My Big Fat Greek Apartment

This statue is right outside our door.
I feel the need to apologize for surprising
her as she's stepping out of the shower. 

Guess what? We've moved again. I think this is the 6th or 7th place we've called home in about a year and a half. To say we are nomadic is putting it lightly.

We stumbled upon this place as we desperately drove around the outskirts of Antigua hunting for "FOR RENT" signs the day before we had to move. That's how things work here -- most people find things on bulletin boards or by word of mouth, like "Hey, I know a guy who has a cousin and his grandma's neighbor is renting a place..." We tried going the realtor route, but everything they showed us was ridiculously expensive for what you got.

Anyway, I saw the "FOR RENT" sign and knocked on the door. A lovely woman named Anabela answered and told us, yes, there was an apartment, but it was unfurnished. Did we still want to see it? Well, considering it was the day before we had to move, we were willing to try anything.

She opened the door... and we stepped into a Greek wonderland.

The wall itself is two stories high. See the
pillars? See the statues cemented
on top of them? If there's an earthquake,
those ladies are comin' dowwwwn. 

I was smiling on the outside and on the inside as we walked around the cavernous rooms. All I could think was, "This place is bizarre, but it has potential." I've heard a couple different versions on how this place came to be. One is that Anabela's father was really into Greek architecture and built it as a school. Another is that it had been empty for a long time (I believe it) and had fallen into disrepair until Anabela's family bought it. And now Anabela and her three sons were living downstairs and renting out the top floor.

This place is a massive hunk of concrete scattered with Greek statues. Big, bulky concrete pillars are everywhere. Some have statues adorning the tops, as if standing guard (minus the rifles). The apartment is HUUUGE -- there are five different possible bedrooms. I've joked with friends that if they have anything they need to store (boxes, furniture, an elephant, a tank, etc.) they can bring it here.

Here are the stairs leading to the roof. See the twin statues?
One is the bouncer, the other is the hostess who
will take you to your seat. 

And the best thing is the roof. We have an incredible roof with an fabulous view of all 3 volcanoes, including my beloved Fuego. You could land a helicopter up there. It's a great place to have a party for 80 of your closest friends.  I'm already planning an "Ugly Toga Party" -- where people go to the pacas and buy the ugliest sheets they can find and fashion them into togas. When in Rome, do as the Romans, eh?

Friends who have come to visit all have the same reaction -- gaping mouths, eyes bugging out in disbelief, and laaaaughing over the strangeness of it all. I love it.

Our fancy-schmancy designer bathroom,
complete with suicide shower head
and snazzy avocado green sink.
The ceiling goes up another 4 or 5 feet. 
Trust me, it's cold in there!

My biggest complaint is how cold it is. Quite often it's warmer outside than inside so I sit outside to warm up, the go back inside and put on a sweater or two. The ceilings are about 15 feet tall and since hot air goes up... It is chilly. Oh and there is no indoor heating here. None. So, taking a shower is especially bad. Not only do we have the ever-popular "suicide shower head," we also have to reach up and turn on the water from a spigot right next to the electrical wires. Nice!

One of the many cupolas. 

And there are five (count 'em -- 1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE) cupolas! For those of you who don't know, a cupola is a big domey thing in the ceiling. Sorta like the rotunda in the state capitol, but muuuuch smaller. All of our cupolas have windows in them, which is good because most of the rooms don't have windows. (I *told you* this place was weird!)

But so far, so good. The rent is cheap and everything works in some form or fashion and that's just fine. Below are some more pics of the apartment, as well as a few of the awesome view from the awesome roof. Awesome.

A view heading down from the roof. Gee, I wonder why the neighbors
put up that tall green fence???

A lovely view of Agua Volcano from the roof on a clear day.

Agua on a cloudy day. Looks kind of like it's exploding, huh?

A view of my beloved Fuego Volcano (on left, erupting) and
Acatenango Volcano (on right, quietly sleeping).

Ahhh... A sunset view of the volcanoes. 

Until we meet again... Stay thirsty, my friends!

A few things you should know...

If you ever venture down to Antigua Guatemala, here are a few things to keep in mind and some of my brilliant words of wisdon.  

One way streets
Don't be fooled. Just because the sign says "ONE WAY" ("Una Via") doesn't mean that someone won't come barreling down the street going the wrong way. The streets are a little confusing to begin with and can suddenly become one way mid-street. (Yes, it makes no sense.) So, when crossing a street, be sure to look both ways or you might get plowed over.

Cobblestones

I swear to you, this is not a joke. This is really what the
weathergirl on tv wears during the news. She is
a good example of what the hoochie mamas who
flock to Antigua on the weekends look like.

Oh yes, they are so cute and charming and make the town look so picturesque and colonial, but trust me, no matter what kind of shoes you are wearing, THEY ARE A BITCH TO WALK ON. Not only that, but the sidewalks also leave something to be desired. They are patched together with cement, stepping stones, and yep, some are even made of the dreaded cobblestones. And some of them turn into hellish slip-n-slides when it rains. Oh, what fun!

One of the best things about the streets (probably the only good thing about them) is the "it sucks to be you" entertainment factor of watching the hoochie mamas that come from Guatemala City on the weekend  as they try to walk around in their high-high-high hoochie mama heels and their skin tight clothes. It’s pretty amusing.

What's for sale at the grocery store?

It's hard to see, but there's a
 packet of chicken soup
taped to the bottle of
SUPERIOR soy sauce.
(We only buy the best.)

Look for the clear packing tape. Yep. The grocery store (called "La Bodegona") is notorious for taping items together to indicate they're on sale.

