Guatemala City, Nov. 7, 2006

My 7am flight to Guatemala sounded good when I booked it, not taking into consideration the half-hour drive to the airport and 2-hour cushion the airline suggested. I carefully readied everything the night before. At 4:30am, however, I was already awake and excited to begin my adventure.

At the airport I checked both bags at the curb and then again at the counter (since it was an international flight). At security I was asked to remove my shoes and jacket and put them into a bin along with my quart-size Ziploc bag containing a few liquids/gels I wanted to carry onto the plane (chap stick, eye drops, etc.), and anything metal. I dutifully obeyed. The bin passed the detector with no problems, but I didn’t. The guards asked if I’d forgotten to remove anything and suggested my hair barrettes (metal). I pulled them off, a little embarrassed, and hurried through the detector. I failed again! I was frantically looking through my pockets (many, many of them since I carried no bag) to find the culprit, when the guards told me it was too late for that. They summoned a female guard who pulled on rubber gloves and approached with her “wand.” I was mortified (not to mention terrified about the reason for the gloves). In the meantime, I’d discovered the tiny, Flatfoto camera in my shirt pocket, which I’d forgotten to remove. Hopefully, I waved the camera and asked for another chance at the detector. Too late, they said. I had to hold my arms out while the female guard thoroughly “wanded” and patted me down. Then she allowed me to try again. No alarm sounded. I’d passed. I clutched my boarding pass and passport (which I’d already had to fish out of the recommended hidden neck pouch three times with great difficulty) and hurried to the gate.

After boarding the plane bound for Charlotte, NC, where I would change planes, I relaxed a little. I’d brought 3 back issues of a magazine subscription and photocopies of pertinent travel information in the backpack built into my jacket, but I couldn’t concentrate on reading anything. I kept patting all the places where I had squirreled away important documents, money, and traveler’s checks. In addition to the neck pouch, I was wearing a hidden wallet around my waist and had two other hidden pockets. I was also wearing layers of clothing that wouldn’t fit into my two small suitcases, thinking I would need them for the Ohio cold. It turned out to be unseasonably warm that day.

I had a two-and-a-half hour wait in the Charlotte airport. I found a place where I could rest my head and attempted a short nap, to no avail. When I made my way to the gate, I expected to find lots of other tourists traveling to Guatemala. Apparently, I was the only one. It seemed all the Guatemaltecans must have been in the U.S. and were now returning home. Children abounded, and everyone was speaking Spanish—rapidly. I’d been in places where there were a lot of Spanish-speaking foreigners, but I had always felt sure of myself. Now there was a different feeling in the air. I was going to their country. I would be the minority. I felt a little unnerved but more empathetic.

On the plane for four-and-a-half hours (an hour longer than I’d counted on because I didn’t realize there was a time difference of an hour), I sat next to a 76-year-old woman who had lived in the States for the last twenty years with her children but could speak only five words in English. By the end of the flight I had finally persuaded her to try saying those five words. On her other side sat a Guatemaltecan man who also could speak no English. It was a good time to practice my Spanish. We had some reasonably good, albeit slow, conversations. I wondered if it would be feasible to bus down to Guatemala from the States. She was horrified…said she’d done so many years ago and that it was so hard on her bottom that she stood on her head on the seat. She laughed and laughed at the admission. I thought I’d misunderstood her, but with gestures she affirmed the story. She would often use words that were unfamiliar to me. I would say I didn’t understand (“No entiendo”) and she would repeat the sentence more slowly. Then I would repeat the word I didn’t understand. She would then repeat the word a little louder. This would go on for a while. Finally, I told her with a grin that if she used a word I didn’t understand that no matter how often she kept repeating the word, I still wouldn’t understand it…that she needed to use some other word or description. She got the point and we laughed and laughed.

When my two seatmates were chatting in Spanish I was checking off in my mind the things I had to do when we arrived. I had to change some traveler’s checks or look for an ATM to get some local currency (quetzals). I had to find my luggage. I had to check on flights to Flores that afternoon or find a hotel. If I found a hotel I’d still have to make either air or bus reservations for the next day. Most sources had said there was an INGUAT booth at the airport where English was spoken and where information was dispensed.

As it turned out, the INGUAT employee spoke very little English. She wasn’t able to give me any of the information I needed (nor had their website before I left), so she pointed to the TACA airline counter. I retrieved my bags, changed some money, and stood in the line she pointed out—the wrong line. When I finally found the right line and was able to talk to the airline employee (in English, thankfully!), I found I could fly out of Guate on the last flight of the day…in about an hour. I’d thought about shopping around for a ticket price cheaper than the $138 TACA charged, but both INGUAT and several other uniformed people assured me that TACA was the only airline that flew to Flores (despite what travel guides and online sources said). I made my decision, bought the ticket, checked both bags, and (after a wrong turn or two) found my way upstairs to the gate of departure. There I was told my ticket did not contain the stamp showing I had paid the small departure tax. Back downstairs I hurried, stood in line, and paid the tax (relieved I had changed money, since the tax was payable only in quetzals, if I remember correctly). Back to the gate, the plane was boarding. I sank into my seat, wondering how I would fare in Flores after dark without a hotel reservation and with very little to eat that day.