GUATEMALA – Land of Eternal Spring…and Volcanoes – Part III

(PART THREE OF THREE PARTS / For part one click HERE; for part two click HERE)

ATITLAN
On my second Friday of school I skip classes, and Amanda and I board a group shuttle bound for Lake Atitlán. An hour later, after our humorless driver finally fills 15 of the 14 seats in the van, we actually get out of Antigua for the two-plus-hour drive west-northwest to the lake.

Lago Atitlán, widely recognized as one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, does not disappoint. Formed in the caldera of a mega-volcano that erupted 84,000 years ago, the 56-square-mile, 1,100-foot-deep lake is flanked by several 10,000-foot classic, cone-shaped volcanoes.

People are drawn to Atitlán not just by its stunning beauty, but also by the area’s reputation as an energy vortex, said to be one of just three such spiritual hotbeds in the world—along with Peru’s Machu Picchu and Egypt’s Pyramids of Giza.

  More than any "point of interest," any tour,
  any photo op, this is the kind of magic that
  defines travel for me.

The lake is surrounded by eleven towns and villages, each with its own distinct flavor. Panajachel is the largest, busiest and grittiest, serving as the main road terminus for all the rest. From there, a busy network of water taxis connects them all.

San Pedro is known as the backpacker’s mecca, with lots of hostels, clubs and bars and a lively party atmosphere.

San Marcos has a new-age, hippie vibe, with shamans of every stripe, and lots of touchy-feely offerings like yoga, naturopathic foods and drink, healing centers and Reiki and massage parlors.



San Juan is one of the most colorful villages on the lake, with vibrant murals and other public art. Here the Mayan descendants and their Tz’utujil and Kaqchikel cultures are more obvious than in the other villages.

Santa Cruz is a relatively quiet alternative with few conveniences, but superb views of the volcanoes. (This is where Amanda and I stay--at La Arca de Noé, Noah’s Arc, a collection of rooms and separate casitas stair-stepping up the steep hill, some with nice decks overlooking the lake.)

                               

Our last night in Santa Cruz, we tuk-tuk a ways up the steep main street to a small restaurant that someone's recommended. Besides the family that owns it, we have the place to ourselves. Just as we're finishing our meal, we hear the happy birthday song from the other room.

Peeking through the doorway, we see a little girl sitting at the counter with a birthday cake in front of her and the whole family gathered around singing to her. She's eight.

We join in and offer our best wishes to the cumpleañera, and then return to our table. Just as we're asking for the check, one of the kids comes out and shares slices of the birthday cake with us.

More than any "point of interest," any tour, any photo op, this is the kind of magic that defines travel for me.

(I wish I’d spent more time researching the other villages. If I had, we’d have known that the gauntlet of commercialism we encounter right off the boat dock is not the town. To see slices of life like that sweet little birthday party, or public markets, or church services, one has to walk or tuk-tuk a ways, in some cases nearly a mile, up the steep flank of the caldera where most Guatemaltecos—and real life—reside. Maybe next time.)

    Many people, while chatting within their
    families or with fellow workers, speak their
    indigenous languages.

MEXICO IT IS NOT
It’s hard for me, a frequent traveler to Mexico, not to compare Guatemalan life and culture. The first difference that strikes me is that Guatemalan culture is far more indigenous. Around 43 percent of the Guatemalan people are indigenous, while just over 15 percent of Mexicans are.

While most of Mexico’s pre-colonial roots are Aztec, a warrior civilization with strong religious and mythological aspects, Guatemala’s are Mayan, an older, more peaceful, more intellectual culture.

The currency of these ancient traditions is obvious in people’s dress. At first I think it’s just the street vendors who wear the intensely-colored trajes / clothing. But I see many others, including whole families, wearing the striking woven and embroidered cortes / skirts and huipiles / blouses as they walk around town.

PHOTO: Trama Textiles

The colors are amazing. Intense. Each hue and each design element symbolic. The artisans’ markets are full of the fabrics, fashioned into every imaginable item, from clothing to table runners to tea cozies to men’s ties.

