Finding the Words: My Time in Xela

on 12-03-2008 in Travel Lifestyle

Where have I been? Just 7,000 ft above sea level.  Living in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala (everyone calls it Xela, which sounds like Sha-La).  With a Guatemalan family. Taking 5 hours of Spanish lessons a day. Which is like finding out that yes, indeed, you really do suck.

Warning:  This post includes geeky Spanish grammer stuff.  Don’t speak Spanish?  Don’t worry, neither do I.  Ok maybe a little.

Guatemala, Central America, Learning Spanish, Spanish Classes, traveling or travelling

Here’s the truth.  Learning Spanish makes me feel like I have a learning disability. I learn everything quickly, but this… this is hard.

I can memorize verbs and vocab. I’ve even gotten better at understanding my host mom. But for everything I know, there are huge gaps. I struggle for words that should be easy. How do I say, “I was going to do something, but didn’t”? Do I use iba + a + inf and add a pero, no at the end? What’s the word for table leg or street curb or street sign for that matter? I don’t have enough adjectives, and the ones I have seem to mean something other than the straight translation from my dictionary. Alegre is happy, but it seems to mean pleasant. Bonita is pretty, but I use it too much. Should I use bien or bueno (or buen for that matter)? If someone wishes you a nice day, should I say adios or buenos dias or iqualmente or y usted? Does it matter? Can I use tu with someone I just met that’s younger than me? Should I kiss someone on the cheek the first time I meet them?  What if it’s a guy?

And movies. Dear lord. If you want to test yourself, watch a film in Spanish without subtitles. Everyone knows I’m learning here… I am with a family associated with the school. They speak slower. They search for vocab that after 10 years of hosting students, they’re pretty sure I know. But the movies don’t care about that. In the movies, they speak quickly, use slang and expressions, and if I’m lucky I pick up 25% of it.

I watched Diaras de Motociclatas and until the end, I didn’t realize that they were experts in Leprosy. Figuring that out in the closing credits changed everything.

But I’m happy. I am ridiculously happy and I love it here.

Guatemala, Central America, Learning Spanish, Spanish Classes, traveling or travelling

It’s also fustrating and it makes me want to quit learning Spanish. That’s how you know you’re really learning… when it becomes so impossible that you secretly wonder if you could just give up on trying to become fluent.

But everyday I learn 5 new words. Really and truly learn and understand them. I become familiar with dozens more. I’m exposed to hundreds. It’s frustrating because I know more than I can speak. In the moment I throw out incorrect conjugations. I use saber instead of conocer or estar instead of ser. Sometimes I just say the infinitive just to get the point across. People aren’t going to wait while I wilt under the gun.

And the city. It’s not traditionally pretty. From the roof of my school, I can see the entire city, but it’s a sprawl of single story buildings. Up close, it can be messy or dirty and in areas just plain lovely. But the gestalt of it is beautiful. It’s difficult to capture in a photo. But I love the way the homes are built around an internal courtyard that serves as a garden or meeting place. I love the street markets with dangerous looking fruit. I’m charmed by the culture shifts. An indigenous woman walks in her traditional wrapped skirt and ribbon braid through her hair with a basket balanced on her head. Her daughter walks with her wearing and Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt and pencil leg jeans.

Here I’m a gringo. It’s not as bad as it sounds. A secretary at the language school asked me what the word in English is for gringo. What do we call ourselves, these gringos. The implication being that gringo is the word for foreigner or American or white. I tried to explain, no… but she wasn’t quite satisfied. Gringo is the word for the people who flood this city every summer, and yeah, maybe that sounds bad, but that’s what we are. Foreigners.

So I’m learning. I’m growing a part of my brain that wasn’t there before, and as I do it, I become aware of this other way of thinking. Talking to my host mom for an hour over dinner, the Spanish floods over me and I stop thinking about what verb or how she ended it or what each words mean. I just understand and I have no idea how, because I’m not doing anything. And when I try to find a word, I look away, searching in this new part of my mind, and sometimes things pop out and I don’t know why, but they’re right. Oh crap, didn’t mean to say that. Oh right, that’s correct.

