Max & Rita & Sylvester & Amelia & Ramon & Claire

This is a true story. 

One of the fountains. Nice, huh? 

At the beginning of the year, we moved into a different apartment complex. It’s very nice here. There’s a courtyard with not one, but TWO fountains. I like to watch the birds come take baths and splash around. There are lots of plants. Gigantic ferns and orchids and fruit trees and coleus abound. Everyone here is very friendly and outgoing. It’s nice. Plus, we're right by the market, so it’s super convenient.

I’m not sure exactly when they arrived, but one day, Max and Rita suddenly showed up. We don’t speak the same language – I honestly couldn't tell you what language they speak – all I know is their names are Max and Rita. Rita is by far the more outgoing of the two and I would see her out and about all the time. It’s not that Max is unfriendly; he just keeps to himself more than Rita. No biggie. I still say hi to Max when I see him around.

Then Sylvester and Amelia showed up. POOF! There they were, living with Max and Rita. I’m not sure what relation they had with Max and Rita (cousins? siblings? long-lost friends?) but due to the language barrier, I couldn’t ask. But it was nice having them live here. Like Max, they were shy, but I would smile and say hello whenever I’d see them.

About a week later, Ramon and Claire showed up out of nowhere. They were much younger than the others. And of the six of them, Rita was still by far the most outgoing. It was an interesting living situation.

Oh, and I forgot to mention – at some point or another, every single one of them has seen me naked in the shower.

Yep. You read that right. Naaaaked.

Our bathroom has two windows that face into the courtyard. It sounds strange, but that’s how this apartment was put together. (I actually think our apartment was originally two smaller apartments that were Frankensteined together to make one large apartment. You can tell by the pattern of the floor tiles. Starting in the hallway, they go diagonally, which is basically where the bathroom is. So, maybe once upon a time, the bathroom was in a different location. Who knows? This is Guatemala, after all. Things are Frankensteined together all the time. In fact, they probably invented Frankensteining here out of sheer necessity. Honestly, I'm just happy we have a solid roof over our heads. Which is sort of a lie – over our heads is another apartment. And THEN the roof.)

Ahhh, but I digress...

So, I'm not an uptight prude, but I have to admit it was very weird seeing them see me. I think it’s a cultural thing because they didn't seem the least bit fazed by it. In fact, from what I could tell, they absolutely could not have cared less. They just went about their business. And little by little, since it didn't bother them, the less it bothered me. In fact, I started LOOKING for them whenever I got in the shower so I could say hello.

Yeah, crazy, right? Who knows – maybe I'm an exhibitionist at heart? But I just shrug and think "if they don’t mind seeing me and all of my white jiggly parts naked, who am I to tell them it’s wrong?"

I should probably mention that Max & Rita & Sylvester & Amelia & Ramon & Claire are snails. Tiny, tiny, tiny snails that live in our shower. And they really did appear two by two. It’s like our shower is the Noah’s Ark for snails. And I really DO look for them when I take showers. It’s like playing Hide & Go Seek with some really, really GOOD hiders. They especially like to hide in the little grout grooves between the tiles -- and we have a crapload of tiles in the bathroom. Sneaky devils.

The crapload of grout makes for
excellent hiding places.

Earlier this week, I couldn't find even ONE of them and I started freaking out in a way that most people would not consider normal. My tiny friends! Gone! Just like that! 

I had terrible visions of the cleaning lady scrubbing them with Ajax and then washing their tiny carcasses down the drain. (Yeah, we have a cleaning lady. The people who own the building pay her to clean each apartment in the complex once a week. I feel like a spoiled brat, but I could really get used to this.) 

I was worried about them. I fretted for the lives of Max & Rita & Sylvester & Amelia & Ramon & Claire. I looked behind the bottle of shampoo. Nothing. I looked under the tub stopper thingie. Nothing. I searched around the grout. Nothing. I scanned the edge of the tub. Nothing. Every time I walked into the bathroom, I'd pull back the shower curtain, hoping to see even ONE of them.

All I found was a whole lotta nothing.

((Utter sadness.))

...until the other night... 

When I tentatively looked behind the curtain... And saw Amelia (I think it was Amelia – really, it’s hard to tell with tiny snails) slowly making her way along the edge of the tub.

HOORAY for Amelia! If one of them was alive, surely others were, too, right? Right?

But the next day, no one showed up. Same with the following day. Every time I peeked behind the shower curtain all I saw was an empty tub. This went on for several more days. 

I began to doubt if I had really seen Amelia or if I was just hallucinating about snails. (Golly, if I had a dollar for every time I hallucinated about snails... I’d have, like, A DOLLAR.)

I began to make peace with the fact that Max & Rita & Sylvester & Amelia & Ramon & Claire had either moved on to someone else's shower or had been washed away and were now sliming their way through Snail Heaven. I'd have to shower alone from now on...