For example:

• Buy one 4-pack of toilet paper, get three free (that used up a lot of tape)
• Buy a bag of laundry detergent, get a plastic bowl for free (Obviously you will need to eat a bowl of cereal while you do laundry.)
• Buy a bottle of rum, get a free 2-liter bottle of Pepsi (They encourage mixed drinks here.)
• Buy three boxes of milk, get a free package of cookies (Yum!)

…and so on.

They usually package items together that go together, like the milk and cookies, but quite often the combos don't make much sense. It’s like they look at their inventory and say, “Oh what the hell -- let’s put that bag of Doritos with the box of tampons.” Huh? My favorite "freebie" so far is the green plastic cutting board we got from buying -- ready for this? -- a box of corn flakes. (In case we needed to chop them up into tiny little pieces.)

Skinny jeans
Should not be worn. By anyone. Anywhere. Ever. Unless you are in a famous rock band and are under the age of 25. But ONLY then. And your band has to be REALLY famous.

Puddles

It rains so much, things grow out of old,
abandoned buildings like this.

It rains here. A LOT. I know my dear family and friends in Texas are in a drought and I feel bad about hogging all of the rain. (I’d sent some to you if I could.) Anyway, this explains why it’s so green in Guatemala. It rains about every day.

Lotsa rain = Lotsa puddles. I walk everywhere and take it from me, as a pedestrian it is very important to think ahead while walking. Gauge where you are in comparison to where cars are along the road – if a car is coming, slow down so they hit the puddle before you get near, otherwise you’ll get hosed. This has happened to a friend of mine. Luckily, it hasn’t happened to me yet (QUICK -- knock on something wooden) but with the amount of walking I do, I’m probably overdue for a nasty rainwater splash bath.

Slashers
Nope, I’m not giving a shout out to the “Friday the 13th” movies. I’m talking about the people (male and female) who seek out unknowing tourists and slash their purses/backpacks. These unscrupulous folks are clever – they will “accidentally” bump into you in the park or in the crowded market and the next thing you know, your bag has been gutted and the innards removed. So watch out! This hasn’t happened to me (keep on knockin’ on that wood) but I know several smart people who have fallen victim to this crime. I keep an eye on the crowd and carry a thick, knife-proof crocheted purse. It would take someone quite a while to saw their way through my bag -- and if I caught them doing it, I’d give them a hearty karate-chop to the jugular. Ka-POW! Do not mess with the little white girl and her crocheted purse.

Pee
It’s not just for bathrooms anymore! Men will do it anywhere, anytime. If it’s sunny and there’s a strange puddle on the sidewalk, STEP AROUND IT. That’s not water. I’m just sayin’…

I passed a group of guys who were relieving themselves on a truck one afternoon – and if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t believe it was their truck. Oh, the humanity! I can only imagine how awful that must’ve been for the owner. I mean, it’s one thing to have your car vandalized and your stereo stolen or your tires slashed. But to come back to a pee-soaked vehicle? Eeeeeeeew. Just sell it on the spot and buy something new.

Volcanoes and earthquakes

This was a pretty rare sight. Fuego erupted and sent ash
and debris rushing down the side of the volcano. I was
 lucky to find my camera and get this shot in time.

Don't be afraid and don't freak out. Experiencing these forces of nature is very cool. The earthquakes are pretty random, so if you feel one, you’re lucky. Fuego Volcano erupts day and night. During the day, you’ll see clouds of ash billowing out, which is cool. If you are staying at a place with a rooftop terrace, grab a beer and sit up there at night. If it’s clear, you will see lava flying in the air and rolling down the sides, which is SUPER COOL. If you’re reeeeally lucky, you will hear the deep rumbling booooom beforehand.

Words to know
If you’re like me and your skin tone doesn’t match that of the locals, you will be inundated with people trying to sell you things on the street. You’ll be offered everything from carved wooden flutes, necklaces, ice cream, scarves, table runners, bracelets and even… pot. Yes, there are a few people in town (usually young guys, carrying backpacks) who will boldly walk up to you and say, “Hey lady, you looking for pot? Good stuff!” Even if you’re not wearing a Bob Marley shirt or sporting a knitted Rasta hat, it’s always good to know there are herbal entrepreneurs out there.

So! Here are a few things you can say when people are offering their goods.

“No gracias.” (No thanks)

“Otro dia.” (Another day.)
“Posible mas tarde.” (Maybe later.)
“Yo tengo no dinero.” (I don’t have money.)
“Yo soy policia.” (I’m a cop. This will scare the pants off a pot dealer.)
“Lo siento, mi espanol es malo.” (I’m sorry, my Spanish is bad. This is helpful if you want to play dumb when someone is rambling on and on – I use this one a lot.)
“Yo vivo aqui.” (I live here – as in “I’m not a tourist so I’m not an easy target for your overpriced goods.”)

Ok, that’s it for this time around. Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

I feel like I've been chewing on razor blades...



This about sums up my experience today,
except my dentist wasn't wearing a tie.



HOLY MOLARS, BATMAN!
The dentists here are evil!

I just went to my first-ever dental appointment in Antigua. Since I have no money and no insurance, I went to the low-cost hospital called Hermano Pedro. Yep, it's a hospital attached to Hermano Pedro Catholic Church. (Hermano Pedro [St. Peter] is a BIG deal here -- I think he lived in Antigua for a while and was also buried here at one point. Well, he might still be buried here. I'll have to look into that. I'm a little rusty on my "Name that Saint's Burial Location" trivia.) Anyway, this hospital covers everything from x-rays, surgery, pediatrics, cancer treatment, psychology, and yes, even dental care.