In two more weeks I’ll be leaving, and I wont be fluent. I cant even measure how much I’ve learned, because from my side I still have the same amount of struggles, maybe it’s just with different things

It’s been good. Hard. A great way to spend December. It makes me rethink alot of things. The only regret I have is: Damn. I wish I had done this earlier. Language immersion is absolutely amazing.

Crossing the Border, Guatemala Style

on 12-03-2008 in Travel Lifestyle

Guatemala, Mexico, Border, Central America, travel around the world

Crossing the Guatemalan border from Mexico was chaotic, scrambled and the perfect transition to my new Spanish-only world.

The driver picked me up at 7:30 AM and 3 hours later dropped me off at the Mexican side of the border. One of the passengers spent 5 minutes screaming in Spanish at the driver. You’re an idiot! This is so stupid! No YOU Shut up!

Hmmm. This can’t be good. Are we supposed to walk through? Is this guy mad because he knows something or because he’s an idiot? The best solution? Just start walking.

The border itself is just a small road with a few buildings. On the side of the road, some folks are burning trash, others are selling food, and dozens of make-shift stalls with everything from kitchen-ware to crocs to woolen ponchos.

I hustled past, hand my passport over to the official. Stamped. Climb onto another van, this time on the Guatemala side.

Three hours later, I’m dropped off at a gas station where little boys are wrestling in between trying to sell shoe shines. No, my sneakers don’t need a shine, thank you. The angry guy gets some french fries and feeds them to stray dogs. I’m ushered to a late model Chrylser and told that “this guy” was going to drive me the rest of the way.

Ok.

I had understood every word of Spanish that the tour operator who sold me the $27 ticket to Xela had said to me. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask if I was going to be riding in some sketchy car for part of the trip. And I’m quite certain he hadn’t described the trip this way: We will drive you to the border, you will find your way through, and hopefully get into the right van on the other side. Don’t worry there will lots of them and no one will speak English. Then we’ll drop you off in some gas station and my cousin will drive you in his dad’s car the rest of the way. Sound good? Great, 350 pesos please.

It was a great introduction into what I would later learn of life in Guatemala. Figuring things out in Spanish (a very good thing) and the laid back way things are run (my first day at the school, I showed up as scheduled at 8 AM, only to wait 20 minutes for someone else to show up) and the immense amount of trust you end up placing in those around you (from living with a family you just met, to hoping that the ice really was made from boiled water).

You have to be cautious too. You can get robbed. You can get hit by a car. You can get swindled. (Oh and that car bit—so serious, the drivers here will mow you over, if you walk in the street). But if you can’t take a few chances, trust a few strangers, then truly you’ll never get over the border.

A Look at the Life Less Planned

on 12-03-2008 in Travel Lifestyle

When I left for Puerto Vallarta, I had booked my flight only 3 days before. Ideas I had about where to stay (apartments) were out, as was my method of transport (our car). I arrived in PV airport disheveled, my hair sticking to my forehead, and lugging an overstuffed backpack. I stepped out into the night and the humidity gave the air a soupy feel. I fought off taxi drivers (just $25 dollars to downtown!) and jumped on the first 50 cent bus I could, as another driver jogged up to solicit me.

It took me 40 minutes to find the hostel. I got on the right bus, wrong direction. I sat there at the end of the route, and asked the driver if he was indeed going to turn around . I used hand gestures. I was too tired to think of the Spanish.

He did and I found the hostel. I climbed up to the top bunk as quietly as possible and fell into a blissful sleep.

I was in Puerto Vallarta. I didn’t have a single plan.

I started crafting an itinerary. I was loving the beach life, so I wanted to check out Acapulco despite the persistent reports of a smoggy and dirty city (all true). After that I wanted to head further south and find a language school. I must have asked 20 different people about where they had studied, when a medical student, taking a last year of travel before school, told me about Casa Xelaju in Guatemala. “Don’t go to Antigua” he said. “It’s full of tourists and you’ll never get to practice your Spanish. Go to Quetzaltenango instead”.

