Thursday, June 14th, 2012...
I am seated in the plush comfort of the American Airlines economy class of a 737, complete with more A/C than I want, seats that pretend to recline, and the promise of several hours of noise from the six kids seated in my vicinity for the several hour flight to DFW. The mini drop-down TVs are showing peaceful scenes from Guatemala, my country of departure: lovely sunsets over the ocean, birds dipping over azure water while Cottonelle clouds float in the backdrop, tropical trees being teased by the gentle breezes. It's every ounce of serenity missing from this completely booked flight aboard the "small, metal tube of death," as my husband David cynically dubbed it while we were prodded down the aisle to the screaming baby section. The sandy beach on the screen appears increasingly welcoming, however a good book might suffice as a working substitute.
The peaceful scenes switch off and a female announcer over the intercom nearly manages to communicate that it's time to turn off electronics over the infant in the back reaching octaves and decibles simultaneously that I couldn't achieve separately. Except possibly if I saw another of those dreadful Guatemalan spiders. Safety instructions playing on the TV instantly lose my attention since it's an announcement I could nearly write from memory, though I might have to spice it up a bit.
Aside from journaling complaints, there isn't much to do while waiting for take-off except to scrutinize the other passengers like a journalist or overly curious American who has become accustomed to the social acceptability of impolite stares during a week as one of the only white-ish people in a remote Guatemalan town. Most of my nearer seat mates, and the majority of the flight, actually, appears to be tourists. Cheap, mass produced souvenirs from kiosks in the airport adorn wrists, necks, and backpacks. The handmade, brightly-colored cloth bag in my lap cost me Q15 (or about $2.25) at an open air market where natives bought and sold their crops, clothing, trinkets, and an assortment of imported baubles.
I can't help but wonder what everyone else's experience was during their visit to Guatemala and how it may have differed from David's and mine. Did they get their "Guatemala" emblazoned artifacts from the gift shop in their resort hotel by the "serenity scenes" beach displayed on the drop-down TVs? Or did they travel hours of gutted road to remote villages, shop the open air markets, take cold showers in water they couldn't drink, sleep on concrete floors that trumped the dirt floors in most of the native homes, and drink the warm corn beverage served by generous illiterate locals who welcomed visitors with all they had to offer, which still was always more than they could afford? Did they swim in pristine pools with sunscreen on or did they hike mountains wearing bug spray as they followed women and young children past vertical mountain farms?
Were their meals exotic because the Burger King menu was written "en espanol" or because it was cooked in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall "restaurant" being run by a 23 year old girl who has been supporting her siblings for the last six years? Did they see Mayan ruins left bured by ancient peoples or experience the modern ruins of people buried in abject poverty? Did they have a smooth pleasant stay or find themselves visiting the local farmacia in hopes of a solution for explosive diarrhea brought on by something their stomaches were too civilized for? Have they been using free wi-fi in their hotels all week or have they been sitting under a tin roof, listening to the pounding rain every night? Are their cameras filled with gigabytes of beach, crowded streets, and the Guatemalan mall or secluded caves, remote waterfalls, swinging bridges, and giggling children who were excited at the novelty of seeing themselves?
I'm not entirely sure which version of Guatemala to wish on my dozing or noisy fellow travelers; perhaps a little of everything. My reverie is slightly broken by the one native passenger near me--a Guatemalan lady in the seat to my immediate left. She doesn't speak English, and my Spanish is minimal, but I know her name is Enma Y. G. Garcia, and she was born in 1947. I only know this and that her destination is Dallas, TX. She had me fill out her customs form once I finished mine; as they were each written entirely in Spanish, I must assume she never learned to read or write, which is very often the case for those not in the Guatemalan upper class.
"Gracias," she smiled at me.
It's probably her first time on an international flight, or maybe any plane for that matter. I help her put her seat into its facade of a recline.
David is seated a couple rows and several seats away; I decide to brave the bossy flight attendants by leaving my seat to give him a pen to complete his own customs form. It says we only have to fill out one per family, but, until we get home and switch over all my official documents, the government doesn't recognize that we are family, married just over a week ago. It certainly won't care that we spent our "honeymoon" roughing it in remote regions of Guatemala with my in-laws who are Mormon missionaries to the area, though I'm pretty sure the experience should put me in the "only one form per family required" category. It's obvious people only do this kind of honeymoon for family, right?
Our plane has begun its descent, and soon I will be on U.S. soil again. Getting home, unpacking wedding gifts, and eating some pasta sounds really good right now, but every arrival comes with a departure and this one leaves behind me a country of spectacular beauty, natural grandeur, and amazing people. After a hot shower, with A/C flowing up through vents in our carpeted floors, I will snuggle up to David on a comfortable, full-size mattress...and I'll miss Guatemala at least a little.