I was not blessed with good teeth. My mouth is what you'd call an "Orthodontic Wonderland." I've had braces and bridges and retainers and fillings and caps and root canals and the whole shebang BUT I am lucky in one tiny way -- I have no wisdom teeth. Not even one. And due to being an Orthodontic Wonderland, mouth pain doesn’t bother me. When I had braces during my teenage years, I’d double or even triple the number of rubber bands the orthodontist told me to wear to move my teeth. (God, I was such a dork with my Stainless Steel Sex Appeal braces.) Anyway, blah-blah-blah, I must have a high threshold for mouth pain.


I don't know what the little
multicolored things are, but I
remember seeing them today.



I loved the dentists I went to at Advanced Smiles Dental in Austin. They were so nice and their office was so clean and inviting. And clean. They had the prerequisite aquarium in the waiting room AND a supply of mouthwash and toothbrushes in the bathroom AND you could even get a paraffin hand treatment while you were getting your teeth cleaned! How cool is THAT? Plus, every exam room had a TV and a massage chair! Needless to say, it was run by women and had that special female flair to it. And did I mention how clean their office was? Cleeeean. Clean is gooood.

Ahhh, but I digress...



So we get to Hermano Pedro at 7am. Things work soooo differently here. You get to the hospital, find the area you need (dental, x-rays, pediatrics, etc.) tell them your name and what you need done, and they give you a little piece of paper with the cost of your procedure. You take the little piece of paper to the cashier, pay for your procedure, then go back to the office and show them your receipt. Very efficient, right? My question was what if you go in for a cleaning and they find you have a cavity that needs a filling? Then what? Do you rush over to the cashier with drool running down your chin from your halfway-completed check-up and stand in line to pay, then run back to the dental area and wait your turn again? No one had a good answer.



Hermano Pedro Church is on the left, the hospital is
on the right. It's beautiful from the outside, huh?

Joel went with me because he also needed a check-up and because mi espanol es maloooo (my Spanish is baaaad). So it was Q75 for each of us to get a check-up and cleaning (about $10 each). You then take the little piece of paper down to the cashier at the other end of the hospital and pay for what you are having done. (I use the term "hospital" loosely -- it's a giant old rustic building that has been pieced together bit by bit and many areas don't have a roof and you have to go up-up-up and down-down-down ramps that are in NO WAY wheelchair accessible and through courtyards and dodge the ladies who are breastfeeding their babies in the hallway and the kids who are sitting on the floor and the people who are so obviously so sick you are afraid to breathe as you walk past them…. Get the idea?) And there was NO toilet paper or soap in the bathroom! EEEEEEW! Sorry, I just had to throw that in.

Although we arrived at 7am, there’s a weird “whoever is there first when the dentist arrives” rule to actually getting IN to see the doctor. Needless to say, due to the long line at the cashier and due to us being told to come back when the dentist arrived at 9am, we didn’t get called in until after 10am. So a mere 3 hour wait. And you guys in the USA complain about waiting an extra 30 minutes in a nice air conditioned germ-free doctor’s office with fun “Highlights” and “Redbook” magazines for your entertainment? Pshaw! We sat on cheap plastic chairs in a long, crowded hallway with only one window. Count your blessings. I mean it. COUNT THEM.

I knew going in that I had cavities. When eating causes little lightning bolts of pain in your teeth, it’s time to have ‘em checked out. I brush. I floss. I’m a good little girl when it comes to making sure I have clean teeth. But cavities have been my enemy since I was a little kid. I actually thought it was so cool to get a filling in my younger days because I looooved having my mouth injected with that super-fun numbing stuff. What can I say? I was weird even when I was a kid. But in my defense, I was never, ever, ever afraid to go to the dentist.


Put long hair and mascara on
this guy and you'll know what
Dr. Cruella DeVille looked like
holding the Dremel Tool of Torture



Well, today’s experience has changed my feelings toward dentistry.

And fear.

And pain.

I now truly believe there are people in the world who enjoy causing pain in others. The dentist I went to – let’s called her Dr. DeVille, as in Dr. Cruella DeVille – hurt me in ways I only thought were possible in horror movies or at Guantanamo Bay. I think her first career was as an insane chicken bus driver, but her boss probably fired her and said, “Whoooah now, Cruella! Must you be so EVIL to the passengers?” So when that didn’t work out, she took a long, hard look in the mirror and asked herself, "How else can I cause extreme pain and human suffering?" And so, she became a dentist.

Ok, and let me backtrack a bit. First, Dr. DeVille was bad at what she did in purely a “does she know what a cavity looks like” sort of way. I told her (rather, I told Joel and he relayed it to her in Spanish) that I had pain on both sides of my mouth, waaay in the back. She found Cavity #1 right away by using some torture device to blow air on my tooth -- when I jumped, she said, “Yep, it’s a cavity” (but in Spanish). She never even looked at the other side of my mouth, even when Joel told her I had pain on the left side, too. I thought, “Screw this, I didn’t come here and wait all this time to only get ONE tooth fixed,” so I finally had to get her attention and POINT to the other tooth that was hurting. She took out the air-blowing device, put it on my tooth, I jumped and – ta-daaa! -- Cavity #2 was discovered. Oh, and she also mentioned that the two bridges I paid over $2,000 for (with insurance!) a few years ago needed to be removed and redone. WHAT? Seriously?

Fillings cost Q100 each (about $12.50) and they handed Joel another little piece of paper for my Q200 worth of cavities and sent him back to the cashier.