...when suddenly, last night...

I SAW THREE OF THEM! The little buggers were slowly emerging from under the faucet.

– Insert sound of Hallelujah Chorus here –

Ok, so these tiny, tiny, tiny snails are obviously smarter than I am. I never thought to look under the faucet. 

I greeted them with a smile and as they emerged, they shouted (in their tiny snail voices) “Suck it, Jennifer -- WE WIN!”

Yeeeah. I told you they good at Hide & Go Seek, right? And they really hate to lose. 

So, until we meet again, I hope you make friends with tiny mollusks and continue to stay thirsty, my friends. 

P.S. For the most part, this is a true story. There really are six (or more???) tiny snails living among the grout in the shower. They really do have names (in my happy world). We really do have two windows in our bathroom and they really do face the courtyard. (But they're up really high, so there's no flashing going on between me and the neighbors. It's all good.) 

How to save a (little) life...

I had just stepped out of the shower when I got a call from Joel today. "There's a dog dying near the pharmacy."

What? Oh nooo!

She looks exhausted

Joel said the dog was having convulsions and looked like it was about to die. After learning that it hadn't been hit by a car, I got dressed and called my friend, JP, who is a vet in Antigua. JP owns the clinic where I volunteer to walk dogs. Unfortunately, he is closed on Sunday and lives an hour away, but said one of his technicians would be at the clinic later. He said he'd call when his vet tech was at the clinic and if we could get the dog there, they could check her out and keep her overnight. So, I grabbed a bag of kibble, a bottle of water, and a bowl. I rushed out of the apartment, with wet hair dripping down my neck. I was in such a hurry, I had to double-check as I walked out the door that I had remember to put on a bra. (Yup.)

OMG! Chiiiicken! Nom-nom-nom...

I headed to the pharmacy and came upon Joel, standing with a group of people looking at a dog on the sidewalk. Luckily, she was in the shade. The sidewalk around her was wet -- people had obviously been trying to give her water. Her tongue was hanging out. She was breathing heavy. She looked miserable. I pulled out the bowl, filled it with water and set it on the sidewalk by her face. She lifted her head and immediately started drinking. She must've sat there for three solid minutes, just drinking and drinking. The poor girl was majorly dehydrated.

As she drank, I opened the bag of food and sprinkled some near the bowl. She stopped drinking and sniffed at the food. "That's all we have on the menu today," I explained to her. She decided, ok, this crappy kibble is better than starving to death, so she started eating. And she ate. And ate. And ate. As the kibble disappeared, I added more to the pile. A very nice family offered to add their leftover fried chicken bits to our pile of kibble. Sooo nice of them. Oh boy, she went craaaazy over that chicken! After killing off the chicken (and realizing more would not magically appear) she went back to eating the crappy kibble.

People were passing by saying things like "Pobrecita!" ("Poor thing!") or commenting on how nice it was for her to have food and water. Several people asked if she was dying. (Hopefully not.) Others asked if she was my dog. (No.) Many just asked what was wrong with her. (She is very hungry and thirsty.) We began to wonder if she was pregnant because she was panting so hard. Oh, craaaap... What would we do if she started pushing out puppies, right there on the sidewalk? I had no clue.

People tending to street dogs is not only
a rarity, it is a spectator sport. 

After eating and drinking, she stood up, walked over to me, and leaned her head on my leg. Now, I don't want to sound all crunchy granola and uber-freaky-cosmic-moon-beam-space-cadet on you, but I swear she was saying "Thank you." I rubbed her head and she was totally cool with being petted. Not skittish or scared. So I petted her more and she eventually laid back down in the shade. I noticed right away that she had a "tick" -- her mouth seemed to move involuntarily, as did one of her legs. Uh-ohhhh...

Sooooo...now what? One nice lady tried calling a friend of hers who was a vet in a nearby town. (They weren't open.) She looked very apologetic as she walked away but I thanked her for making an effort. About 15 minutes later, a very nice young woman named Anna Paula and her mom approached us. The mother asked me if we were planning to do anything. I said we'd like to take her to a clinic, but we didn't have a car. Her daughter went into immediate action, checking the dog's teeth, ears, legs, and prodding on her stomach. Come to find out, she was getting her degree as a vet! YESSS! She assured us the dog was not pregnant (HALLELUJAH -- no sidewalk births today!) but said her stomach felt very bloated. She said the strange ticks could be a neurological problem (I immediately thought of distemper) or there was a chance the dog had been poisoned, which, unfortunately is what they do to get rid of street dogs here. (I hate that.) Anna Paula and her mother went to get milk, explaining that if it was poison, the milk would help coat the dog's stomach and possibly keep her from getting even sicker.

Anna Paula getting the first shot ready.
Yes, guys, she is lovely AND kind. 

