I awoke my second morning in Xela at four a.m. without reason. The nights here are cold and though I have not yet ventured out much past dark, the chill easily penetrates the flats of concrete and tile. My room is windowless (except for the large window that opens into the kitchen) and in the absence of a draft I'm snug as a bug beneath a sheet and two blankets. But waking here thus far is inevitably accompanied by the stark realization that I am, in fact, somewhere in the middle of Guatemala and a marathon of thoughts subsequently ensue, rendering further dozing ineffable. I lay in bed for two hours and, in a mental gesture of utter futility, periodically remind myself to attempt to fall back asleep. I must admit that I have all the
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