Another difference is the language, which I find quite easy to understand, even when talking with folks on the street. They speak more slowly and enunciate more clearly than the average José in Mexico. That said, I observe that many people, while chatting within their families or with fellow workers, choose to speak their indigenous languages.

Of course, there are quite a few Spanish words that differ from those used in Mexico for the same things. Enough for a language learner like me to get into trouble if he's not careful. But I get through my visit to this enchanting country without exclaiming to anyone that I’m pregnant (embarazado), as I once did in Mexico.

    Pretending to understand any culture
    based on seeing just small parts of it is
    pure hubris.

JUST A TASTE
I'll never forget a friend's slide show I once viewed. He'd just returned from a ten-day trip to Kenya. His narration was full of conclusions like, "Africa is..." and "Africans are this or that." And it struck me as so presumptuous.

Pretending to understand any country, any culture, based on a vacation, or on seeing just small parts of it, is pure hubris. 

So, as I continue chipping away at my goal of visiting every Spanish-speaking corner of Latin America, I’m glad to check off Guatemala. The places I saw are lovely; the people I met are kind and generous.  But all I can really say is that I've tasted it; I've sampled a few of its many flavors; and I leave hungry for more.

(FOR SLIDE SHOW CLICK HERE)

GUATEMALA – Land of Eternal Spring…and Volcanoes – Part I

(PART ONE OF THREE PARTS)

It’s November and once again the cold and gray here in Minnesota, USA have rekindled the wanderlust. So I’m off to Guatemala—for no better reason than that I’ve heard it’s beautiful and I know several people who’ve been there—and loved it.

This region, much of it forested and lying at elevations above 5,000 feet, has an ideal, spring-like climate all year round. That’s why Guatemala’s known as “The Land of Eternal Spring.” And why it’s ideal for travel.

Oh, and I hear the way Guatemalans speak Spanish is relatively easy for a Spanish learner to understand.

You see I’m sticking to the tried-and-true format I’ve used for most of my Latin American adventures. I find what looks like a good language school; I sign up for a couple weeks of intense one-on-one classes; and then I see if I can find decent lodging and flights.

This affords me a ready-made home base, a circle of potential friends, and a focus for days that otherwise might overwhelm me with options.

An unexpected highlight of this trip is that my daughter, Amanda, has decided to fly down from Boston and join me for a week.

 I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that
 El Agua, the most prominent of the volcanoes
 surrounding the city, lies due south.

POLITICAL INTRIGUE
As late as two weeks before I leave home, I’m unsure if it’s really wise to go. Not for concern with my and Amanda’s safety as much as with our ability to get around—even from the airport in Guatemala City to Antigua, the town where we’ll spend most of our time.

The problem is that, since last June’s general election in which the progressive, anti-corruption candidate for president easily prevailed and the sitting president seeks to invalidate the results, working Guatemalans, led by several well-organized indigenous groups, have been protesting by, among other tactics, setting up roadblocks around the country—as many as 70 at one time. 

Fortunately, one of my neighbors works for a local college’s international program, which sends student groups to Guatemala. She’s been able to get up-to-date, first-hand information, and informs me that the protest organizers, seeing that the current government plans to come down hard on them, has switched its focus from rural highways to Guatemala City’s government-buildings zone.

As it turns out, we encounter no protesting of any kind, anywhere we go.

GETTING MY BEARINGS
I arrive in Guatemala City just after dark in about as good shape as one could expect after a 12-hour day of travel. My destination—where my Spanish school is located—will be the former colonial capital, La Antigua Guatemala, a mile-high city of 50,000 surrounded by volcanoes just west of Guatemala City.

My ride, a private shuttle arranged by my Antigua hotel, is right where he said he’d be, and after nearly an hour in surprisingly slow traffic for that time of day, we pull up to my home for the next two weeks, the Posada de la Luna, a lovely, unpretentious little hotel with just seven rooms less than a mile from the town’s Plaza Mayor or central park.

(It’s nice arriving on a Friday, leaving me the whole weekend to explore and get oriented before my classes begin Monday morning.)