The next day, I randomly decided I had seen enough of PV, packed my bag and caught a bus to Acapulco. It felt incredibly freeing. I had never done that before. Simply decided on a whim to leave, and left within hours. I could just walk away and go somewhere else. People in the hostel I had spent the last few nights hanging out with, were mildly surprised. “What you’re leaving? Oh Ok.” And with that I was gone.

I booked the class at Xelaju. I would be spending four weeks in December and early January living with a Guatemalian family and taking 5 hours of Spanish lessons per day during the week. All meals were included. For $170 a week, I didn’t think I could do much better.

The beaches at Acapulco were great and there are definitely very nice areas (my cab driver pointed out a beautiful mansion set high above the fray that he said was owned by SIlvester Stalone). Down in the city though, the construction, sewer smells, all night car honking and screeches of drunken tourists were a bit overwhelming. Overall I loved the insanity of it, but it didn’t even come close to what I had expected.

I needed to get to Guatemala. I tried to find a direct route, but it seemed that backtracking to Mexico City and then going south to San Cristobal was the easiest path. I marched into the bus terminal, bought a ticket to Mexico City with the promise that I could buy the second leg in DF. When I arrived at midnight, I was kindly informed that there was no bus until the next day. I was stuck for the night.

It was 40 degrees out too. I only had t-shirts. I decided to sleep at the terminal anyway, to be a good budget traveler.

Here’s where it get’s a little surreal. I was invited to a homeless shelter at about 3 AM. An hour earlier I had been happily chatting with a security guard, impressing myself with my ability to understand him and to actually answer his questions in my broken Spanish. He wanted to know where I was going. Eventually we got to the fact that I, like many of the people there, was planning on sleeping there the night. No big deal… Apparently I had made an impression, because he came back with a few people and told me about this, “Great place I can sleep for free”.

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s where people go to sleep”.

Maybe he had said homeless shelter at some point, but I wouldn’t have caught it. I still have no idea what the Spanish word for homeless would be (sans casa? vago?).

“Ok so where is this place”

“Oh it’s nearby. This woman can drive you.”

I refused to move. I wasn’t very keen on going somewhere that they couldn’t tell me what it was. Granted he was a security guard, but I wasn’t that tired. “Is it a hotel?”

“It’s like a hotel.”

Finally they wrangled someone who could translate. “They are offering you a night at a homeless shelter.”

Oh.

Ok, let’s just be clear folks. I am not homeless, just cheap. Thanks but no thanks.  There are definitely people who need that bed more than me. I walked to another part of the terminal and passed out on top of my backpack.

The next day, I found myself in the charming, beautiful town of San Cristobal de las Casas. I had never expected to come here, and it was the highlight of my Mexican travels. I sat in cafes and wrote, I wandered the grid of streets and shops for hours and then went back to my $11 a night private room. I was in backpacking heaven.

I didn’t plan for this sudden trip, and so far, that’s been the best part.

Gay Puerto Vallarta: Separate But Equal?

on 12-03-2008 in Travel Lifestyle

gay beach, puerto vallarta, mexico, gay rights, travel destinations

This past week, in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico has been “Latin Fever”. It’s a week long event over the Thanksgiving holiday that offers dinners, dances, and parties for the gay tourists. I found this out, after a teacher from Houston, took me to the gay beach one day.

So we walked. We went down to the beach, took a left and kept walking. And walking. If you want to find the gay beach, here’s how to do it. Go past the pier. Go past the rows and rows of beach chairs. Go to the spot where the beach ends and look for the 100 or so men in speedos. See any women? Then you’ve found it.

At first I was thrilled to go. I have a general rule to always say yes to invitations, even if it means sticking out among the throngs of well groomed, well tanned, well sculpted young men. Puerto Vallarta is well-known as the gay-hub of Mexico. But then it occurred to me. Isn’t it odd that they are clustered on the southern most part of the beach? Isn’t it strange that they would pay all this money, to fly out to a gay-friendly vacation spot, only to be sequestered far away from the families and tourists?

It’s not unusual to see this kind of self selecting seclusion for the gay community back home. I went to school in Amherst, MA – just down the road from Northampton, MA– the lesbian capital of New England. In the summers we would vacation on Cape Cod and visit Provincetown—the gay male capital of New England. In Boston, we lived in Jamaica Plain, which housed much of the gay community.