I am seated in the plush comfort of the American Airlines economy class of a 737, complete with more A/C than I want, seats that pretend to recline, and the promise of several hours of noise from the six kids seated in my vicinity for the several hour flight to DFW. The mini drop-down TVs are showing peaceful scenes from Guatemala, my country of departure: lovely sunsets over the ocean, birds dipping over azure water while Cottonelle clouds float in the backdrop, tropical trees being teased by the gentle breezes. It's every ounce of serenity missing from this completely booked flight aboard the "small, metal tube of death," as my husband David cynically dubbed it while we were prodded down the aisle to the screaming baby section. The sandy beach on the screen appears increasingly welcoming, however a good book might suffice as a working substitute.
The peaceful scenes switch off and a female announcer over the intercom nearly manages to communicate that it's time to turn off electronics over the infant in the back reaching octaves and decibles simultaneously that I couldn't achieve separately. Except possibly if I saw another of those dreadful Guatemalan spiders. Safety instructions playing on the TV instantly lose my attention since it's an announcement I could nearly write from memory, though I might have to spice it up a bit.
Aside from journaling complaints, there isn't much to do while waiting for take-off except to scrutinize the other passengers like a journalist or overly curious American who has become accustomed to the social acceptability of impolite stares during a week as one of the only white-ish people in a remote Guatemalan town. Most of my nearer seat mates, and the majority of the flight, actually, appears to be tourists. Cheap, mass produced souvenirs from kiosks in the airport adorn wrists, necks, and backpacks. The handmade, brightly-colored cloth bag in my lap cost me Q15 (or about $2.25) at an open air market where natives bought and sold their crops, clothing, trinkets, and an assortment of imported baubles.
I can't help but wonder what everyone else's experience was during their visit to Guatemala and how it may have differed from David's and mine. Did they get their "Guatemala" emblazoned artifacts from the gift shop in their resort hotel by the "serenity scenes" beach displayed on the drop-down TVs? Or did they travel hours of gutted road to remote villages, shop the open air markets, take cold showers in water they couldn't drink, sleep on concrete floors that trumped the dirt floors in most of the native homes, and drink the warm corn beverage served by generous illiterate locals who welcomed visitors with all they had to offer, which still was always more than they could afford? Did they swim in pristine pools with sunscreen on or did they hike mountains wearing bug spray as they followed women and young children past vertical mountain farms?
Were their meals exotic because the Burger King menu was written "en espanol" or because it was cooked in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall "restaurant" being run by a 23 year old girl who has been supporting her siblings for the last six years? Did they see Mayan ruins left bured by ancient peoples or experience the modern ruins of people buried in abject poverty? Did they have a smooth pleasant stay or find themselves visiting the local farmacia in hopes of a solution for explosive diarrhea brought on by something their stomaches were too civilized for? Have they been using free wi-fi in their hotels all week or have they been sitting under a tin roof, listening to the pounding rain every night? Are their cameras filled with gigabytes of beach, crowded streets, and the Guatemalan mall or secluded caves, remote waterfalls, swinging bridges, and giggling children who were excited at the novelty of seeing themselves?
I'm not entirely sure which version of Guatemala to wish on my dozing or noisy fellow travelers; perhaps a little of everything. My reverie is slightly broken by the one native passenger near me--a Guatemalan lady in the seat to my immediate left. She doesn't speak English, and my Spanish is minimal, but I know her name is Enma Y. G. Garcia, and she was born in 1947. I only know this and that her destination is Dallas, TX. She had me fill out her customs form once I finished mine; as they were each written entirely in Spanish, I must assume she never learned to read or write, which is very often the case for those not in the Guatemalan upper class.
"Gracias," she smiled at me.
It's probably her first time on an international flight, or maybe any plane for that matter. I help her put her seat into its facade of a recline.
David is seated a couple rows and several seats away; I decide to brave the bossy flight attendants by leaving my seat to give him a pen to complete his own customs form. It says we only have to fill out one per family, but, until we get home and switch over all my official documents, the government doesn't recognize that we are family, married just over a week ago. It certainly won't care that we spent our "honeymoon" roughing it in remote regions of Guatemala with my in-laws who are Mormon missionaries to the area, though I'm pretty sure the experience should put me in the "only one form per family required" category. It's obvious people only do this kind of honeymoon for family, right?
Our plane has begun its descent, and soon I will be on U.S. soil again. Getting home, unpacking wedding gifts, and eating some pasta sounds really good right now, but every arrival comes with a departure and this one leaves behind me a country of spectacular beauty, natural grandeur, and amazing people. After a hot shower, with A/C flowing up through vents in our carpeted floors, I will snuggle up to David on a comfortable, full-size mattress...and I'll miss Guatemala at least a little.