When they returned, we dumped out the water and put milk in the bowl. The dog went totally cray-cray over the milk. She drank and drank and drank. I'm pretty sure she even smiled. I told Joel (who was just about to leave) it was probably the first time she'd had milk since being a puppy.

Then Anna Paula and her mom did something amazing. They went to the pharmacy to buy medicine for the dog. Who does that? NICE PEOPLE, that's who. They returned with three vials of medicine to inject into our furry friend. (Who, by the way, was acting muuuuuch happier after getting food, water, and milk. And petting. The petting was especially therapeutic, I am sure.) 

Anna Paula's mom and I held the dog down while Anna Paula cleaned the area with alcohol and injected the first shot. The dog flinched, but did not try to bite. Shot #2 went in without a hitch. However, Anna Paula warned us that shot #3 would be the most painful and to hold on tight.

The third -- and final -- shot

Yyyyep, she was right! Our dog friend did NOT like the third shot. She grumbled and jumped up and gave us a look that said, "Hey! I was ok with the first two, but what the hell was that all about?"

And with that, she wagged her tail, gave a little curtsey, and moseyed on down the street. As the crowd dispersed, I stood and spoke with Anna Paula and her mom (and her dad and boyfriend were there, too!) and thanked them profusely for showing up and lending a hand. I gave them money to help pay for the cost of the shots and hugged them and then I, too, moseyed on down the street.

As I was walking home, guess who I came across, sitting in the shade, chowing down on someone's leftover chicken? You guessed it! She looked up as I stood there and gave a little wag. And then went right back to her chicken.

And that, my friends, is how you save (or at least help save)

Chicken TWICE in one day?
This is the BEST DAY EVER!

a little animal's life here in Antigua.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty and do nice things, my friends!

Taking the paca by storm...with only $3

Hello everyone! Sorry I've been gone so long. Joel's accident threw my life into a tailspin, but he's doing much better now. Thanks to everyone for the well wishes and prayers during the sucky parts of 2013.

This is what Q25 looks like.

So, the other day I was a little bored and decided to challenge myself. I said, "Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to buy as many decent items as you can from the paca for Q25." And guess what? I chose to accept the mission. I scrounged around in my purse and found Q25 (roughly $3) and went on a trip to the paca.

Many of you have heard me gush about the deals, the digging, and the downright strangeness of Antigua's pacas, but for those of you who haven't heard about my obsession, lemme 'splain. Basically, the paca is a giant garage sale where vendors rent spaces and sell everything from used clothes, shoes, hats, toys, books, headless dolls, and the occasional small kitchen appliance. A whoooole lot of it is absolute crap, but there are many treasures to be found if you have patience and determination. Anyone who has been to the paca with me will agree that I am like a pig sniffing out truffles when I'm there. Seriously, I burrow into those piles like a hungry weasel. Squeeeeeeak!

Welcome to the paca.
Let the digging begin! 

Stamina is a must when tackling the paca. Wear comfie shoes and loose clothing. Bring a bottle of water and if you're smart (which I am not) bring some hand sanitizer, too. You can't just breeze in thinking, "I would like to buy a blue shirt today," because odds are, that blue shirt is buried alive and while you are digging it out from under a pile of pajamas, dirty socks, and Disney-themed sweatpants, you will get distracted by the red designer skirt, the glittery pink tank top, and the funky rainbow-colored hand-woven poncho from Peru.

Strange as it may sound, I've been kicked in
the head by these low-hanging shoes
more often than I'd like to admit. (Dammit.)

Each booth has a table in the middle and racks of hanging clothes. The piles of stuff on the tables range from Q1 (12 cents) to a whopping Q10 ($1.20) for each item. I never, never, ever shop in the Q10 piles. Nuh-uh. No way. I realize it's only $1.20, but hey, this is Guate-freakin'-mala and all of this crap is USED, so I refuse to pay more than Q5 (60 cents) for anything in the pile. I'm not rich, ya know.

Anything on a hanger magically costs more. I don't know why, but the act of putting an item on a hanger jacks up the price. In some pacas, clothes on hangers are a little nicer than the stuff in the pile, plus it's MUCH easier to look through the hanging clothes. Should you find something on a hanger that you really like, the paca owner will give you a price. Always, always, always negotiate. Never take the first price they give you. Make a face that says, "Ehhh, I don't know, Q30 seems a bit high..." And I guarantee as soon as you start putting it back on the rack, the price will decrease. Negotiating is just part of the game here. Play ball!

If you'd like to "see" what it's like to be there in person, watch this short video I took today. It's a mind-numbing symphony of paca owners yelling, "Buena ropa! Buena ropaaaaaa!" in an attempt to draw people to their booths. Some of them are so loud, your ears will bleed. Luckily, this video is a mere 19 seconds long. Bleeding will be minimal.

