cars (Hyundais and Toyotas), appear completely oblivious, and yet in a rush almost inconceivable for Latin America.

In the afternoon, I went to the school to meet my host family. The school itself is sublime. It’s in a canary yellow colonial building on a corner, with tall shuttered windows and brightly tiled floors. Inside is a courtyard full of bursting tropical flowers, a defunct fountain, and an abundance of baby doves. All the pairs of students and teachers, some twenty, sit around it.

Unfortunately, there had been an error, and my reservation had been lost. I had no family or teacher. Moreover, there were no administrators at the school, since it was Sunday. However, the secretary, Reynaldo, did an amazing job straightening things out. Within a few hours, the director of the school had been called and both a family and a teacher had been found for me. This was a veritable milagro in Guatemalan terms. So far my family is charming. It consists of a couple, Marisol and Lionel, two of their parents, Oscar and Ana, and their daughter, Ana, who is nine. I’m still getting a feel for my family, so I’ll certainly have more to report on the issue later.