Day 1
2/17
I’m up at 4:30 a.m. to get ready. Dad gets me to the airport in no time. I’m nervous even though I used to do this sort of thing all the time—traveling by the seat of my pants. Things change when you have a wife, 2 kids and a good job—at least for me they do.
Check-in is smooth. Dad is with me, but it happens fast. I almost leave my tickets on the counter. Dad gives me a card at the last minute, and I slip it in my backpack before saying goodbye.
Everything is on time, and Becky got me a window seat when she made the reservations. The plane ends up being completely full. A young man sits in the middle seat next to me.
“Good morning,” I say.
He’s carrying nothing but two LPs (records). We don’t exchange names. I’m thinking it’s still early within this whole experience, and I’m still hiding inside myself, thinking about different things. But, to show my knowledge about such things (and my age), I remark about his LPs. He explains he’s in a Punk Rock band, and his girlfriend says every musician has a record collection. She’s starting his with a 4 disc Jimi Hendrix album and the soundtrack to the musical “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.” Interesting. That’s all that’s said on that.
Our row’s aisle seat is the last empty seat on the plane. I’m hoping it’ll stay empty so we can stretch out. But, a man comes on and quickly stows his stuff, speaking into a cell phone that he made it aboard. Just as quickly, he’s paged and asked to deplane. Hmmmm. A young lady takes his place.
It’s 30 degrees outside on the ground and windy. A big difference from yesterday with 60-degree temperatures in mid-February. I don’t feel the cold much, waiting for the 70-degree climate when I get off the plane in Guatemala City. There are drop-down monitors in every row that have a map of where the plane is at any given time. There is also a counter for flight time elapsed and time remaining. We’re at 28,000 feet at 491 mph. Right now in the air it’s –36 degrees Fahrenheit. Brrr!
I’m listening to Duran Duran on my I-pod and plan on reading some of my book I brought for the trip—Jesus. It’s an in-depth “faction” account of His life. Should be a good read. If it weren’t so cloudy, I’d be able to see the Great Smoky Mountains below us. But, the puffy white bands of clouds stretching in thick bands below the rising sun make up for the view. I always think of flying in or over the clouds with the bright sun above like traveling through Heaven.
I don’t talk much to anyone while waiting at the gate after arriving in Atlanta. There’s a group of doctors gathered taking the flight to Guatemala to go down and perform some minor operations.
I sit next to a man who introduces himself to me as Bob Ashley. Soon, he introduces me to the fellow he was talking to as George MacMaster. We learn we’ll all be going on the Book Delivery Tour together. I’ll be curious to see what he’s all about and his motivation for this journey, but first I have to really think about my own motivation. What am I really doing here?
Time passes, and it’s 11:00 a.m. now. I’m above the clouds again and on the way to Guatemala City with no problems. The plane I catch from Atlanta has leather seats but no drop-down monitors—just screens in the aisle every few rows that I have to crane my neck to see. It’s another full flight. Becky got me a good seat again four rows back on the window. The huge jet engine is right beside me. There’s an older couple sitting with me. They’re going to tour the Mayan ruins and even go into Honduras. Wow.
I have to go to the bathroom, wanting to get it over with before the lunch cart blocks the aisle. I hate making my neighbors move, but I assure them I am not one of those types that visit the head every five minutes on a plane. 12:25 p.m. Lunch is served. It’s pretty good. I don’t eat the salad. It’s cramped eating conditions though. There’s a movie on. It’s “The Legend of Zorro.” My family and I just saw that movie. I’d rather write or read my book than watch it again. Not that it wasn’t good. It was.
As we’re flying south, I notice there are no clouds over the ocean, but there’s a huge field of stubby cotton balls over the land that stops abruptly at the shoreline. I know there’s a weather phenomenon to explain that, but I’m not sure what. So, I’m worried that it will be cloudy once we land and, therefore, dreary in Guatemala City. But, the clouds clear as we descend, and I can see a jagged landscape, with lots of mountains and hills with no settlements and no signs of civilization. Then suddenly, there’s a grid-work of roads and buildings, then nothing again. We seem to make a tight circle as we descend, and I look for the airport amidst the shacks, warehouses, and other unidentifiable buildings. It seems like we’re going to land right in the middle of town, but the airport is just really small.
Well, we land. I’m here. The flight was good. Immigration is nothing more than a booth where I show my passport. My luggage is one of the first off the plane and on the conveyor, but I’m one of the last ones on the shuttle van to the hotel as I wait with some newly met Team members as they exchange money in the airport later than the rest of us. At the van, there are many little kids with their hands out asking for money. They probably do this all day every day. We’ve been told not to give handouts as it perpetuates a want/have relationship.