You know how I said when I was a kid I liked getting the numbing stuff when I had a filling? Wellll, they don’t do that here. Or at least Cruella didn’t. She just drilled away at the tooth while my eyes bugged out of my head from the pain and then she globbed some white filling stuff on my teeth. I wanted to puke. Plus, at one point I had so many globs of cotton and instruments in my mouth, I thought my jaw was going to crack. The corners of my mouth felt like they would split open from being pulled so tight.

It was not fun. Not fun AT ALL.

And then it got worse.

She took a drill – and I mean DRILL – similar to a Dremel tool but with a single, pointy drill bit on the end, like a nail. I looked on in horror as I realized THIS was what she was going to use to CLEAN MY TEETH.

This is close to
the actual size of the
pointy end of the
Dremel Tool of Torture

I am sooo going to have nightmares about the look and SOUND of that tool. Yeeeeikes.

Remember how I said I had a high threshold for mouth pain? Well Dr. DeVille picked me up by my teeth and personally carried me across that threshold and kept on running. By the time she was finished, the threshold was just a tiny dot on the horizon.

All I could think was CODEINE. Just one. Maybe two. Just give me a pill and the pain will float awaaay. But no, there was no codeine in my future. Only PAIN. (By the way, you can get ANY drug here without a prescription. Yes, ANY DRUG. Just ask the pharmacist and they’ll hand over as many as you want, as long as you have money. It’s amazing there aren’t more drug addicts here.)

She did not try to make it pleasant. I may have even heard her laughing demonically as she worked (but it could have been my imagination, being delirious from the pain and all). She used the pointy-tipped Dremel Tool of Torture to go BETWEEN my gums around each and every tooth. Did I bleed? Oh hell yes, I bled. Joel, who was back from the cashier and watching me being tortured, said he was concerned about the amount of blood in my mouth, but was afraid that if he said anything, Dr. DeVille might make it worse.

Mmmm, what's for lunch?

Finally, it was over. I was handed a paper cup of water and told NOT to drink it, but to swish and spit. I swished. I spat. And I spat blood. Looooovely. And I paid money for this? Really? I could have chewed on a handful of razor blades and gotten the same experience. And it wouldn’t have cost me 4 hours of my life and $35.

So next it was Joel’s turn. Joel had no cavities that she could find, even though he asked her to please look at a tooth that was hurting him. Nope. According to Dr. DeVille, no cavities. Whatever. It was near lunch time and she probably didn’t want the hassle of doing another filling. So Joel got his teeth cleaned. NOT with the Dremel Tool of Torture, but with that nice polishing thing and that gooey pastey fluoride stuff they put on your teeth when the clean them in the US. I asked her why she hadn’t polished my teeth like that and she gave me a load of BS about how I needed to come back for another visit because they had to remove tartar from my teeth. WHAT? I told her that in the US you get the tartar removed AND your teeth cleaned in one sitting. Nope, she told me to come back. I asked if I had to pay another Q75 for the visit and when she said yes, I responded with a snort, saying, “SCREW THAT! It ain't gonna happen.” I couldn’t help it – those semi-hick words just flew out of my bleeding, miserable mouth before I could stop them.



Well, no I haven't... But I've run
screaming out of one's office today.

So please, friends and neighbors, if you think you can come here and get high quality, painless dental care for a low price, think again. I encourage all of you to get on the phone and schedule a cleaning with a nice, gentle, knowledgeable dentist in your area RIGHT NOW. And while you are there, hug your dentist and dental hygienist for being kind and not using the Dremel Tool of Torture on your teeth.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

P.S. Ha ha haaaa! When searching online for dental tool images, I came across this text: For painful dental procedures, the dentist will need tools, like syringes and disposable needles, that provide anesthesia.

Anesthesia, my ass! They don’t believe in it here!

The Stir Fry Adventure of 2011 or How to make a big freakin' mess in the kitchen

Ok, let me start by stating the obvious. Some people were meant to cook. I am not one of them.

And what I mean is that some people have the gift of looking at random ingredients and saying with the confidence of Bobby Flay on Iron Chef, "Ok, I can whip together sauteed eel tails with ostrich sauce and a side of radish and pimento-stuffed eggplant." And whatever they make will taste good and their cooking will not kill anyone. Again, I am not one of those people.

Easy Mac! Oh boy oh boy oh boy!

It always cracked me up when I got invited to Pampered Chef parties. ME? You want me to attend your Pampered Chef party? Are you kidding? Do you know me? Have you ever seen me cook? If your party has the word "chef" in it, please don't invite me. That word scares me. (Unless it is followed by Boyardee.)

EASY MAC is more my speed. God bless the people at Kraft when they developed Easy Mac. It was made for people like me. A delicious Mac & Cheese meal in less than 4 minutes? No mixing, no measuring and no stove required? Hand me a fork! Nummy nummy!

Even better, POP TARTS were made for people like me -- the instructions are basically:
 

Dulce de Leche Pop Tarts?
AWESOME! (I believe it
means "straight to the hips"
in Italian.) If anyone out there
can find a box of these,
I'll be your new best friend. 

Open package
Remove Pop Tarts from wrapper
Put them in toaster
Toast them
Eat them
Enjoy and go on with your day

Ta-daaa! That's what I call COOKIN'!

Some people cook with reckless abandon. I cook with reckless abandon and a little bit of fear. And a fire extinguisher. When I bought my condo, I liked the saying, "I only have a kitchen because it came with the house." So true. I probably made popcorn more than anything else in that kitchen.


Ahhh, but I digress...

Holy crap! Look out! She's trying to
cook with the woka-woka-WOK!

