A Rueful Account of the Indignities of Air Travel in the 21st Century.

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 3 Comments

You will notice that this post will not be accompanied by original photography. More on that later.

I embarked upon my return to my native land last Thursday morning at 0900 when I set foot onto the Chicken Bus and set forth towards Guatemala City. I had been coached on the finer points of bus travel in the City: keep your bag close, pay attention, and don’t sit too close to the driver. With all of these things in mind, I left the comfortable safety of Maribel’s watchful eye and began a one hour bus ride that looked something like this. Without noteworthy incident I was deposited outside of the main shopping center where I hailed a cab, and we engaged in the formalities of discussing the fare. It went something like this:
Me: How much does it cost to go to the airport from here?
Guat Cabbie: Q60.
Me: Clearly, sir, you are debauched. It’s not worth half that.
Guat Cabbie: Ok, ok, Q45.
Me: I apologize for the state of my Spanish, perhaps you did not understand that I refuse to pay more than Q30.
Guat Cabbie. Ok, sorry, Q40.
At this point I began to walk to the next cab, which incited my Guat Cabbie friend to capitulate.
After a brief cab ride to the airport I checked in with relative ease (carry-on only) and proceeded towards the security checkpoint. Upon arriving I was informed that I had not yet paid my security tax and was redirected to the currency exchange where I was relieved of 20 Quetzales so that I may be more effectively degraded and inconvenienced in the name of air safety.
With that out of the way, however, I was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness, quiet, and free WiFi in the GUA terminal, and began to mentally prepare for my reintroduction to American life. Travelling in this 3rd world country had, up to this point, been very hurried and chaotic, but without incident and generally not an unpleasant experience. It wasn’t until I began to fly domestically within the United States that the quality of my travel experience declined.
I should mention now, that I hate flying. Perhaps I should have read Ryan’s account of how to enjoyably fly on a budget before leaving, but I did not. I think that it is degrading, uncomfortable, expensive, and it brings me into intolerably close proximity with a demographic with which I generally decline to embrace, that is, the American public, especially those flying to or from Houston, TX. I have an uncanny knack for sharing a row with the most loquacious and obese customer on the flight; such that the age old “Arm Rest Cold War” is frequently rendered moot by my neighbor’s corpulence crossing that plastic Rubicon into the seat for which I paid. This said, I will continue my epic.
Upon boarding my flight from Huston to Denver my legally sized and carefully packed carry-on was snatched from my hands by a stewardess who informed my that there was no longer any room on the plane for carry-on luggage. I refrained from asking her if this development may have been a direct result of her employer inducing exorbitant checked bag fees and quietly removed my laptop and book from my pack with an acquiescent smile. I asked her if my bag would be available upon disembarking the plane, and she replied that it would be available in baggage claim in Denver. My final destination was Wichita, KS. I related this issue to her and she made the appropriate changes by writing “Wichita” on the tag and sending it below the plane. I decided that I would probably never see that bag again.
My middle seat on this flight was flanked by a very nice old Guatemalan lady, and a young American man living for the time being in Antigua. Neither of them had the slightest respect for the ancient law of “if I’m wearing headphones it means I don’t want to talk to you,” clearly detailed in Hammurabi’s Code. I answered a question to the old lady that I work with a Canadian (not my choice), which induced a 35 minute soliloquy of every story that she could relate having to do with Canadians, Canada, or quizzically, Geoffrey Rush. The young man went so far as to invite me to dine with him in the concourse, and incessantly tapped my foot with his. The affronts to my dignity continued on the next flight when I was wedged between a man large enough to necessitate re-stowing the hold of our 737 and an individual without the wherewithal to appreciate that it is entirely unacceptable for a grown man to play video games in public.
Upon my ultimate arrival in Wichita, I was surprised to find that my mis-checked bag did arrive, and to my chagrin had apparently been run over with a plane. The bag was ravaged, as well as several of it’s contents, appropriately, only the expensive ones. The bag, coat, camera, and cell phone which fell victim to a force powerful enough to crush my toothbrush into six pieces totaled several hundred dollars in damage.
In the end, I was made partially whole by my airline of choice, as they were forthcoming with an admission of fault and check for very nearly the cost of replacement. I will, however, continue to drive whenever feasible, and frequently when it’s not.

No Surprises.