La Antigua, at least size-wise, is a wonderfully walkable town. Stroll about a mile in any direction and you’re in the suburbs. So, making Plaza Mayor the hub of my wanderings, I trace “spokes” out from there in the four cardinal directions.

At first, what with all there is to see and photograph, I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that El Agua, the most prominent of the several volcanoes surrounding the city, lies due south. 

Speaking of the volcanoes, I’m disappointed not to actually see any of them in its entirety for the first four days of my visit. The rainy season here should be over by now, so I’d expected more sun. Locals explain that the cool (mid- to upper-60’s) temperatures, low cloud cover and frequent drizzles and mists are due to an unusual cold front affecting all of Central America.

    We walk to El Jardin, a botanical garden
    where all the school’s classes take place.

BREAK A LEG
As easy as it is to reach any corner of Antigua walking, that’s how treacherous the footing is. Every single street and many of the sidewalks are paved in cobblestones, and, with the frequent light precipitation, they’re wet. 

A tourist gawking and taking pictures on that terrain is a recipe for a turned-ankle disaster. So I’m constantly reminding myself: Want to look? Stop! Want to snap a photo? Stop! (Turns out that’s impossible, so it’s just pure dumb luck that I avoid a sprain.)

ANTIGUEÑA SPANISH ACADEMY
My first Monday of language school I head to the address where I think my classes will be held. Instead, I find a cramped little second-floor office with a line of about 50 Guatemalan women—and a few men—winding down the stairs and out to the street.

Turns out this is just the administrative office, and these are the teachers, waiting to be assigned their students for that week. I pay my tuition for the first week and then meet my teacher, Sheny. She takes me back down the stairs and we walk nearly a mile through the back streets of Antigua’s northwest corner to what they call El Jardin, The Garden, where all the school’s classes take place.

It’s kind of a small, enclosed park, a bit like a botanical garden. Not one with identified plant species, but it’s lush with tropical foliage and flowers: palms, bromeliads, orchids and other gorgeous flowers. And there are a couple of two-story buildings with broad, open-air, tile-floored galleries.

During breaks students and teachers gather in groups, stroll around the gardens or climb a spiral staircase to a rooftop terrace. There's also a snack bar.

Every Spanish school I’ve ever attended offered both group and individual classes. But every school in Guatemala, it seems, provides only one-on-one instruction. Also, those other schools have usually had somewhere between ten and 20 students. So I was surprised to find El Jardin’s buildings and paths lined with at least 60 card tables, a student and a teacher at each one.

Sheny is a fabulous teacher. By the time we get to El Jardin that first day, she’s already identified my weaknesses, and devises lessons and drills to nudge me closer to my goal of fluency…whatever that is.

We also hit it off personally, sharing loves for sports, Nature, pets and of course language. (She has several dogs, a couple of cats and a charismatic, blue-eyed tortoise named Tuguis.)

Sheny’s skill and easy manner make conversation quite easy, but four consecutive hours of one-on-one language learning is still exhausting. So, toward the end of each morning’s work, we unwind with a game of Scrabble—in Spanish, of course. I don’t mean to brag—okay, I actually do—but I beat her like six out of eight times! She says I have a good vocabulary.

(FOR PART II CLICK HERE)

(FOR SLIDE SHOW CLICK HERE)

WALKING THE TALK – How Learning Spanish Has Become My Ticket to Adventure

They say one of the best ways to stay sharp as one ages is to learn a new language. Great. But they also say that the best time to learn that new language is when one is about three years old.
Perfect! It’s the best of both worlds for me; I’m a senior citizen who, I’m told, often acts like a three-year-old.

                                      ~   //  ~  //  ~

My roots are a typical American melting-pot amalgam: a little English, a bit of Italian…but mostly German. My family celebrates that heritage in a well-documented trove of family lore and with a few fine decorative and artistic German heirlooms handed down through the generations.

So, naturally, when I faced the choice of either French or German as my foreign language in high school, I went with the deutsch. Never gave it a second thought.

  None of it fit my 
  romantic image of myself as a Mexican 
  fisherman in a previous life. 

