I woke up to the fresh smells of scrambled eggs and tortillas, the traditional Guatemalan breakfast, wafting through my open windows. I damn near leaped out of bed. What was my second day here going to bring? I was sure it could only get better – I mean, fuck, the first one had nearly busted my fun meter! My plan was to put on a cute, yet conservative, outfit and walk all the way to the edge of town, where a series of earthquakes had conveniently turned the Ruinas de La Recollección into the perfect place to take phenomenal self-portraits.
I swear, everything I bought these days was from Amazon Prime – it had pretty much become my permanent personal shopping assistant, so I rarely ever got anything that did not fit or was not my style.
I left my room wearing a gorgeous off-the-shoulder ruffled white blouse, one that could easily be midriff with a little upward tug, with high-waisted, tight-fitting jeans that made my “Sad Ass Syndrome” a little less obvious. My ass is the living embodiment of that emoji with the slanted smile. It’s not happy or sad, it’s just kind of “meh”, like half of the time it doesn’t fucking know or care what’s going on.
Anyway, I grabbed a coffee-to-go from the neighboring shop, and leisurely made my way to the church, passing some already-familiar spots. Yep, through the arch once again, which was still resonating that weirdly familiar, undefinable feeling. With the cobblestone road beneath my pink Amazon Essentials flip flops, I walked to the edge of civilization – where, had it not been daylight, I might have felt more than a tad uncomfortable.
There it was. The massive stone structure that had once been a church, made even more beautiful by its near-total destruction.
I paid the 20 quetzals to enter and soon realized I was the only person there. I walked the grounds, staring up at these ruins that resembled some kind of ancient climbing frame. I couldn’t resist. I strategically set up my portable iPhone tripod, grabbed the Bluetooth clicker, and scrambled up.
After a modest fifteen-minute photoshoot of myself, I headed back to town to finally get my hands on some of that delicious breakfast food. I popped into a little café, which was also like a pub; and, since I was, after all, on vacation, I figured I might as well say “fuck it” and order a delicious Guatemalan mimosa. What arrived at my table, however, was decidedly not what I’d asked for.
I looked at the glass of bock beer, then up at the waiter.
“What is this?” I asked him.
“Moza!”
This couldn’t have been a clearer encounter of the language barrier if it came with huge, flashing neon lights and a parade’s worth of red flags. I glanced back at the beer. Back at the waiter.
“I asked for a mimosa?” I sort of posed as a question with what I’m sure was a strange look on my face.
“Sí, a Moza!” he cheeringly insisted.
In the end, I couldn’t really do anything except laugh off the confusion and drink the damn Moza.
Curious as to what the name meant in Spanish, I opened my translation app and tapped in moza.
Girl.
Moza. Girl. Singular. Me.
No, this couldn’t be a mishap. The coincidence was just… too fucking convenient. This was what my life had become. Me, a single girl, in a foreign country, all by herself, enjoying a – me.
***
Funky name aside, it really was quite a tasty beer; and it gave me a slight boost of energy for my next excursion – the shuttle ride to Panajachel, a village about two-and-a-half hours away on Lake Atitlán.
I hopped aboard the packed, yet very quiet, bus and chose a seat by the door, right in front of a younger guy with long, curly blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes that appeared to be closer together than most people’s. I may be in my forties, but I can still hold the attention of guys in their late twenties or early thirties!
His name was Yul, and he was from Germany. On the bench next to him sat a Polish girl in her mid-thirties, named Erin, with whom I soon struck up a conversation. She had blonde hair, too; and she looked much like a younger version of my ex-husband’s ex-girlfriend, so I asked if she was American.
“No, but I’m living in Miami, at the moment.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaimed. “We’re neighbors!”
All at once, it seemed, everyone on the bus began chatting. When we stopped at a gas station on the edge of town, Yul, Erin, and I snagged a couple beers for the ride. We jumped back into our seats, toasting the start of our long journey with a “Cheers!”.
The road to Panajachel is not only extremely windy and terrifying, but also very depressing. I saw animals tied up on the side of the road, countless families with children waiting for drivers passing by to throw quetzals to them. I’d given the driver all my loose change to donate, and my heart broke every single time, seeing the kids scurry to pick up the coins.
We’d all agreed we needed a bathroom break about 45 minutes prior to arriving, so we stopped at a tiny little street lined with vendors and shops. They charged us two quetzals each to use the bathroom, which was actually more like a bucket behind a wooden door. I think I was the one who had to pee the worst, so I gave the man twenty quetzals and paid for every one of us to have the privilege of experiencing this rather unique toilet.
The man escorted us around to the back of the shop, and my eyes widened. The scenery was fucking unreal! We were high atop a mountain, overlooking miles of other mountains, trees, small bodies of water, and colors galore. One by one, we alternated phones to take pictures of each other, standing on what felt like the top of the fucking world.
I went into the makeshift stall first, keeping my head above the door, cracking jokes about it being the best bathroom view I’ve ever had. One by one, we finished our “bucket business”, with the man emptying them out in between breaks.
It wasn’t much longer until the shuttle was dropping me off in the bustling village I’d call home for the next few days.
***
Lake Atitlán is often referred to as “the most beautiful lake in the world”, and I’d already spent plenty of time researching exactly what I wanted to see and do while there. Panajachel – which locals shortened to simply “Pana” – had one main, mile-long, narrow road lined with street vendors and shops. I’d decided to stay at a small, quaint hotel, ensuring I’d be central enough to go sightseeing, by boat, in the surrounding area, and not feel too terribly secluded.
The path there was slightly paved, flanked by smiling locals going about their daily business. As I went to check in, I was greeted by a squawk from the reception desk.
“Hola!”
Turned out the hotel had their own talking parrot, named Polly. I chuckled, saying “Hola!” right back.
Once I’d gotten settled in and changed, I stopped by the market on the main street for a cold beer before heading to Lake Atitlán, which was just a short walk away. Perhaps surprisingly, I wasn’t hounded by any of the vendors as I walked down the street, looking more out of place than a streaker running down the field during a Monday Night Football game.
The sight of the shimmering, azure water, stirring softly in the giant crater that held it, framed by the rugged sweeps of the volcanoes around it, took my breath away. I’d worn a rhinestone camisole that I’d embellished by hand, just to get a photo wearing it by the lake. I snapped a somewhat successful selfie and filmed a quick video of the scene; then, I spent the best part of an hour just relaxing, taking in the views and people-watching.
***
The sun was about to set, and I was getting kind of hungry. On my way back towards Pana, I found a restaurant with views of the lake, serving the local food and beer I was eager to try out. I grabbed a table, sat my ass down, and waited.
Remember when I said that dining alone pretty much guarantees you crappy service? Yeah, that held very true for this particular place. It took over 45 minutes to get my food order taken, then another hour for my meal to arrive. Meanwhile, the two other tables, filled by parties of four and ten, respectively, were being tended to almost constantly, with laughs and smiles to boot.
Nearly two hours had gone by, and all I’d been served was one beer when I first arrived, and my (rather delicious) chicken, mushroom, and spinach alfredo. I waited and waited for the server to bring my check; but I eventually gave up. I left the proper amount of quetzals on the table, walked back to my room, threw a Netflix show on my phone, and went to bed at just 7:30 PM.
