My one-handed birthday hug...

My dear friend, Linda, had a dinner party
at her house. Here are Joel and I
with our first (of many) glasses of wine.

I celebrated my birthday on December 20 here in Antigua. I spent the day at work and with friends and with the rescue dogs and it was all good and lovely. As I walked home that day, I heard someone walking behind me, but thought nothing of it. When I stopped on the sidewalk to unlock the gate, a man walked past me and grabbed my butt. At first, I thought, "Huh? Joel was behind me this whole time?" It was the kind of thing Joel would do as a playful gesture.

The guy kept on walking. Then reality hit.

I realized my butt had been grabbed... by a stranger.

OoooOOooOoh! Grrrrr!

As he walked away, he turned and looked over his shoulder with a smug little grin like, "Heh-heh, I just grabbed your ass and got away with it."

That's when I got MAAAAAD.

Ok. I realize I have a big ol' juicy bootie (dare I say it's "bootylicious?") but there was no way it was an accident -- my butt did not accidentally fall into his hand. Plus, there was definite cuppage. Maybe he meant it as a strange macho Latino-type compliment, but I was mad.

I yelled, "HEY! That is NOT right!" And he kept walking.

The more he walked away, the angrier I got. I kind of hit The Red Zone and went nuts. I am not a violent person, but if you push me, I will push back. (Or, in this case, if you check to see if I'm a briefs or thong kinda gal without my permission, I will hunt you down and give you the Wedgie of a Lifetime.)

I ran after him. I had absolutely no plan of action in mind, but I was really pissed off. He was not going to get away with this!

And what did he do? He ran like a scared little sissy-boy. I yelled, "Yeah, you'd better run because if I catch you I am going to KICK YOUR ASS!" (I meant it.) And then he ran across the street.

So, I ran across the street after him. I kept yelling things like, "Turn around, you coward! I want to see your face so I can remember you!" and "When my husband finds you, he's going to kick your ass, too!"

Yes, this is how I felt
and looked
(minus the head band)
(and the dirt)

It was the closest I've ever been to actually kicking someone's ass. I felt empowered. I felt like Rambo.

And he ran faster, zig-zagging his way down the street, heading in the opposite direction. He looked scared -- and that made me happy. I actually scared someone! Yaaay for me!

He ran. I ran. I continued lobbing my verbal hand grenades at him. There were plenty of people on the street that day. In fact, there was even a posada* going on at the far end of the block. The people closest to me had stopped walking and were watching the crazy red-headed white girl who was running and screaming English obscenities at a scared Guatemalan man. I was a hit. Or, at least, I was amusing to watch.


Here's a posada we saw in Antigua one night...



My elderly landlady, Alicia, who is 105 if she is a day old -- heard the commotion and leaned out her window. She asked me (in Spanish) what happened and I answered (in extremely broken Spanish) something about my "culo" (culo is "ass" in Spanish) being grabbed. She understood what I was saying and looked really angry and made some fierce hand gestures and said something along the lines of "hijo de puta" (S.O.B.) but all I heard was "puta" (bitch) which I knew was a bad word, so I yelled, "PUTA!" at him as he scampered around the corner. I really wish I knew more Spanish so I could yell at him properly, but I'm pretty sure my body language got the point across.

*sigh*

Now I am constantly on the lookout for Mr. Booty-Hands and his blue jacket with the white logo stitched on the back. I betcha he won't be wearing that jacket near my street anytime soon. I have a can of Whoop-Ass with his name on it... and he knows it.

So, until we meet again, be good, have fun, and stay thirsty my friends!

*What is a posada?
The ceremony of Las Posadas commemorates the cold and difficult journey of Mary and Joseph from Nazareth to Bethlehem and their search for shelter at an inn before the birth of Jesus. In Spanish, "Posada" means inn, lodging or shelter. Today, the Posada has evolved into a religious and social celebration, paying a festive homage to this journey.

Kids on a posada

Traditionally, on each of the nine nights before Christmas, a party is held at a home in the neighborhood. At dusk, all guests and neighbors gather outside the house. A small child dressed as an angel leads, followed by children carrying figures of Mary and Joseph.

Everyone participates in the procession, singing the melodious verses of "Las Posadas" as they walk slowly along, carrying lit candles. They make three stops, three times requesting lodging and being denied. They return to the original house. Half of the group goes inside and the other half remain outside. Verses alternate back and forth from pilgrims to hosts until the sacred nature of their visit is revealed and they are admitted into the house. The doors open and the joyful pilgrims enter singing. "Enter Holy, Holy Pilgrims..." This ends the religious part of the ceremony and the fun begins.