AN EPIPHANY
Flash forward to about 2002. It was then, at the age of 57, during one of my several identity crises, that I decided I hated German. Truth be told, I’d never liked the hard, guttural sound of it. I didn’t much care for some of the national characteristics it conjured up for me either. None of it fit my romantic image of myself as a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

Besides, it was becoming quite clear that I might never even visit Germany. But I had been traveling to Mexico, with my parents when I was nine, and a couple of times with friends as an adult. Then I got married, and Sally and I continued the trend, spring-breaking in nearly all of the popular Mexican beach towns.

I think it was Mazatlán where the epiphany happened. As I usually do, I’d boned up on a few basic pleasantries in Spanish so I could be a more gracious visitor, a better representative of my own country.

But on this one short cab ride, when it came time to pay the fare, the limit of my competence in the language came up and bit me. For some reason, cien (a hundred) and diez (ten) switched places in my brain, and I was convinced the driver had stiffed me.

He explained with patience I didn’t deserve. Red-faced, I apologized and handed him the pesos…and a little extra for the painful lesson. And it was at that precise moment that the trajectory of my late-in-life quest for Spanish literacy took off.

IMMERSION IS THE KEY
Next time in Mexico, I decided, I’ll be able to carry on at least a simple “How’re the wife and kids?” conversation with a cab driver—and be able to correctly count my change. Those were my goals.

So I signed up for a St. Paul Public Schools Community Ed. class: Spanish for Beginners. My teacher was Silverio Rios, an engaging 40-something Mexican who’d been living and working in the Twin Cities for several years.

One evening after class I asked Silverio to join me for coffee and we chatted a bit about my goals for learning his first language. Toward the end of that first get-together, he told me of his plans to take small groups of his students on week-long Spanish immersion trips down to the part of central Mexico where he’d grown up.

That idea captivated me, and, as I was then a graphic designer, I offered to design and write his brochure for him. He accepted, offering in exchange a spot on his inaugural trip.

And so, Voces del Español was born. In August 2003, Silverio, I and three other students flew to Mexico City, then bussed to Querétaro City, and finally rented a car for the drive to the charming little town of Tequisquiápan, which would serve as our home base for the week.

The format involved formal classes in the mornings and an excursion each afternoon. Silverio had designed all the activities to encourage our use of the language in everyday experiences, such as buying produce from the local market or ordering dinner at a restaurant for everyone in our group.

Also included in those experiences was joining Silverio’s relatives for typical family events like a birthday, a wedding and going to the cemetery to tend to family graves. On different occasions we helped make bread with his mom and joined in the elaborate preparation of a mole.

WHERE LA ACCION IS
By the end of that first Voces trip, I realized my original goal of engaging in small-talk with a cab driver had already been eclipsed. Now I knew I was capable of more.

My Spanish learning was to become the theme—the key, one could say—to many more travels in Latin America. I eventually went on three more Voces immersion trips with Silverio. With each one, I gained more tools and more confidence in expressing myself. (Not to mention the great joy of being virtually adopted into his family.)

I’ve also travelled to Spain, Peru and Argentina, and attended language schools in Veracruz, Mexico, Panama and Cuba. All, if not dictated by my quest for better Spanish, at least encouraged by it.

   My goal had been edging up too,
   like one of those mechanical rabbits
   that racing dogs chase, always just
   beyond reach.

NOT LOST IN TRANSLATION
One measure of my progress has been the time lapse between when I think of something to say and when the words actually come out of my mouth. I remember quite clearly when that interval was five to ten seconds. In most of my attempts to join a conversation I was getting left behind.

But my competence level kept edging up, and that time interval down. At some point I realized my goal had been edging up too, like one of those mechanical rabbits that racing dogs chase, always just beyond reach. Now I wasn’t going to settle for any less than holding my own in those conversations with native speakers.

I have my moments—occasionally glorified by a couple of tequilas. They’ve included many conversations with Silverio, members of his family or Spanish-speaking friends I’ve met on my own, about a range of topics from art to zoology.