So, we're staying in a new house. It's very nice here, but don't get me started on the surly housekeeper. (She sort of came with the house. Me no likey having a housekeeper.) This place also came with a WOK, which I like better than the surly housekeeper. (And every time I say that word, WOK, I have to fight the urge to get in touch with my inner Muppet Show geek and say, "Waka-waka-wakaaa!" like Fozzy Bear.) (I never claimed to be normal.)

So, back to the waka-waka-waka. I got inspired to try something new.

That's right. I was inspired... to cook.

I hope no one fainted just now.

This is NOT what mine looked like. This
was taken from the website of someone
who knew what they were doing.

So I cheerfully gathered my victims -- uh, I mean vegetables from the market. Onions. Broccoli. Red peppers. Carrots. Sugar snap peas. Garlic. And chicken. I thumbed through a cookbook simply called "THE WOK" and saw something about how much oil to add. I didn't have the sesame oil or peanut oil or whatever other oils they suggested for cooking. What did I have? Olive oil.

(A few days later, when I mentioned the Stir Fry Adventure of 2011 to my friend, Linda [one of those people who enjoys cooking] I told her I used olive oil and she laughed and said, "And olive oil has a much lower smoking point temperature than regular stir fry oils." Huh? Terms like "smoking point temperatures" are foreign to me. She may as well have been speaking in Swahili.)

Ok, so there I am with bowls of veggies around me, ready for the attack. Some people claim that their food sings and makes happy noises when they're cooking. Not mine. I threw the chicken into the oil and it made a hissing sound. I threw the veggies in on top to sort of cool everything off and it didn't work as well as I had hoped. (I mean it, the chicken sounded like that girl in "The Exorcist" movie.) And here's a note for all of you Stir Fry Virgins out there: there's a reason it's called STIR fry. You actually have to take a spatula and move things around or they'll stick to the side of the wok and you'll have to pry them off with a crowbar. Just a friendly little hint from your cooking buddy, Jen. And you know how you see professional chefs flip things around in the pan just by flicking their wrist? Well, don't try that. Ever. Woks are heavy. And if you're as coordinated as I am, attempting that trick will mean you'll be picking pieces of broccoli off your ceiling for days.


This is what it really looked like. Too bad I can't add
sound to this image. And smell. And a sense of fear.


Not only were my veggies and chicken bits hissing at me, the oil was making them pop around and they were trying to save themselves by jumping out of the wok. I had to keep pushing them back in as I stirred -- they were eager to jump overboard. A few made it out before I caught on to their plan.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the soy sauce. I had no idea how much to add, so I just popped open the bottle and dumped some in with a flair. Viola! I am a cooking goddess!

Everything turned brown.

Not a delightful yummy grilled-looking brown but a smooshy sloppy dirty sickly mushy yucky brown. Mmmmm! Brown sloppy stir fry! Dinner is served!

Served over a bed of rice, the whiteness of the rice almost made the colors look like something you'd find in nature. Or at least like something you'd want to eat. But no matter how it may have looked, I am happy to report that no one died as a result of my Stir Fry Adventure of 2011. But there are still leftovers...

Until we meet again, keep on cooking with reckless abandon and stay thirsty my friends!

What I'm about to say is going to sound very strange...

...but I'm very protective of my butt.

Yep, my butt. My derriere. My tushy. My bootie. My buns. My keister. My hiney. My arse. My backside. My caboose. Whatever you want to call it, I want to keep it from becoming public property.

Like I've mentioned before, I will never be a supermodel. I have stubby chunky-monkey hands. I have short little T-Rex arms. I don't have picture-perfect teeth. I can't even be a foot model due to a funky toenail from accidentally dropping something on my toe years ago. Perhaps I could be an earring model -- I do have nice lobes. Ok, so if there's anyone out there looking for an earring model, let me know. (I work cheap.)

Ahhh, but I digress...

Basically, I stand out here. I've had some experiences where my big ol' juicy butt has just happened to get in the way of a man's hand. I'm not assuming (ha ha ha --ASSuming) they were trying to find out if a white girl's bootie feels the same as a Guatemalan girl's bootie, but when you're walking down a wiiiide empty aisle in the market and an old man walking in the opposite direction wanders over and brushes his hand upon your butt, it does makes you wonder -- "Did my butt get in his way, or did he go out of his way to run into my butt?" Yes, even old men like to cop a feely. Pervs!

So after one to many "accidental encounters" I've gotten kind of protective of my butt. I go to great lengths to keep my distance so my cheeks won't be grabbed, groped, pinched, poked, squeezed, slapped, spanked or otherwise accosted by complete strangers. (Should you feel the need to do this [and why would you?] anyone who is a follower of my blog is welcome to grab, grope, pinch, poke, squeeze, slap, spank or otherwise get to know my chubby cheeks, because after all, if you are a follower of my blog, you must at least KNOW me and are not a complete stranger.) Maybe this will be our new way of saying hello to each other -- a quick little butt grab. Hmm. Maybe not.

That's what I'm talking about! Mmm-hmm!

When walking down the street, I am very aware of anyone walking behind me. Men on bikes are notorious for copping a feel as they ride by. I don't understand this. What gives them the right? I'd never look at a man and think, "Holy snarkies! I've got to see what his butt feels like!" and give a little squeeze as I walk by. Not even if he's wearing Wrangler jeans. I'm not into the country music scene, but let's be honest ladies -- there really is nothing better than a well-formed Wrangler Butt. (I once saw The Perfect Wrangler Butt on a bus when I was in college and DAMN did I want to bronze that butt and make it into bookends or something. And although my eyes were mesmerized by the "W's" stitched on his back pockets, I was a lady and kept my hands to myself.) (Although my thoughts made me feel like going to church to confess my sins... And I'm not even Catholic.)