And when you purchase something, they put it in a plastic bag for you. A black plastic bag. So, basically it looks like everyone in the paca is walking around carrying bags of porn. Keep it classy, Antigua.

Treasures await! Dig! Dig! Dig!

So! What kinds of stuff can you expect?
E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. Paca digging is always an adventure -- you never know if what you're pulling out of the pile will be a cool vintage Levi's shirt or a horrifically stained pair of gym shorts. You would be shocked at the brand names that make their way to Guatemala. Polo. Chico's. Hugo Boss. Calvin Klein. Liz Claiborne. Versace. Eddie Bauer. The North Face. Prada. Armani. Tommy Bahama. Think of your favorite brand name and...yep, it's here. Think of a brand name you can't afford. Yes, even that one. Yes, that one, too. Good news! You can afford to buy it here. Even some uber-pricey designers from Europe, Japan, Italy... Yup, they're here. I look at these items and I think, "Someone spent a lot of money on this...and it ended up in a pile on a table in Guatemala." (And it only costs 12 cents here.) Score!

The saddest items are the family reunion shirts. I don't know why, but it bugs me that someone would wear their shirt at the reunion then toss it into the donation pile when they get home. Traitors! I don't care how much you can't stand your parent/sibling/cousin -- you keep that damn shirt FOR LIFE!

Why is Bill Cosby sad? Because he knows his
sweater is destined to end up in Guatemala.

Do you need an ugly sweater for your annual Christmas party? Let me know. It's Ugly Christmas Sweater mating season here year 'round. Are you in the medical profession and in need of scrubs? There are tons of cute and fun scrubs waiting for a home. I once found not one, not two, but THREE matching ugly green sport coats on one table. Each was only Q1. Someone out there won the Master's three times and chucked all of their beloved green jackets in one fell swoop. And they ended up here. Remember watching "The Cosby Show" back in the 80's? You can't throw a rock in the paca without hitting a sweater from the "Cliff Huxtable Collection." And they ended up here. I've found concert t-shirts, tube tops, vintage Wrangler cowboy shirts (with the fancy pearl snaps), old prom dresses (hellooo Gunne Sax), absolutely stunning beaded saris from India, London Fog coats, ski bibs (yes, SKI BIBS -- as if anyone would need one here), jeans with the entire crotch ripped out (HOLY CRAP -- what kind of horrific shark attack was that person in???), baseball caps from previous Super Bowls, and... dirty underwear.

Dirty underwear, like an underwater mine,
awaits your unsuspecting hand. BOOM.
Go ahead. Reach in... I dare you.

Yesss... Remember me telling you about the hand sanitizer? Yyyyep. There's nothing worse than reaching into a pile of clothes and pulling out underwear. Wait. I take that back -- there is something worse. Reaching into a pile of clothes and pulling out moist underwear.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEW! 

And as you toss those undies back in the pile for the next unsuspecting shopper to discover, you will
involuntarily make a sound similar to that of a cat horking up a hairball: UUURGLAAAACK! 

Ah, but I digress...

So, there I was with my Q25 in hand and a mission to accomplish. I ended up with seven items. SEVEN! Am I a smart shopper, or what? When I found the (possibly vintage) reversible embroidered Japan jacket, I squealed like a kid getting a new bike on Christmas morning. Unfortunately, when I got home I realized the zipper was broken and it's got a few tears, but hey, it's still a cool jacket. Maybe I can sell it on eBay. OH! And if you are a member of my family in Texas, STOP READING NOW. You don't want to spoil the surprise next time I'm home and handing out my Treasures From the Paca gifts. Right?

So, here's what I got:

Paid Q3 (36 cents)
This shirt is suuuuper soft. I'm a very touchy-feely
shopper. If it's soft, I'm more inclined to buy it. 

Paid Q5 (60 cents)
I have to figure out who is the biggest
Star Wars fan in my family. 

Paid Q3 (36 cents)
This one is sooooo going to my brother.
Last year I gave him a shirt that said
"The Original Rat Bastard." Oh, how I laaaaaughed. 

Paid Q1 (12 cents!)
This is going to my stepfather, who is a fan of
Hawaiian shirts and "Woody" cars. Perfecto! 

Paid Q5 (60 cents)
Sorry for the blurry pic, but this is a Tommy Hilfiger shirt
in absolutely perfect condition.

Paid Q5 (60 cents)
I love this hoodie! It's in great shape
and I thought the skeleton drawing was cool. 

Paid Q3 (36 cents)
The very cool embroidered map of Japan,
complete with volcano and dragon/sea monster. 

Look closely and you will see a tiger
on the left and a dragon on the right. 

And there you have it. Three bucks' worth of clothes from the paca. Now, who wants to go shopping with me? I'll take you to the coolest places!

Until we meet again, stay thirsty for bargains, my friends!

-Jennifer