Once I get going, I enter that rarified air where only the relatively fluent survive. Where my mind goes right from hearing the Spanish to replying in Spanish, without passing through an English translation.

I suppose it’s another measure of my progress that I’m now less focused on vocabulary and grammar than on the finer points, like minimizing my English accent and incorporating common filler words—the Spanish equivalents to the English “um,” “well,” “then” or “so”— into my speaking.

Yes, I’ve a ways to go, but I can definitely see the prize. It may be that I’ll never be able to actually grab it; that might take a few months living in a place where no one speaks English. Maybe in my next life.

EMPOWERMENT
It’s amazing, when traveling, what knowing the local language does for a person. For me, it’s been kind of like watching and envying a competent musician, and then, with a ton of work, being able to play myself.

My new second language opens doors—to friendships, to avoiding conflict, to finding my way around. And for Sally, it cuts through the awkwardness of her having to shop using just hand gestures.

I can even feel my Spanish competence affecting my posture as I walk down the street, especially in areas where I may be the only person in that town who looks like me. I enjoy seeing the look on a person’s face when someone who looks so unlikely to be a Spanish speaker handles their language so capably.

More than once, that person has explained that they’d expected me, at best, to speak English with a heavy German accent.

                               ~   //  ~  //  ~ 

POSTSCRIPT: My dad, at about the same age I was when my love affair with Spanish began, was also dreaming of learning the language. He chipped away at it, but with all his home and business responsibilities he never really got past the basics. I know that a great part of my motivation has been to honor his dream and make him proud. I believe I have.

GOOD AIRS – Breathing Free in Buenos Aires

(This is the second post in a six-part series on my November, 2019 trip to Argentina)

I prefer landing in a new city during daylight. Sure, I may have looked at some maps and photos, but when it’s dark one totally misses the lay of the land. Add to this our grogginess after the all-night flight from New York—for a total of 14 hours stuffed in planes—and we felt like a couple of zombies.

We landed at the surprisingly small Buenos Aires airport at 4:30 AM, so thank goodness my brother, Dan, had arranged for us to crash for a few hours at Circus, a rather nice hostel, before checking in to our hotel.

We stayed at the Magnolia Boutique Hotel in Buenos Aires’s vibrant, north-central Palermo neighborhood, walking and cabbing around town to sample the food, culture and natural wonders of this sprawling South-Atlantic-coast capital city of 3,000,000.

From the moment we left the airport terminal, we noticed how appropriate the city’s name, Buenos Aires, or good airs, seems. We remarked on it quite often during our stay, relishing the gentle breezes, low humidity and clean smell of the air. We’d packed for anything from 40s to 70s Fahrenheit, but this was a pleasant surprise: 80s every day and mostly fair skies. I just wished I’d brought more summer shirts.

PARKS & REC
Our first morning we headed for the colorful La Boca, a working-class, ship-yard neighborhood, now better-known for its off-beat shops and restaurants, colorful buildings and street art, and tango-related come-ons at every turn.

 

 After a bit of futile looking and asking, we ended up just stumbling across the Acera de Adoquines de Colores, a waterfront promenade of hand-painted cobblestones created in memory of Benito Quinquela Martín, a beloved Argentine artist born in La Boca.

Next, we cabbed about five miles back toward Palermo and the Carlos Thays Botanical Gardens, a beautiful 18-acre, triangular park featuring over 5,000 distinct species of plants and a few interesting pieces of sculpture.

 

Right across the broad Avenida Sarmiento from the botanical garden is the Eco Parque, formerly the Buenos Aires zoo. There we enjoyed the beautiful grounds and spotted a few of the animals allowed to remain there after city government took over its management in 2016. (Alas, well over 100 animals died during the ensuing two years. Another 12 had escaped, 15 freed and 241 transferred somewhere else during this period.)

 

SHOW ME THE MANI
Before heading back to the hotel, we stopped for a beer and a snack at a pleasant little sidewalk cafe, where my interaction with our server provided one of the many constructive Spanish-language-learning experiences I encountered during our trip—this one worth mentioning for the sheer humor of it.

