The Little Yellow City Part 1

The bus ended up being late and empty. Empty. Empty was becoming a reoccurring theme for me. But, the bus driver told me that we were going to collect someone from the airport. So, we drove twenty minutes back to the airport and waited. I wasn't getting my hopes up that it would be someone I could talk to, but when she climbed on the bus, I immediately struck up a conversation. I don't think I had ever craved a conversation so much in my life.

We picked up one more person, a Mexican man in his 40's who sold “Muebles”. After seven years of Spanish, I still had no fucking idea what a mueble was. The Taiwanese girl who I had determined was going to be my friend eventually sorted out that it was furniture. She had better Spanish than I did, and was going back to Antigua to improve on it some more.

It took approximately an hour to get to Antigua, and I spiraled into a terrible bout of motion sickness by the time we got to the mountain pass. As someone who intends to travel as much as possible for the rest of her life, I certainly did not get lucky in that way. Motion sickness debilitates me to the point where I become weak and dizzy. It did not stop me from seeing what I could see, however. I did not want to miss anything, and the enthusiasm swelled inside me once I caught a glimpse of the Spanish Colonial city that is Antigua.

It was better than I had imagined. The smell of diesel, the shouting, the honking, the crumbling nonuniform buildings, the hippies- it was all there, but now so was I. I lifted my head to look out the window as the bus jolted and jerked down the cobblestone streets, meeting every pothole it had to offer us with a great thump. Every time it hit one I wanted to vomit, but if I would have at that moment, I would have vomited sunshine. It was a great triumphant moment in my life. I felt like my own absolute person. I was in control of my destiny, and it wasn't all just some random collage of circumstance.

I had no idea where my hostel was in this city. My Lonely Planet was stuffed in the nether regions of my pack, and I was frantically searching for it, so I could sort myself out. The Taiwanese girl told me she'd take me there, so I ended up getting off on some street with her, just before I was able to find what I was looking for. I sat on my pack in the middle of the street to get it closed properly, and we proceeded to get lost several times (street signs are few and far between), before finding the Black Cat.

I walked in and saw that the hostel was bustling with loads of people, and I sighed a sigh of relief. I wasn't going to be a lonely loser for much longer. I informed them of my reservation, and they said it would not be till two o'clock that I could check in, because they were eradicating a nasty case of bedbugs. I left my pack there, and went with my new friend to the apartment she had let out for the month she was going to be there. After that, we walked around. She had been here before many times, and knew of a rooftop restaurant with good traditional Guatemalan food. We enjoyed a meal, and I bought a bottle of vodka at the market.

At around two, I went back to my hostel and got settled in. I was situated at the top of the stairs, room on the right. Inside were two other bunk beds, and a single bed in front of the window, some lockers, and a bathroom. The blankets were traditional woven Guatemalan ones. I put my bag on my bed (and was later scolded by the cleaning lady for doing so. I would eventually regret doing it), and took off around the city, until my companion decided to turn in. I went back to the hostel, sat on my bunk for a while (there were packs everywhere, but nobody was home), I took a shower, and was feeling alone again, so I decided to go have drinks at the bar.

I sat at the corner of the bar. Loud euro pop was being played over the speakers. I saw a sign on the wall that said: “Screwdrivers 7 Quetzales”, so I counted out seven coins, and gave them to the blonde barkeep. She informed me I could put drinks on my tab, as well. But, I knew that could end out bad, so I paid for them all.

I had two down my neck, and was going for my third, when George Thorogood popped into my head. I was drinking alone, and I felt dark and deep and really fuckin' cool- at least for a split second. Then, a Canadian struck up some kind of dumb conversation about American imperialism with me...which is something you shouldn't do when I'm busy imbibing alcohol.

He had a degree in Liberalism. I don't know what his degree was really in- some kind of insane Anti-American garbage. At this point, I'm sure you realize I'm on the conservative end of things. I'm not one to talk politics with someone I don't agree with, unless I know I can stand on equal footing with them and discuss it like an adult. This fella was convinced the WTC disaster was a government setup, so I paid him little mind.

