Thursday, January 17, 2008

Of Dreams.

16 January 2008

6.30 am

We slept, miraculously, from about 6pm to 6am.
This morning everything is still and warm.
As the surrounding inhabitants begin to stir, I am greeted through the thin walls by voices and conversations of French and Hebrew.

The Isreali's besde me laugh as I introduce myself as "United States." They nod, smiling, "of course," the say. My wide smile and loud laughter has given me away before I used any words. The Beatles play in the background as I settle into my hammock, enjoying the clean air and gentle guttural coos of the local birds and watch them twittering in the palms before the lake.

“We shouldn’t have come here first,” Alyson states. “We should’ve plowed straight to Tikal.”
I know what she means. It would be easy to stay here forever.

As Alyson and I enjoy our morning air and the distant “cucooking” of roosters, the ambiatic twanging of our breakfast flat’s sutra music glows behind me. I can smell her warm coffee and watch the way her “pequino leche” stirs into the dark mug.

We lean back and reminisce our respective travels in Thailand or China or buses, and the play of journaling while we’re away. What does someone notice and what’s interesting enough for them to feel compelled to write it all down? And what was their experience of the same event like? I read her my take of the “banditos” from yesterday, and she reads hers. I explain that writing in the moment- even if it’s only about that one moment- recalls everything for that place in time. The smells (not always such a good one, but very often a funny thing to remember), the sounds (again, not always so good, but the unpleasant ones tend to resonate even funnier AFTER the fact), and the atmosphere. This way the memories are often as clear and pungent as the bad smells were.

I tell Alyson about my train ride from San Jose to Provo, where “I was above the smoking car- of all cars!” and where “the water was more expensive than the wine. And they were out of water.”
Ah, travel.

Remember that dream I had where I met the Irish guy and got pregnant and the only thought in my mind was not of regret or repentance or remorse, but simply, “ONCE?!?! All this and only ONCE!?!”…Well…I just met my dark-haired Irishman. And as much as I let the conversation on our boat die off, he just kept coming up with more to talk about. He loves horseback riding and can get us a deal on paragliding with his friends while we’re here. After he convinces us on visiting the hostel he works at in Livingson and we part ways, I tell Alyson that the man from my dream was just beside me on the boat. And I have his phone number…


Vanilla Vice said...

Please don't get pregnant.

Liz said...

Amen! Not yet anyway.

Sounds like your adventure was a baptism by fire! I'm soooo sorry about the banditos.

I've only been to Guatemala once, but learned pretty quick that Panajachel was/is hippy central. Nothing like the old days apparently, however, but enough weed to go around. And around and around. We were there on a Sunday, went to church, were mistaken for missionaries, got rained on. Pretty tame compared to your experience!

I'll be interested to hear what your take on Livingston is.

Love you!

Salt H2O said...

Jealous, still jealous-

Missa said...

miss you farrah! dark haired irish folk are always me

Krista said...

I am so jealous of you.... keep the posts coming, so I can function vicariously through your adventures while I am slaving a way to the man!!! And, just for the record, I think you'd make beautiful babies with an Irishman....go for it.

f*bomb. said...

Well...The banditos DID steal my birth control...along with my underpants...

Nicholas said...

I love you so much!!! Thank you for spending time with me in San Pedro. I already miss you. And I love your blog... you are a serious blogger. We will definitely keep in touch!

Ashlee said...

Farrah-what day do you come back???

and please DO get pregnant.

Ashlee said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
f*bomb. said...

I am doing my best to get knocked up, but it looks like I'm going to have to start lying about my age. I know, right? Since when has a 22 year old hesitated to hook up with me? Since my short-lived romance with the guitar maestro in San Pedro, that's when.