While Dan was in the men’s room, I asked the young woman if they offered anything to munch on with our beer. She replied, “Money.” I commented how unusual it was that they should charge for the kind of snacks most bars would serve for free. She shook her head and said it again: “money.” No matter what I said—and my Spanish is pretty good—she just kept insisting, “money.” Finally, I just gave up and conceded that we’d be willing to pay.

So she brings our beers, and with them a bowl of peanuts. As she sets them on the table, she points at them and says, “Mani.” And so it dawned on me: the word for peanuts in Argentina isn’t the one used in Mexico, cacahuates. It’s mani.

FINGER FOOD, FLOWERS AND FINE ART

PHOTO: Dan Willius

That night we bought a bag of empanadas, palm-sized turnovers filled with beef, chicken or cheese—and probably my favorite food item of the entire trip—and a couple of beers from the jovial crew at our neighborhood empanadería, and walked a few blocks to a local park. Though not exuding the cozy, family-friendly vibe I’ve enjoyed in so many Latin American zocalos, it did offer a few kids kicking a soccer ball around and some young men playing a mean game of ping pong on a permanent, poured-concrete table.

The highlight for me, though, was listening to a couple of young men who were playing guitar and singing, and then striking up a conversation with them in Spanish. They were delightfully open and curious about me and the USA.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

Next day we headed back to what I want to call B.A.’s green zone, and spent a couple of hours at the Paseo El Rosedal, a lovely rose garden. The roses, as well as the just-flowering, lavender jacaranda trees reminded us that, while it was getting icy and snowy back home, we were enjoying the Southern Hemisphere’s version of May.

From there it was to the MALBA, or Latin American Art Museum of Buenos Aires. I enjoyed the smaller-than-expected collection on exhibit, especially the more modern works, but it was also fun just watching people.

MEETING EVITA
We then took a brief cab ride to the world-famous Recoleta Cemetery, home, since 1822, to the earthly remains of Argentina’s rich and powerful, including presidents, military brass, Nobel laureates and even a granddaughter of Napoleon.

Recoleta is like a city in miniature, its 6,000-plus elaborate mausolea like so many dark stone buildings looming over narrow streets. Most are decorated with over-the-top classically-influenced sculpture and furnishings.

 

The color palette runs from mid-gray to dark gray to black. With the exceptions of a few more modern, less somber designs, I found it quite depressing, a bit claustrophobic…though seeing the familia Duarte mausoleum with Eva (Evita) Peron’s always-flower-festooned grave made it all seem worthwhile.

TORTILLINI AND TANGO
Back at the hotel we enjoyed a couple of beers on the tiny enclosed patio of our hotel before heading out for dinner and a taste of Argentine tango.

We dined at Amici Miei, a nice little back-street Italian place in the San Telmo neighborhood, within walking distance of our tango show. The food and wine were excellent, especially enjoying them on what has to be the world’s narrowest—three feet, tops—balcony overlooking the street below.

PHOTO: Dan Willius

The tango show, at El Viejo Almacén, proved a delightful surprise. Once again, Dan had managed to avoid a “tour bus” attraction in favor of an authentic taste of Argentine culture as the locals experience it.

Among an intimate audience of about 100 we enjoyed an amazing program comprising fiery, precise tango numbers, songs by what we presumed were once-famous singers, and a rather incongruous set of indigenous flute-and-percussion music we felt to be more representative of Bolivia or Peru than Argentina.

Any question that we might be in a tourist trap evaporated when the entire audience sang lustily along with some of the vocals.

With the music still strumming in our heads we returned to the Magnolia and began packing for our next day’s departure for San Antonio de Areco and the annual gaucho fair.

SHELL GAME – The Ownership of Place and Culture

 

The first time I went to Costa Rica, my wife and I had signed on with a St. Paul travel company specializing in small, custom-made experiences in that amazing country.

The format differed a bit from the few “tours” we’d been on with other travel programs; we jumped from one group of fellow travelers to another, depending on where we were and how long we’d be there. But for most of our ten-day journey we were the charges of one tour guide: Jimmy.