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ Leave a comment
I’m sorry that I haven’t updated in a while, hopefully this post will be enough to satiate the masses for a time. When I came to Guatemala, I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I knew that Antigua is a fairly tourist heavy town, and that my utter inability to speak Spanish would be inconvenient but not debilitating. I knew that I’m not supposed to drink the water. I knew that I’d probably be a little taller than most people. Generally, I wasn’t surprised by much. My Spanish has, and is continuing to improve, and most people in town speak more English than I speak Spanish. I don’t drink the water. And I am significantly taller than everyone. Sure, there were little nuances that I forgot about, but wouldn’t say surprised me. For instance, not being able to flush toilet paper. Upon further reflection, however, I was a little surprised about the extent to which I’m taller than this entire country. The nation’s infrastructure is designed around a mean height of 4’5″. Which is somewhat inconvenient for me. City buses, for instance, have an inconceivably small amount of leg room. Even the buildings are built on a smaller scale, and I’ve included photographs of a few of the things that I’ve hit my head on so far:
This is the door frame in my bathroom:
Here is the door frame to by bedroom:
Here is the door frame of my other bathroom:
Here is the door frame to my closet:

And my kitchen light:

I’ve hit my head on my curtain rod a number of times:
As well as on my shower head:
And my spice shelf:
Really, this is the sort of thing I’m dealing with:

Certainly, I had premonitions of a number of the situations with which I would be met upon arrival to Central America. However, to say that there were no surprises would be something of an exaggeration. Certain features of my apartment illustrate this quite nicely.
For instance, I never expected it to come with a home gym:
Or a Parisian chandelier:
Or a fine North-Asian oil painting:

I can’t but count these surprises as pleasant ones, that contribute to my quality of life on a daily basis. There have been other surprises that have been slightly more disconcerting. A shelf, for example, that seems to have been built from a child’s playhouse door:

It’s possible that this is not, in truth, a child’s door, but actually the door used by a fully grown tiny Guatemalan. This idea is in many ways much, much creepier. The apartment was advertised as furnished, which is indeed the case, and I have also been furnished with a number of ornamental animal skins:

This second piece deserves a more in-depth examination. The fur is accompanied by some sort of alter containing a plastic binder clip, and hand-carved maraca, and what appears to be a broken whitetail mount:

A more rigorous review of the mount, however, reveals that it is not broken, but that only one antler was mounted. And it was done upside down. Only God knows the significance of the binder clip. Perhaps this alter is designed to ward off some ancient curse?

Whoever was responsible for the animal-office alter clearly did not wholly trust their Pagan efforts to keep my humble apartment safe (perhaps from the tiny Guatemalan who’s door was stolen for my desk?), as my toaster is permanently affixed with a statuette of the Virgin Mary:


And, as promised, a video of my neighbor, Bolt:

Meet Bolt.

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 2 Comments
Here is a video of my neighbor Bolt. He’s not really used to me yet.

This evening I will be attending the art exhibit of my neighbor (on the other side), Jose. He has several more names after Jose, but I don’t know any of them. It is being held in an old Cathedral in, and features him, and 7 other artists, whose primary media is oil. While I’m looking forward to the art exhibit, and especially the complimentary hors d’oeuvre and wine that will be in attendance, I mentioned this mostly as a segue to a far more pressing piece of art news that has just now reached the equator. The preeminent artist of our time (of any medium), ‘Lil Wayne, was released from Riker’s Island after 8 months of his 1 year sentence. Here is an article detailing the event. It’s in Spanish, because I can’t figure out how to make Google search in English. In any event, the art exhibition may be cut short this evening to ensure that all attendees will have ample opportunity to be present at one of the many “Weezy is Freezy” parties being hosted throughout Antigua this evening.

A Day Out (with tacos)

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 1 Comment



Checking in after another trip to Acatenango. My first trip there was graced with favorable weather, numerous eruptions of Fuego, and tolerably pleasant group chemistry. While this weekend’s trip wasn’t altogether miserable, it was marred by horizontal freezing rain, hubris, and altitude sickness. However, the trip was not entirely for naught, and I emerged from my bed this morning with two quotes from the weekend still resonating strongly with me. The first was the use of the phrase “singing Terets” to describe a guide who would frequently, spontaneously, and without catalyst, burst into song. I thought of Chez, and diagnosed him. The second quote was in regards to drinking a sufficient amount of water. The summit of Acatenango is over 13,000 ft., which is not a staggeringly high peak, but is ample to induce some mild altitude sickness, especially if hikers are not accustomed to the elevation and are not drinking enough water. This is a point that we hit very hard in our pre-trip meeting, and continue to reiterate throughout the hike. The conversation went something like this:

Guide: Ok, everyone should have had at least 2 liters of water by now. Has everyone done that? How much have you had?
Italian Guy: None.
Guide: You really need to be drinking more water. You will get sick.
Italian Guy: My body is like my Vespa: the perfect machine.
Guide: Whatever.

Naturally, our Italian friend spent twelve of the next twenty hours throwing up, with a splitting headache. No one felt bad for him. He also refused to eat anything but the chocolate that he had purchased in town. When he bonked 1 hour into the 3 hour hike out, again, no one felt bad for him. I should mention that while the Italian Guy was perhaps not entirely adept at hiking, he did ride his 1971 Vespa from New York through Canada to Alaska, then through The United States and Mexico to Guatemala, which is pretty incredible. His itinerary eventually leaves him in southern Argentina, and I have nothing but high hopes for his journey.

Today, I spent $1.85 on this:

Until my first (inevitable) parasite, I will not be cooking.