On the west coast, it’s the same thing. Think of San Francisco or Capital Hill in Seattle. Every major city seems to have these nooks, where gay and lesbians go to be left alone. And the cities themselves are refuges for gay people growing up in rural areas, where they ultimately fled in large droves.

I get it. In college I campaigned for the HRC. I’m not gay, but I can understand the inclination to want to feel safe. I understand wanting to be able to vacation with your partner and hold hands without fear of violence. What I don’t understand, is how blithely we allow this to occur. Even with Proposition 8 being ratified in California, there seems to be a lack of public outrage.

In California. They won’t let gay people marry. One of the most liberal states in the country. The same people who watch Ellen every morning, think she is living in sin. And sitting on that beach, in sunny Puerto Vallarta, I felt a little sad. The last civil rights movement has turned into a marketing campaign for high priced resorts. Come here, we’ll accept you and your American currency. Come here and we’ll give you a special spot on this beach, far away from where the “normal” tourists are. Come and as long as you’re rich, we’ll let you stay.

So I drank my $4 coronas, and listened to techno remixes of Madonna’s latest album. But this week I found a video, that made me smile:

Also if you´re interested in visiting, here is a great site for
Puerto Vallarta Hotels! They have rates at discounted prices!

Spending the Holidays Abroad

on 12-03-2008 in Travel Lifestyle

Surreal. I’m walking through the streets of Puerto Vallarta and someone stops me. Inwardly I sigh, expecting yet another sales pitch (You want braids? You want bracelet? How about massage). Instead he says, “Are you American?” I say yes and take a step to walk away. “When is Thanksgiving? “ It’s tomorrow I tell him, and he hits his buddy on the arm as to say, “See I told you”.

Until he asked, I had forgotten. Last week, I flew to Mexico. I didn’t tell you about that, but I did. And I’m traveling solo. In a whirlwind of events in the preceding weeks, everything changed. There was the house my father in law owns in Vermont. There were tenants that had to go. There was my husband, feeling every bit the responsible son, and determined to help out. And there was me, travel plans ready, husband insistent I don’t waste the opportunities I have.

Truth be told, I didn’t want to waste them either.

And I had forgotten all about Thanksgiving. Perhaps I was distracted. Or perhaps it was the lack of constant reminders—the commercials, the traditional foods conveniently placed forefront in every store, your friends, family, and strangers all asking: So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving. This year the answer was spending a week in Puerto Vallarta and trying to figure out my new plan. And on Thanksgiving day, I caught a 20 hour bus to Acapulco.

Mexico, Guatemala, Holidays abroad, Thanksgiving, around the world trip

I’ll be spending Christmas with a family in Guatemala. Not my family, but a family associated with the language school in Quetzaltenango. And after I’ll be heading further south. My husband will meet up with me at some point, or I’ll fly home to visit.

I am so thankful that I still get to do this trip, even if it’s not to plan. But when someone on the street asked me about Thanksgiving, it startled me a little. It reminded me of the reality… I was really in Mexico, and everyone else was far away doing something else. Do the first few days back on the road always feel slightly like a dream? You leave chilly New England, with snow already falling, and 6 hours later you wake up in 85 degree humidity and sunshine. All that Spanish you were sure you forgot, comes flooding back. You’re lost, trying to figure out what bus to take. You’re dehydrated, sitting on the beach, enjoying the view. You’re meeting up with people at the hostel who talk about coming from Australia or Japan or Canada. They want to drink Tequila. Ok, just a little.

The last night in Puerto Vallarta, I was sitting on the porch with my laptop and a dozen Mexican kids come running over. It’s 8 PM and they’re noisily playing some version of tag. They are using me and my table as cover. We talk in Spanish. I try to teach them some English words, and they proudly inform me they already know Good Morning and Thank You. One of the hostel staff asks me, “Are the kids playing with you?” I laugh and nod and the kids screech and run away.

While everyone I know back home is prepping turkeys and baking apple pies or visiting with friends on the night before Thanksgiving, I’m entertaining some kids with my limited Spanish. It’s not traditional, but I’ll take it.