I ran out of pocket money after the fifth drink and woozily lifted myself off of the barstool. It was still early, but I was back in a depressed funk, and lacked the desire to drink. Once in my room, I saw a blonde girl with cucumbers over her eyes. I chuckled to myself a bit. It was certainly not very “backpackerish” of her to be wearing a mud mask. On the other hand, I thought her rebelliousness against the types who complain that “blow dryers are too bulky” was kind of cool.

She took the cukes off of her eyes, and we struck up a conversation. I learned she was from Norway- north of Oslo. She was really pretty- blonde, blue eyed, long legged, and painfully hip. Her name was Kine, and she was my first official friend on the road. She was staying in, because she was ill... something I would become awfully familiar with, soon after. After we spent some considerable time chatting, both Kine and I fell asleep. This hostel bed was quite comfortable, and I was cozy in my own little nook. I felt good again.

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The wedding was going to be bigger than I wanted. I wanted something simple, quiet. I did not want to wear a huge wedding dress, I did not want a reception. I wanted to get married in the courthouse. But, what I wanted didn't matter... what everyone else decided for me was of greater importance.

I awoke that morning certain that I was making a mistake. My dress had been picked out, and food was being prepared for the guests. There was gleeful discussion of the impending wedding... but I was joyless. Everyone kept asking me if I was excited. I replied that I was, but spend a good deal of time asking myself if it was normal to feel so disconnected and dreadful like this on the day that so many call “the happiest day of your life”.

In my mind, this was a natural progression. I had spent over five years of my young life with the same man. I supposed it was only appropriate to marry him. I was twenty, and in retrospect, also very stupid. But, it hardly mattered. Nothing else was materializing in my life. I had no money for school. I had contemplated more times than I can remember, joining the military. The only reason I wasn't on my way to boot camp, was because of him. He insisted that he join, and I pursue other things. It was a ploy to keep me under wraps. I understood it then, but practically ignored that fact. And, THAT is where the talk of marriage became serious.

It's hard to think back on it, really. I ponder now what forces led me to make that decision, when I knew neither one of us was ready to be married. We couldn't function together financially or socially. We had different friends, different ideas on what we wanted, and altogether different ideas about money. He was still a bachelor in his own mind, and couldn't hold down a job for any real length of time. After he lost his job at the electric company, he did nothing but fish and smoke pot. We were going nowhere fast.

If you're considering marriage, don't think it's shallow to consider you or your partner's financial readiness. Of course there are far more important things in life than money, and I'm not suggesting you should have it in order to marry. What I am suggesting is that it is vital to recognize whether or not you both have a good attitude about money, and similar ideas about how you want to live your lives. He could have been a fishing bum that lived in a tiny beach apartment with mismatching furniture... and he would have been cool with that. He didn't care about traveling, he didn't care for aesthetics, or art, or hardcore, or politics, or scholarship. He didn't care about what he ate, or if he had an education. I'm not a materialist, but I am a hedonist, and there was no way I could exist like that.

The wedding proceeded, almost as planned. A typical Florida beach wedding. I was forced into a dress (under which I wore 3i steel toes, to non-verbally voice my frustration about the formality of the whole thing). We did not have a Catholic ceremony. We were married by a very sweet (but rather different) woman who was a minister of my mother in law's church. My whole family stood there and watched me make the mistake that would lead me to the end of my own rope; where I would proverbially hang myself and all of my morals along with me, mere months down the road. I felt so out of place in that dress, on that beach, with a stupid veil over my head that I didn't want to be in. It felt like a bad lucid dream that just kept playing over and over in my mind.

The evening progressed as we moved from the beach back to the house. Camera lenses snapped and flashes flashed. I raced to get out of my dress, wondering what I was supposed to be feeling at that moment, because what was coursing through me was anything but hopeful. I was forced back into the dress for more pictures during the reception at my mother's house. Everyone proceeded to get hammered, and I pondered what being married to somebody was really supposed to mean. It certainly felt no different from before, save the fact that I felt like a trapped rat. I had bargained my way into a new name, and everything that would come with it.

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