The Hotel Radisson is a building about 18 stories high inside Zone 10 of the city. It’s a nice area on the outskirts of town with nice restaurants, clubs and a 4 story open-air mall, Los Proceres. My room is on the tenth floor and from my window I can see a large mountain in the distance. It’s probably the volcano Agua.
The group of us that is already here takes a tour at 3:00 p.m. set up by COED (Cooperative for Education) just for us. There are twenty of us going on board one of the 18 passenger vans with fold-down jump seats. Carlos, our guide, tells us about the history and layout of the city as we drive deeper into its heart. It’s estimated that 4 million people live in or around the city. It is store after store in shack-like setups as far as the eye can see. There’s a huge shopping market under slate roofs that is like a maze to anyone venturing inside. CDs, DVDs, pirated movies, sunglasses, belts, everything for sale.
We stop at a beautifully ornate church, Capilla de Nuestra Senora de las Argustias, and go inside. It seems odd to be walking around and taking pictures while there are devout Guatemalan townsfolk inside silently praying. Apparently they are used to the tours. We travel to the main square in town, known as Parque Centenario, Central Park, where there’s another large church Catedral Metropolitana where Pope John Paul II once visited. It houses the Negro Cristo, the Black Christ. It’s a four-foot tall figure of Jesus on the cross. The composition of the metal used in its forging has long ago turned black. It’s customary to drop an offering in a box nearby and touch or rub the foot of Jesus while saying a prayer. The foot is the only shiny and golden part of the statue. I really want to go up to it, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel guilty taking pictures of it, but the whole church is truly beautiful.
We tour the governmental palace, Palacio Nacional, which houses two of the government’s Ministries. It is treated more like a museum and offers beautiful architecture and large wall murals. In the central park sits a huge fountain with pigeons walking all around the place. People are selling birdseed, and others are hawking their wares. School children, some in uniforms, walk around our group and smile, curious. I haven’t seen any one with his or her hand out.
A pretty young woman comes up and smiles at me. She points to her cheek and bats her eyes, saying “Besa me.”
She follows me around and repeats her plea. I get from other members of the group that she wants me to kiss her.
I hold up my ring finger and reply, “Mi esposa.”
The tour director sees she’s a nuisance and makes her move on. There’s not a cloud in the sky during the tour, and the sun is actually hot on my skin. But, I’m not complaining.
Once back at the hotel, I accompany a fellow team member, Mike Hanavan, to Los Proceres, the large mall a few blocks away. Everyone is used to the buddy system. Mike needs to get a cell phone activated that he got specifically for use while in Guatemala. We pass a soccer shop while in the mall called “Soccer Mania,” not “Futbol,” like I might have assumed. I ask in fragmented Spanish for the Guatemalan team jersey.
“Guatemala equipo?” It should actually be spoken, “Equipo de Guatemala?”
The clerk shows me a jersey then I ask if midfielder is “mediocampista” or “centrocampista.” I have seen it written both ways. It’s mediocampista.
We pass a group in a local restaurant. They seem to be the older members of our group, the husbands and wives group. We tell them we may join them after regrouping at the hotel. Back at the Radisson and after a beer, we meet with several others to eat—at an Italian restaurant no less. It’s nice though because we’re eating outside on the sidewalk along a main stretch of well-traveled road. It’s a lot like being in South Beach in Miami. The group I’m with is mostly the spouses here alone. Weird how that worked out. I have manicotti. It’s delicious. The sangria I order to drink is just so-so. Then I realize I’m the only one with ice cubes in my drink. I hope the water in this nice restaurant is OK. I guess I’ll know in eight hours. We play a name game to learn everyone’s name at the table. There’s Loving Lisa (Covert), Caring Carolyn (Johnson), Non-conforming Nick (Kurlas), Rockin’ Robin (Kurlas), Mike (Hanavan) the Mouth, Sweet Suzanne (McCarter), and me, Eccentric Eric, which I later ask to change to Eric the Enforcer. We’re joined by Jim Gobriel and Nick Ulliman, a teacher and student from Alter High School, respectively. They don’t get nicknames.
Mike explains after we’ve waited a long time to see our waiter again that down here they will leave you alone and don’t want to seem like they’re pestering you. So, you have to flag them down and ask for the check or anything else needed. They don’t mind.