Ahhh, but I digress...again.

I know some people think it's flattering to have your butt grabbed, but not me. I always have a little plan in the back of my head for how I'm going to karate-chop someone's throat or throw a rock at anyone on a bike should my butt come in contact with their hand. Strange to live your life that way, but that's how it is here in the macho world of Latin America.

So fellas, if you want to keep your dignity and not have your butt kicked by a screaming white girl in public -- in front of all of your friends -- many of whom probably have phones with video cameras and access to the internet -- please keep your hands to yourself. Thank you.

And until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends! (And keep your hands to yourself... unless there's a Wrangler Butt in the vicinity, and if that's the case you have my blessing to grab until the cows come home.)

Semana Santa -- The biggest baddest Holy Week in Antigua

 

Invasion of the purple people!



Last time I partook in Semana Santa was a year ago and it was really just a fluke that we happened to be here at that particular time. I had no idea what I was in for. And since I'm not Catholic, I really didn't understand much of what I was seeing.  



This year, I'm still not Catholic, but I was a little better prepared. Well, at least I knew what to expect. CROWDS of people. Traffic stopped to allow the processions to sloooowly go by. Really cool man-made street carpets (called alfombras). Hoards of men and boys (called cucuruchos) dressed in purple robes. Ladies (called cargadoras) dressed in black and white with veils over their heads. And about 900 million gazillion camera-wielding idiots called Tourons -- part Tourist, part Moron. (I used to be one of them, so I'm allowed to poke fun. These days I am a reformed Touron.) (Or so I think.)



A big cucurucho carrying
a baby cucurucho.



I still have no clue about what's going on much of the time, but I'm pretty good at looking like I know what's happening. Basically, here's how it works... 

 Semana Santa is Antigua's Holy Week. It's not just Easter, but The Big Mac-Daddy, No Marshmallow Peeps Allowed, MEGA-Easter. The celebration in Antigua is huge and second in THE WORLD only to Spain. There are a lot of very big, very old, very Catholic churches in Antigua and each church sponsors it's own procession. Not only that, but each church also has its own Jesus and Mary. For example, one of the biggest and grandest churches is called La Merced. Their Jesus is Jesus Nazareno. Hermano Pedro Church's is Jesus Resucitado. Jesus Sepultado belongs to Cristo Church... and so on. So with each procession you will get one Jesus and one Mary float. Oh wait -- I used to call them floats -- as in parade floats -- but was told yesterday that I could be struck down by lightning for referring to them as such. They are called andas, not floats. (Get it right...or die by lightning.)



I scream, you scream,
we all scream for ice cream!



I've also learned that the people carrying the flo-- ooops, I mean ANDAS pay to do so. Yes, they pay to carry a very heavy anda around. Each anda is carried by anywhere from 60-132 people, depending on its size. The bigger the church, the more impressive the anda, the more cucuruchos needed... Yes, the andas are BIG, wooden, decorative and heeeaaavy. And if you want to carry the anda on a very public street where you will be seen by lots of your peers -- like around the park or near the church -- you pay MORE. Each procession lasts for 12 hours. People carry the andas in shifts and if you look at the pictures, you'll see little cards pinned to the front of their outfits. These cards tell each person when they are carrying the anda and what their place is. (Each spot along the sides of the anda has a number associated with it.) When a cucurucho isn't carrying the anda, he's free to roam the streets, so you'll often see these guys in their purple outfits hanging out in the park, eating an ice cream cone, puffing on a cigarette... Many of them choose to follow the procession route, which is why you see HUNDREDS of cucuruchos whenever there's a procession. Same with the cargadoras -- when they aren't carrying their smaller Virgin Mary anda, they are free to roam and do as they please.

Now, about these man-made street carpets called "alfombras." These are really cool. The biggest and most colorful ones are generally near the church sponsoring the procession. People put a lot of pride in making theirs the longest, most intricate, most colorful alfombra possible. It takes hours to create an alfombra and they can vary in size, but the biggies are somewhere around 35 feet long and 8 feet wide. Give or take. They are made using large wooden templates and are made entirely out of natural elements -- sawdust, sand, flowers, etc. Their sole purpose is to be lovingly and painstakingly created, looked upon in awe by the spectators (and the damn Tourons), then walked all over by the people carrying the andas. And 45 seconds after the procession is finished, the remnants are swept, scooped and shoveled into the bulldozers following behind the cucuruchos and cargadoras.

Here are a few pictures of an alfombra being born...

The guy on the far right is spraying water on the sawdust to keep it from blowing away...

Kneeling on a piece of cardboard on a cobblestone street... OUCH!  

Boards are placed across the alfombras so the workers can create the center designs.

It's slowly but surely coming along...

Stiiiiiill working...



Whatever you do... DON'T sneeze!

And drumroll, please... The finished alfombra!



Ta-daaa! Isn't it incredible? Hard to believe it's mostly sawdust, huh?
And see the smoke at the end of the street? That's the incense
from the approaching procession. The smell of that incense gets into
your nose and clings to your nose hairs for HOURS. Ugh.



OH! I forgot to mention the bands. Imagine the most depressing music you've ever heard. Now imagine it playing almost non-stop for 12 hours. I realize the whole idea of these processions is to demonstrate Jesus' suffering, and I also realize they can't play something lively and upbeat like the Charleston, but duuuuuude. Seriously. It's the most droning, depressing music ever played. It was surely written by someone who forgot to take their Prozac and was having a really bad day.