Welcome to the new apartment...

We recently moved to a new place. I think this experience has taught me that it's a very good idea to spend a few nights in a new apartment BEFORE you sign a lease. (Thank goodness we didn't sign a lease!)

First, the good things about the apartment... It's about twice the size of our old place and the location is AWWWWESOME -- it's in downtown Antigua. Our old apartment -- although verrrrry cute and owned by very nice people -- was in a town on the outskirts of Antigua and we had to drive our gas-sucking car every time we wanted to go to town, which was EVERY FREAKIN' DAY. So living here means no more buying stupidly expensive gasoline every week. We are only a 7 minute walk from the Central Park and we can go up on the roof whenever we want. Unfortunately, the people in the house behind us built a MEGA-WALL around their property and blocked our view of the volcanoes. (Phooey on them!) However, fireworks are a very big deal here (they set them off for every occasion -- birthdays, religious events, weddings, etc.) and we can run up on the roof and see them whenever we want. So that's nice. Right? And from the roof we have an excellent view of the old churches and ruins in the city. Too bad we can't LIVE on the roof, right?

...and now the rest of the details of our new crap-o-rama apartment.

This place is a death trap. The light switch for the bathroom is INSIDE the shower. And speaking of the shower, yeah, we have another one of those "suicide showerheads" but this one refuses to give us hot water if we try to take showers after 9:30pm. It is ICE COLD. There is absolutely no logical explanation for this except to admit that the place is haunted by the devil. (And cold nighttime showers are obviously the work of the devil.) And speaking of COLD -- this place is not insulated. Ok, none of the houses here are insulated with that nice pink fluffy cotton candy-looking stuff but this place is especially UN-insulated. The windows are made of the thinnest glass made (think glorified Saran Wrap), plus some of the windows are missing and others, like the one in the bathroom, don't fit their window frames so there's a gap. BRRRR! And there is no heating here. You want heat? Put on an extra pair of socks. Still cold? Add another sweater. THAT is how people here stay warm -- by looking like the Michelin Man under 23 layers of clothes. Ok, so it's cold. Very cold. My hands are icy as I type this because it's, well... COLD. What am I wearing right now? Cargo pants, socks, shoes, a t-shirt, a fleece jacket, a windbreaker AND a scarf. I look beeeauuuutiiiful. And I'm still cold. Now I know why people who live in cold places have lots of cats. If I had a cat right now, I'd have that thing duct taped to my lap for warmth.

For your viewing pleasure:  The layout of our suck-o-rama apartment

Other than the frigid indoor temps, the bathroom sink doesn't drain, there are no countertops in the kitchen (just a big ol' sink), the fridge is older than the pyramids and freezes our veggies till they're solid little ice nuggets, and we have no windows that look OUT -- the windows all look out to walls or to other windows. Nope, not kidding. It's a little claustrophobic. OH! And have I mentioned the LAYOUT? No? Really? Ok, then let me tell you about the layout. It stinks. Stinky stinky stiiinks. This place was built little by little. Like, they had this space and decided, hey, why don't we put this here...and this here...and build around this and put a wall there... To save money they left the windows in strange places... Plus, there is a rolling armoire thing in the bedroom for storage and it can never be moved OUT of there because it doesn't fit through the door. (Whoever built it was inside the room when they nailed it together.) Ahhh, stooopid stooopid stooopid! And you have to walk through the teeeny tiiiny bathroom to get to the bedroom, so if someone is, uhhh, occupied, they will be interrupted. I guess it's fair to say this apartment has brought us closer together, in ways we never expected.

OH! And if someone is up on the roof (other than us) and we happen to be in the bathroom or in the kitchen...they can see EVERYTHING. I mean EVERYTHING -- wink-wink. Most of the windows don't have curtains and the curtains we do have are lacy and thin -- think of a doily...on steroids. The curtains are more decorative than useful. So we try to avoid streaking not only because it's cold enough to raise a family of penguins in here, but also because we don't want to moon any of our neighbors.

So, there you have it, the new casa. We are eager to move so we haven't even unpacked everything. Uuugh! Wish us luck on finding a new place to live!

Until then, stay thirsty my friends!