We have a long dinner and get back to the hotel about 9 p.m. John Malas and Diana Shuler, the others from St. Albert on the mission trip with me got in on a late flight. We visit for a while then call it a night.
Lights out at 10:30 p.m. on Day 1 in Guatemala.
I’m up at 4:30 a.m. to get ready. Dad gets me to the airport in no time. I’m nervous even though I used to do this sort of thing all the time—traveling by the seat of my pants. Things change when you have a wife, 2 kids and a good job—at least for me they do.
Check-in is smooth. Dad is with me, but it happens fast. I almost leave my tickets on the counter. Dad gives me a card at the last minute, and I slip it in my backpack before saying goodbye.
Everything is on time, and Becky got me a window seat when she made the reservations. The plane ends up being completely full. A young man sits in the middle seat next to me.
“Good morning,” I say.
He’s carrying nothing but two LPs (records). We don’t exchange names. I’m thinking it’s still early within this whole experience, and I’m still hiding inside myself, thinking about different things. But, to show my knowledge about such things (and my age), I remark about his LPs. He explains he’s in a Punk Rock band, and his girlfriend says every musician has a record collection. She’s starting his with a 4 disc Jimi Hendrix album and the soundtrack to the musical “How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.” Interesting. That’s all that’s said on that.
Our row’s aisle seat is the last empty seat on the plane. I’m hoping it’ll stay empty so we can stretch out. But, a man comes on and quickly stows his stuff, speaking into a cell phone that he made it aboard. Just as quickly, he’s paged and asked to deplane. Hmmmm. A young lady takes his place.
It’s 30 degrees outside on the ground and windy. A big difference from yesterday with 60-degree temperatures in mid-February. I don’t feel the cold much, waiting for the 70-degree climate when I get off the plane in Guatemala City. There are drop-down monitors in every row that have a map of where the plane is at any given time. There is also a counter for flight time elapsed and time remaining. We’re at 28,000 feet at 491 mph. Right now in the air it’s –36 degrees Fahrenheit. Brrr!
I’m listening to Duran Duran on my I-pod and plan on reading some of my book I brought for the trip—Jesus. It’s an in-depth “faction” account of His life. Should be a good read. If it weren’t so cloudy, I’d be able to see the Great Smoky Mountains below us. But, the puffy white bands of clouds stretching in thick bands below the rising sun make up for the view. I always think of flying in or over the clouds with the bright sun above like traveling through Heaven.
I don’t talk much to anyone while waiting at the gate after arriving in Atlanta. There’s a group of doctors gathered taking the flight to Guatemala to go down and perform some minor operations.
I sit next to a man who introduces himself to me as Bob Ashley. Soon, he introduces me to the fellow he was talking to as George MacMaster. We learn we’ll all be going on the Book Delivery Tour together. I’ll be curious to see what he’s all about and his motivation for this journey, but first I have to really think about my own motivation. What am I really doing here?
Time passes, and it’s 11:00 a.m. now. I’m above the clouds again and on the way to Guatemala City with no problems. The plane I catch from Atlanta has leather seats but no drop-down monitors—just screens in the aisle every few rows that I have to crane my neck to see. It’s another full flight. Becky got me a good seat again four rows back on the window. The huge jet engine is right beside me. There’s an older couple sitting with me. They’re going to tour the Mayan ruins and even go into Honduras. Wow.
I have to go to the bathroom, wanting to get it over with before the lunch cart blocks the aisle. I hate making my neighbors move, but I assure them I am not one of those types that visit the head every five minutes on a plane. 12:25 p.m. Lunch is served. It’s pretty good. I don’t eat the salad. It’s cramped eating conditions though. There’s a movie on. It’s “The Legend of Zorro.” My family and I just saw that movie. I’d rather write or read my book than watch it again. Not that it wasn’t good. It was.
As we’re flying south, I notice there are no clouds over the ocean, but there’s a huge field of stubby cotton balls over the land that stops abruptly at the shoreline. I know there’s a weather phenomenon to explain that, but I’m not sure what. So, I’m worried that it will be cloudy once we land and, therefore, dreary in Guatemala City. But, the clouds clear as we descend, and I can see a jagged landscape, with lots of mountains and hills with no settlements and no signs of civilization. Then suddenly, there’s a grid-work of roads and buildings, then nothing again. We seem to make a tight circle as we descend, and I look for the airport amidst the shacks, warehouses, and other unidentifiable buildings. It seems like we’re going to land right in the middle of town, but the airport is just really small.