IN THE BLOOD
Jimmy was friendly, helpful and well-versed in not only the varied flora and fauna of each of Costa Rica’s twelve distinct climate zones, but in his native country’s geography, geology, history, politics and social fabric. He was also charming and, at least in part because of his diminutive stature, lovable.

It’s certainly not very “adult” of me—I suppose you could call it a weakness—but I have a way of becoming ridiculously attached to people who guide and teach me. It’s a little like a kid’s adoration of a favorite camp counselor. And, sure enough, though he was young enough to be my son, I grew quite attached to Jimmy in that way.

I liked him not just because he knew so much about his country, but also simply because he was Costa Rican. I wanted to be more than his student, or even his friend; I wanted to be Costa Rican.

    I stood in front of Jimmy for what 
    seemed like a full minute searching 
    for the words I’d memorized.

THE LANGUAGE OF BEST INTENTIONS
Among his other gifts to me, Jimmy was kind and generous enough to help me a bit with my nascent Spanish. (I’ve always felt that learning at least a bit of a destination’s language and culture is essential to being fully present there.) So, as the end of our week together approached, it only made sense that I say my good-byes and express my thanks to Jimmy in his native tongue.

I crafted what I thought would be a manageable couple of sentences; I looked up the necessary vocabulary and grammar; and I practiced—on the bus, at night before bed, even in the shower—what I felt would be a perfect, accent-free little recitation.

I thought I was ready, but when the moment came, things were hectic. We all had buses to catch; other group members were lined up to thank and tip Jimmy; and the poor guy had all he could do to give everyone a few seconds to say adios and still manage his other responsibilities.

As our turn approached, I got stage fright. I stood in front of Jimmy for what seemed like a full minute searching for the words I’d memorized. After all that work, all those best intentions, I think all I managed was Muchas gracias, Jimmy.

    It just seems a little like ordering 
    the catch of the day, but expecting 
    it not to taste “fishy.”

TWO KINDS OF TRAVELERS
I’ve regretted that awkward moment ever since—in fact, it has been one of my most powerful motivators in becoming a nearly-fluent Spanish speaker.

And there have been other such moments as I’ve traveled the world—other guides, teachers, folks who’ve welcomed me into their homes and families. I nearly always shed tears when I part company with new friends with whom I’ve shared a profound experience, and so it is when I bond with a place; I weep every year when Sally’s and my annual month in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico comes to an end.

Why do I—and perhaps you—become so attached to the people and places we’re privileged to visit? I suggest there are basically two kinds of travelers. The first are those who go places shielded in a shell of familiarity; the other, those whose main goal is to break out of that shell. 

Now I have nothing against the Cancuns or the Ocho Rioses of the world—those tourist enclaves where folks can go and spend a week or two with no surprises and all the comforts of home. Or those all-inclusive resorts designed to keep one even more contained, safeguarded from the locals and their ways of life.

But those experiences are not for me. It just seems a little like ordering the catch of the day, but expecting it not to taste “fishy.” Sure, spending your precious vacation time in that shell may ward off some unpleasant surprises, but it also deflects wonderful, potentially transformative ones.

GREEN AROUND THE GILLS
For the past decade or so I’ve had a nearly insatiable appetite for travel in Latin America. This is due, in part, to my yearning for fluency in Spanish. But there’s more to it than that. I am coming to realize that, in a previous life, I was actually a Mexican fisherman. Though my rational side reminds me that I’m not prepared for the realities of that life, my romantic side says, why not?

I’d be close to the sea—that is, once I conquered my extreme susceptibility to seasickness. I’d have all those colorful, celebratory traditions, that amazing closeness of family that so many Latin Americans enjoy. I’d dance as if no one were watching. I’d be able to sit around a card table with my buddies drinking mescal and jabbering away in the kind of Spanish even quasi-hispanohablantes like me can barely decipher.

Yes, I know I can never be that Mexican fisherman—nor Jimmy’s compañero. But I can dream, can’t I?

Which type of traveler are you?