I taped one of the processions just so y'all could get a feel for the the passion, the dedication and the sheer volume of PEOPLE who come to and participate in this event. I cut this video waaay down (believe me, it was a lot longer) but if 3:12 minutes is too long for you, feel free to skip it and get on with your life. 

 



You thought I was kidding about the
Hello Kitty balloons, didn't you? Hmmm?
The bulldozer behind me is cleaning up the
alfombra that took all day to create. *sigh*

And after each procession, what should follow? VENDORS. Yes, vendors selling an amusing assortment of everything from Semana Santa puppets, to pinwheels, to sunglasses, to cotton candy, to balls, to foam lizards, to Hello Kitty balloons. And what could possibly represent Jesus' suffering better than a Hello Kitty balloon? Noooothiiiing. Right? (Stand back... I might get hit by that lightning after all...)

So there you have it -- Semana Santa in Antigua Guatemala. Like I said, it's a VERY big deal here. And we're all very eager for the Tourons to go home. (Except the pickpockets -- the Tourons are easy targets.)

So until we meet again, Happy Easter -- and stay thirsty my friends! And please save some of those Reese's Peanut Butter eggs for me -- yummmm!  

Introducing: The Nightmare Bug! ((barrrf!))

"Barf?" you ask.

Yes, BARF. Barfity-barf-barrrrf.

This is the story of The Nightmare Bug.

This image was taken from the blog of a woman who
lives in Antigua. (Not me.) She, too, has experienced
The Nightmare Bug. I feel her pain.

I had seen one of these before, when the gas man mistakenly removed the cover to the water tank, thinking it was where the gas tank goes... He opened the cement lid and there it was -- a Nightmare Bug, clinging to the side of the water tank, just hanging out. It was the scariest bug I had ever seen. It had a flat body, long legs and even longer antennae. It was the stuff nightmares are made of. Children of the world need not be afraid of the Boogeyman any longer -- I've found something MUCH more scary.

The gas man and I exchanged an "EeeEEEEeeeEEeeeew" (by the way, "eeeew" does not need to be translated -- it is universal) and he picked up a broken branch and started whacking at The Nightmare Bug. The bug, startled from his sleep, scampered away, moving further down the hole. I told the gas man, it's ok, no need to kill it, just put the cover back on and I won't have to ever see it again.

But I was wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.



This man is obviously high on crack.
There is no other explanation for his behavior.

 A couple days ago, I was getting ready for bed and saw something on the floor. I got closer and -- HOLY $#!* -- it was The Nightmare Bug! Lola, the rescue dog we're fostering, was with me and even she was afraid of it. (She's small -- easy prey for this bug.) Lola looked and me and said, "You're on your own -- I'm outta here," and left the room. I went to grab a magazine, afraid to leave the bug alone for too long (I mean, how freaked out would YOU be if you left the room, came back 15 seconds later and it was GONE?) and was relieved to see it was still there, slowly walking around... This thing was even scarier than I remembered it. It's antennae alone are HUGE -- I mean at least 4 inches long. It had 6 legs and it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, which made it even scarier. I can handle beetles, spiders and flying bugs no problem. But freaky alien bugs from hell? No way. Noooo waaaay.

My plan was to coax The Nightmare Bug on to the magazine then toss that bad boy outside, then lock and barricade the door. (In case it knows how to pick locks.)

But things did not go according to plan.

The Nightmare Bug got away.

Hard as I tried to get that bug to climb on the magazine, it figured out my devious plan and scampered quickly toward the back wall, where there is a built-in bookcase. It managed to scoot it's giant body between the wall and the bookcase -- where I couldn't reach it.



I found this picture online. This poor kid is going to need
some serious therapy after this ordeal.



Oh damn. Damn damn damn damn DAAAMN. Needless to say, every night I turn on the lights and check over near the bookcase to see if The Nightmare Bug has made an appearance.

From what I've read online, these are called Giant Tailless Whipscorpions and according to one website, "They have a gentle disposition. Though they are harmless, these bizarre-looking creatures are fast and agile and somewhat delicate. They can pinch with their claws but rarely do, choosing to run away instead."

Oooh goodie! So I have a friendly, harmless creature with claws -- but chooses not to use them -- living about 6 feet from where I sleep. Yaaay for me! And guess what? A lot of the websites out there give hints on how to keep these as PETS. This thing? A pet? The Nightmare Bug as a PET? You have got to be kidding me. The world is full of crazy people.

Ok, so who wants to come visit? Anyone? Anyone?

Until we meet again, be on the lookout for creepy bugs and stay thirsty, my friends!

Bad bad bad and BADDER... Or "Why I am doing the Ten-Toe-Trek nowadays"


 

Well, crap.



The Von Trapp Children, singing the bad news to me



And I mean it. What I am about to tell you can only be summarized as "WELL, CRAP."  

Our car was stolen about a week ago. Yep. STOOOO-LEN. From the street right outside the Puppy Palace. Yep. My friend Amber and I went out to eat and then to listen to a band play, and when we got back to where the car was, all that was left were the Von Trapp Children singing, "So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu... Adieu, adieu, to your green Su-ba-ruuuuu..." 

Damn those smug Von Trapp Children!

As if we have the money to replace it. As if we can afford to be carless. As if we had insurance on it. Let's put it this way -- most people (95% or more) don't have car insurance here. Why? Because it's an extra expense that most people can't (and won't) afford AND because most of the cars are pieces of crap held together only with duct tape, twine, and occasionally, bungee cords. So really, why insure a bungee-corded-duct-taped hunk of crap on wheels?


