Guatelmala, Guatemala- Tegucigalpa, Honduras- San Salvador, El Salvador- Managua, Nicaragua.....

It was less than three hours until the little plane came whirring up to the vast Central American landscape, and began making long, lazy circles above the runway. The mountainous terrain gave way to sharp winds that rocked us up and down as we circled. I still cannot recall ever having been so nauseated in my entire life. It seemed like an eternity before we landed. I crossed myself at the crunch of the landing gears making a connection with the pavement, and found myself mesmerized with the blur of dilapidated single engine Cessnas and rusting plane hangars whizzing by my little plane window. The wanderlust began to take over my senses.

And, that was it. Something in me had snapped; I was somehow broken and forever changed. My heart died a little and I, like a phoenix, was reborn from the ashes of my former self. The permanence of this change will always grip me in my darkest hours; and the nostalgia of this feeling, the height of my elation at this moment will never escape my mind. The electricity of travel writhed through my synapses and vomited out adrenaline into my blood. At that very moment, I became infected with the traveler's disease, for which there is no cure. I was forever hooked.

I was also very green from what I will say was the most awful landing I have ever endured. Luky helped me get my first sandwich- an avocado and chicken torta that was one hundred times better than my disgusting airport turkey sandwich. We walked together out to the pick-up, where she met with her father, and I found the taxi driver that had been hired by the hostel to pick me up. He was holding a sign that said “Jessica” upside down.

I said goodbye to Luky, and was lead to a tiny red car that was well older than me and dilapidated, like most of the city. I chatted with the taxi driver, stretching my legs with the Spanish I had stored in the annals of my brain after seven years of classes. He was a good natured man, as I would find is a trait of Guatemalans. I was also much better at Spanish than I had thought.

As we propelled onto the calles of Guat City, my mind began buzzing. I felt like a power line, full of a strange electricity. For the first time in my life, I realized fully that one could actually “feel” a place, and this place felt amazing.

The Xamanek hostel in zona 10 was my first destination. I had never stayed in a hostel before in my entire life, and was quite preoccupied with the ever pervasive worry of extreme loneliness that had been churning my stomach for many weeks before I left. I was entirely and completely alone. Nobody had come with me. I banked on making friends along the way, and as I jammed the doorbell down in front of the hostel, my worries began to run rampant. I waited for some time, looking constantly over my shoulder with xenophobic zeal. Guat City was no place for a single white chick, as I had been told countless times. A man named Willy eventually answered the door, and I walked into a completely silent and seemingly empty hostel.

I signed into the massive guest book, whereby names of people from all over Europe, Australia, and Asia had signed. It assuaged my fears of being the lone guest. Perhaps everyone was out on the town?... and then I was escorted back into my hostel room. Empty. At that moment I was certain I had made the gravest mistake of my life. I had rationalized that I was going to spend the rest of my trip companionless.

I dumped out the contents of my bag onto the bed and sighed. This was what I'd saved and planned for. This is what I'd endured immense criticism for. The contents of a 35 liter duffel and an empty hostel dorm. My heart was filled with serious doubt as I grabbed a change of clothes, a bag of soaps, and towel. I headed to the shower thinking things were only going to get worse.

My shower was warm. The first and only warm shower I'd have abroad until my very last shower. I rubbed various potions into my skin, hoping to scrub out the fear of loneliness that had overtaken me, and I felt better as the cool air hit my skin when I opened the shower door.

But, just as I had begun to feel better- I walked into my room to see my only dorm mate with my hairbrush in one hand, and a handful of my hair in the other- whispering under her breath. I walked out again, and walked back to the bathroom, pretending to have forgotten something. It was an awkward moment. When I walked back in- my hairbrush was back on my bed, and the clump of my hair was still sitting on the bed. I didn't say anything, but tried to strike up a conversation, hoping to rid the room of the kind of silent tension you experience when you come to find your roommate is doing some kind of voodoo on your brush.

I forget her name now, but she was from Curacao. She was tall, probably about my height, very dark skinned, with strange colored eyes. I reckon, looking back, that they were contacts. She spoke broken English, so I tried my Spanish with her, but she really just blew me off.

That day, I walked around zona 10, in search of an internet cafe. There was something wrong with my cell phone, and I was extremely paranoid about making certain I had access to the outside world. I felt alone in my new digs, finally beginning to realize just how big the world was, and how insignificant it can make you feel when you have nobody.

