Calles, calles.

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For the sake of comparison, let's pretend you are walking down a city street in Virginia. What would you see?

In a large city, you would get killed by traffic and would never travel on foot, but would instead travel in the comfort of your air conditioned car, I know, I know, WORK WITH ME HERE, PEOPLE.

Say, for example, the downtown mall. What do you see?

A large, shady cobblestoned walkway where friends and enemies alike can frolick amidst the shady trees and stores, vendor to vendor, with their mudhouse coffee clutched tight in their carefree fists. The birds would be singing. The trees would be singing. The assorted hippies would be singing.

Now lets walk down a street in Quetzaltenango.

A small, narrow sidewalk lining streets filled nose-to-nose with honking cars and minibuses. The derelict buildings are painted in garish shades that seem only to make sense in Guatemala-at home if you were to paint your house the startling shade of pink commonly found here, your neighbors would come in the dead of night with their paint cans to cast a classy yet sensible shade of cream over everything you own.

It's not uncommon to amuse yourself by reading the graffiti on assorted storefronts-for example, the large yellow and aquamarine store that reads "CULO. BURROS. BITCH '06." and over which a large anarchy symbol reigns supreme.

Hobos sleep in doorways and dogs sleep under cars. Small mayan children run hither and yon, just barely avoiding your clean clothing with their ice cream pops of doom. Men in large white cowboy hats skulk under alcoves and sell questionable jewelry from their velvet lined pockets. In the evening, you walk in a deluge of rain with your wet, miserable socks and spanish notes slowly disentegrating in your moist backpack.

But--

If you can just travel at noon when the sun is shining warmly at your back and the streets aren't crowded because everyone is inside watching the world cup and the sky is clear blue with no clouds covering the mountains and you have a chocolate dipped pineapple pop in your hands, well...

then it all just seems pretty perfect.

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Comments

[Ace.]

Yeah I like calling myself ace.
That sounds rather infinite, I'm not gonna lie. I want ittttttt.

[su(per)padre]

A song in the making. Your damp and lyrical spirit makes me even more sad you're not here. I hope the 9 days go fast. Sad Dad