But not our car. Our car was not a crapmobile. Iggy, our 1998 Subaru station  

We could fit everything we owned inside Iggy. And yes,
we realize this makes us look like the Clampett's from
"The Beverly Hillbillies." But that's ok.

wagon, was a nice car. Other than being a gas-guzzling monster, it was the perfect car for here. Four-wheel drive, with a few dings and dents (but you can't avoid having dings and dents and besides, the dings and dents help your car blend in better) and a perrrrfect interior. Yes, Iggy was just right for Guatemala. And he was GREEN. Green is a good color for a car. It ain't easy being green, but Iggy pulled it off with style.

(insert hillbilly banjo music here)

So, now I'm left walking to town every day. It's not a terrible walk and I won't bitch too much about it because there are plenty of people who have it far worse than me. It takes about 25-30 minutes but the road I have to take is a winding, dusty, pot-holed 2-lane street lacking sidewalks in some areas, and in others, the sidewalks are about 2 feet off the ground so you have to jump UP to get on the sidewalk and when it ends you have to jump back DOWN. It's like a step aerobics workout AND a walk all rolled into one. Richard Simmons would be yelling to me, "You go girl!" if he could see me on this walk. Work it! Work it!

The municipality is attempting to repave sections of the road before Semana Santa (when a gazillion tourists will descend upon Antigua for numerous religious processions -- more on that later) so while they're out there working, I have to literally walk INTO traffic to go around their cones and equipment. Does the fun ever end? Oh no, it doesn't.

It's like a real-life version of the video game "Frogger" -- but this time I am the frog. Ribbit-ribbit.

And with every step I take on that walk to town, it only reminds me how mad I am that someone decided to steal what wasn't theirs. 

I want to find who did this and tie them up, coat them in bacon grease, pour hot cheese on them, then roll them in hamburger meat and offer them up to the dogs from the Puppy Palace as a human snack. I would just stand back and laaaaaugh and laaaugh... Heck, I'd probably take pictures, too.

And what's worse is that I had just purchased -- and lugged -- two giant 5-gallon containers of water into the back seat of the car. So, whoever stole the car is well hydrated, too. I wish I could go pack in time, pop open the lids of those water jugs and pee in both of them, just as a tiny form of revenge. You want to drink my stolen water? Fine. But I'm leaving you a little gift inside...

Until we meet again, stay thirsty (for non-stolen pee-laced water) my friends...

The definition of STUPIDITY

My natural hair color is something like this
(minus the termites)

For those of you who don't know, I color my hair. Oh, I know you guys are sooo shocked. People who have known me for years have seen my hair go from various shades of blonde to red to blondish-red to reddish-blonde. It's like a kaleidoscope of hair color. When people ask me if my hair is natural, I say something snappy like, "This is the color I was supposed to have..." I've been coloring my hair for so long, I don't remember what my real color is... I don't think my own hair knows what color it really is. All I can say is the color I see when my roots start growing out can only be referred to as "Tree Bark Brown." Booooo-riiiiing. Flat. Dull. BLAH. It's so dull, I would become invisible if I didn't color it. Sooo, to spare the world from my evil powers of invisibility (there's no telling what trouble I'd cause if I ever decided to go invisible) I color my hair.

SO, now you know. The cat's outta the bag. The color is outta the box. Whatever.

Now, the definition of STUPIDITY is when you decide, after having a couple glasses of wine, that it's a good time to color your hair. And even worse (or more stooopid) is asking your husband, who has also had a couple glasses of wine (we've found an excellent cheap brand of boxed wine here), to put the color on your hair. So I mixed up the color per the instructions given to me by my lovely hair stylist, Adriana, from Austin. I hand the bowl of color and the application brush to Joel and he proceeds to jam the brush into my scalp over and over, attempting to not only color the existing roots, but also the roots still located INSIDE my head. OUCH OUCH OUCH.

I inform him that yes, he's doing a GREAT job of getting the roots, but ask him to please angle the brush in such a way that the bristles aren't getting lodged in my skull. Slowly, but surely, he gets the color on and it takes quite a while... And per Adriana's instructions, the color is supposed to stay on 25 minutes. Hasn't it already taken more than 25 minutes to put this stuff on? I dunno. My brain was telling me not to keep it on that long, but the wine told me to keep it on longer. So I set the timer and waited...

Tick-tock-tick-tock...
DING!
Time to wash it out!
I went to the tub and wash and wash and washed until the water came out clean.
I toweled off my head...
and looked in the mirror...
and...

OH NOOOO!

Her hollow eyes always creeped me
 out... WHERE ARE HER PUPILS?

I knew there was a reason why
I love Happy Meals...

I looked like the illegitimate love child of Ronald McDonald and Orphan Annie.

Ohhhh nooooo. No no nooo.

Damn that boxed wine! DAAAMN!

It was so bad, the next day while I was at the Puppy Palace, one of our sweet volunteers -- a man from Spain named Carlos -- saw me and said, "Oh Jennifer! Your hair..." and all I said was, "Yeah, yeah, I know." And he said, "Oh, no! I mean, no, it looks good..." but you know how you can tell when someone was brought up to be polite no matter what? That's what his reaction reminded me of. As my mom always told me,“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all."

I keep hoping hats will become the new fashion trend in Guatemala. Or maybe I'll start my own trend and wear a sombrero and tell everyone it’s just sooo much easier than putting on sunscreen every day. Or maybe I'll just suck it up and live with my SUPER DUPER FIRECRACKER EXPLOSION HOLY COW GRAB THE EXTINGUISHER BECAUSE HER HEAD IS ON FIRE SUPERNOVA RED HAIR.

*siiiiigh*

Until we meet again and/or until my color goes back to a color found in nature, stay thirsty my friends!