I got on a computer after shelling out a few Quetzales, and contacted everyone I could think of, including my cellphone company. It took a little bit of work, but I eventually got my cell working. It didn't really raise my spirits. Things were off to a bad start, and I found myself praying for the night to pass quickly, so I could get to Antigua, and hopefully meet someone there.

Sitting on the empty back patio that night, writing in my journal- I heard the voices of a few English kids who were talking about getting to Tikal. My heart raced a little, and I pondered walking up to them and introducing myself. But, then how to do it? I felt far too intimidated to do anything, and instead sat with my back to the chilling wind while the deafening parrot squawks overtook me in a kind of a trance. I went to bed early that night.


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“So you're really going to go?”

“Yeah, I bought the tickets. I'll be meeting your mother in Costa Rica.”

“I don't like this bullshit, Jessica. It's not like America. You can't just walk around on the streets down there alone. You have no fucking clue what you're getting yourself into. I've fucking lived in it. You fucking haven't,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I have told you from the beginning that I am going to travel,” I retorted. “You told me you had no interest in going with me, but that's not going to stop me. Besides, what do you want me to do while you're gone at boot camp- rot here in fuckin' misery?”

“What? You wanna go down there and fuck someone else or something? I guess I'll never find out about it. So, I hope you have fuckin' fun,” he growled as he slammed the bedroom door behind me.

He was leaving in a few days for boot camp. Things had become strained between my new husband and I. Neither he, nor his parents thought this was a good idea. Everyone seemed to believe the right thing for me to do was to sit around on my ass and write him letters. But, I'd already quit my job, saved up the money, and purchased plane tickets. I'd made a packing list, booked my first hostels, and figured out how to get to where I was going. I had a passport. I was going, and nothing- Nobody was going to stand in my way.

We had been fighting about this for weeks now. He pretended for a while to be happy for me, until he realized that I was serious, and that I was truly going to go traveling. From that point on, he had made great issue of my potential to cheat or leave him. I guess he was convinced that over five years together was going to go right in the waste bin. In retrospect, I don't blame him for any of it. I suppose it was my own naïve belief that I was immune to falling out of love with him that made me completely discount his concerns.

Nevermind it, really. Life was engaging me head on, and I was going to engage it back. No matter what my in-laws said, no matter how my mother whispered under her breath about how unsafe it was. She couldn't talk much. The apple doesn't really fall far from the tree. Perhaps I even acquired my desire to travel from her. She sighed, in absence of any real scolding. I was going to do what I wanted to do. Never really could tell me anything.

I remember the day Gian left. We waited around for hours for the white government Chrysler Sebring to pull up in the driveway. His recruiter was late, and when he left, I decided I wasn't going to be any more miserable than I had to be. I felt more bored than mopey... like a piece of my life was missing. I often waited by the phone for calls in the evening, and checked the mail multiple times a day to see if maybe he had sent some letter indicating how he was.

I secretly felt relief when the last day finally arrived. I had already grown quite used to being alone, and was more than ready to take off. I wanted out of my in-law's place. I wanted my life to consist of more than waiting around for 1pm so I could quiz the mailman; and, when that day arrived- I must have packed and repacked my bag ten times or more.

I laid out my clothes, and only got a few hours of sleep. I had to wake up very early, cause my flight was out of Orlando- about two hours away.


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I woke up exhausted, after many hours of sleep, and the first thing that came into my head was: food. I put on socks and tiptoed down the corridor, so as not to wake the voodoo broad asleep in the bunk across from me. A sweet Guatemalan lady was bustling around the commons, putting out various thermoses and bowls full off fruit. Finally, she laid down a stack of pancakes, and told me to help myself.

I helped myself to liberal amounts of everything, including a glass of milk, which she eyed disapprovingly. Milk is a great commodity in Central America, and my most treasured foodstuff. I could drink a half gallon of milk a day happily. At least in this instance, won the genetic lottery with my Northwestern European genes, unlike my Latin American lactose intolerant counterparts. It was, most unfortunately, the last glasses of milk I would have until I returned to the states.

A few other people began to file into the commons to get a bite as well. I didn't really get the opportunity to talk to them too much. Everyone seemed kind of standoffish and kept mostly to themselves. I dwelled on the bus that was coming to whisk me away to Antigua. I had never wanted to leave somewhere more, I think.

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