Exploring Lake Atitlan

I spent the rest of the day after my morning hike yesterday in the sun, swimming off the dock, drinking an agua de jamaica, and enjoying a bath on my terrace. I was very alone, and I loved it immensely. I was in my own little world. At one point, I felt like I could stay there for the rest of the week. But once it was time to go, I felt rejuvenated and ready to move on. Sometimes special things are better when they are brief.

The next morning, I packed my bags and stood on the dock to flag down a boat. I had four hours to kill before needing to check in at my hostel in San Pedro, so I decided to head to San Juan and wander its colorful streets. The boat ride to San Juan felt long. It is all the way on the other side of the lake. These boats are small, and they pack them tightly with people. When I arrived and started walking around with all my stuff, it occurred to me how grateful I was that I did not have a suitcase. That would have made this part impossible. My pack definitely felt heavy after a while, but it was not too bad. I am proud of how I packed for this trip, and I hope to never overpack again.

I wandered aimlessly through the streets of San Juan, taking a million photos of the incredible murals everywhere. They were stunning, with bright, beautiful colors. Even the ground was painted over. It was unreal. I had asked Elena and a few other locals which lake town was their favorite, and they all said San Juan, so I knew I could not miss it. You do not see many backpackers there. There were lots of women’s weaving cooperatives, and I wandered in and out of their beautiful shops. I wanted to buy something but did not know what. It was all so gorgeous. I am terrible at buying art, but I love practical things for the house. I eventually settled on some pretty kitchen towels.

At this point, it was 1 p.m. and I still had not eaten breakfast or lunch, so I stopped into a café to rest and grab a bite, and of course, to write my blog. Other people were working too, except my “work” was actually fun. I sat there for two hours as if I had all the time in the world, and I kind of did. I needed to check in at my hostel in San Pedro at 3 p.m., but I had no other plans until that evening.

I had found out that one of the women I hiked Pacaya with and spent New Year’s with just happened to be staying in the same hostel as me that night in San Pedro. It felt like a wild coincidence, especially since the hostel was a little outside of town and there are so many options. After lunch, I said goodbye to San Juan and hopped into a tuk-tuk to San Pedro. They dropped me off in the center of town, where I needed to take another tuk-tuk ten minutes up the hill to my hostel.

The room was co-ed, with eight bunks and no lockers, which I was not thrilled about. But it had a pool, which somehow made it feel worth it. I was assigned a top bunk. These bunks were incredibly high, higher than any I have ever experienced. Thankfully, I was the only one there when I arrived, so I took the opportunity to shower and get dressed in a yellow dress for dinner with my friend and a couple of other girls she had invited from the hostel. I was really happy to be included socially right away. It made everything feel more welcoming.

We had dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant, which was a nice change. Over dinner, we talked about what was on everyone’s mind, what Trump had just done to Venezuela. I was the only American at the table. I know they understand that I do not represent my country’s atrocities, but still, I felt embarrassed. I am so far from Venezuela, yet it feels strange to be in Latin America during a time like this.

The next morning, I woke up in time to catch the sunrise through my bunk bed window. I watched men fishing on the lake and harvesting green onions from the small farm next door. Later, I went for breakfast across the street at another hostel with a Swedish girl from my room. The hostel was owned by a Danish couple, and they cooked us an incredible three-course breakfast: fresh fruit, an omelet with avocado and pesto, and a fried plantain with yogurt, all for Q60, about $7.50. The avocados here are so good I eat them with a spoon, like a bowl of ice cream. I already know I will miss them when I am home.

After breakfast, I met up with Brinley to go swimming in San Marcos, another lake town known for its spiritual, hippie vibe and draw toward holistic healing and wellness retreats. We were only there to visit Cerro Tzankujil Nature Reserve, a rocky peninsula with cliff edges and clear swimming spots. Some people were cliff jumping as well. The area looked more like Italy or Croatia. We jumped into the water and stretched out on the rocks, letting the sun bake us dry. We stayed until the heat became almost unbearable. Another day in paradise.

There were plenty of other travelers scattered around the reserve, and a few men from the Netherlands and Wales struck up a conversation with us. The usual backpacker questions followed: Where are you from? Where have you been? Where are you going next? How long have you been traveling? I felt myself growing a little tired of it. Every European traveler I met seemed to be traveling for three months or more, while every American was there for three weeks or less. The Europeans always sympathized, shaking their heads when they heard how little time off we get. Some people I met were full-time nomads. Others were on sabbatical, something they had negotiated when starting a new job. A few mentioned getting two to six months of paid leave after only five years at a company. I felt deeply jealous.

Still, it made me think. I do not know exactly how yet, but I want to figure out a way to live abroad for a while someday.