Well, we land. I’m here. The flight was good. Immigration is nothing more than a booth where I show my passport. My luggage is one of the first off the plane and on the conveyor, but I’m one of the last ones on the shuttle van to the hotel as I wait with some newly met Team members as they exchange money in the airport later than the rest of us. At the van, there are many little kids with their hands out asking for money. They probably do this all day every day. We’ve been told not to give handouts as it perpetuates a want/have relationship.
The Hotel Radisson is a building about 18 stories high inside Zone 10 of the city. It’s a nice area on the outskirts of town with nice restaurants, clubs and a 4 story open-air mall, Los Proceres. My room is on the tenth floor and from my window I can see a large mountain in the distance. It’s probably the volcano Agua.
The group of us that is already here takes a tour at 3:00 p.m. set up by COED (Cooperative for Education) just for us. There are twenty of us going on board one of the 18 passenger vans with fold-down jump seats. Carlos, our guide, tells us about the history and layout of the city as we drive deeper into its heart. It’s estimated that 4 million people live in or around the city. It is store after store in shack-like setups as far as the eye can see. There’s a huge shopping market under slate roofs that is like a maze to anyone venturing inside. CDs, DVDs, pirated movies, sunglasses, belts, everything for sale.
We stop at a beautifully ornate church, Capilla de Nuestra Senora de las Argustias, and go inside. It seems odd to be walking around and taking pictures while there are devout Guatemalan townsfolk inside silently praying. Apparently they are used to the tours. We travel to the main square in town, known as Parque Centenario, Central Park, where there’s another large church Catedral Metropolitana where Pope John Paul II once visited. It houses the Negro Cristo, the Black Christ. It’s a four-foot tall figure of Jesus on the cross. The composition of the metal used in its forging has long ago turned black. It’s customary to drop an offering in a box nearby and touch or rub the foot of Jesus while saying a prayer. The foot is the only shiny and golden part of the statue. I really want to go up to it, but it doesn’t feel right. I feel guilty taking pictures of it, but the whole church is truly beautiful.
We tour the governmental palace, Palacio Nacional, which houses two of the government’s Ministries. It is treated more like a museum and offers beautiful architecture and large wall murals. In the central park sits a huge fountain with pigeons walking all around the place. People are selling birdseed, and others are hawking their wares. School children, some in uniforms, walk around our group and smile, curious. I haven’t seen any one with his or her hand out.
A pretty young woman comes up and smiles at me. She points to her cheek and bats her eyes, saying “Besa me.”
She follows me around and repeats her plea. I get from other members of the group that she wants me to kiss her.
I hold up my ring finger and reply, “Mi esposa.”
The tour director sees she’s a nuisance and makes her move on. There’s not a cloud in the sky during the tour, and the sun is actually hot on my skin. But, I’m not complaining.
Once back at the hotel, I accompany a fellow team member, Mike Hanavan, to Los Proceres, the large mall a few blocks away. Everyone is used to the buddy system. Mike needs to get a cell phone activated that he got specifically for use while in Guatemala. We pass a soccer shop while in the mall called “Soccer Mania,” not “Futbol,” like I might have assumed. I ask in fragmented Spanish for the Guatemalan team jersey.
“Guatemala equipo?” It should actually be spoken, “Equipo de Guatemala?”
The clerk shows me a jersey then I ask if midfielder is “mediocampista” or “centrocampista.” I have seen it written both ways. It’s mediocampista.
We pass a group in a local restaurant. They seem to be the older members of our group, the husbands and wives group. We tell them we may join them after regrouping at the hotel. Back at the Radisson and after a beer, we meet with several others to eat—at an Italian restaurant no less. It’s nice though because we’re eating outside on the sidewalk along a main stretch of well-traveled road. It’s a lot like being in South Beach in Miami. The group I’m with is mostly the spouses here alone. Weird how that worked out. I have manicotti. It’s delicious. The sangria I order to drink is just so-so. Then I realize I’m the only one with ice cubes in my drink. I hope the water in this nice restaurant is OK. I guess I’ll know in eight hours. We play a name game to learn everyone’s name at the table. There’s Loving Lisa (Covert), Caring Carolyn (Johnson), Non-conforming Nick (Kurlas), Rockin’ Robin (Kurlas), Mike (Hanavan) the Mouth, Sweet Suzanne (McCarter), and me, Eccentric Eric, which I later ask to change to Eric the Enforcer. We’re joined by Jim Gobriel and Nick Ulliman, a teacher and student from Alter High School, respectively. They don’t get nicknames.
Mike explains after we’ve waited a long time to see our waiter again that down here they will leave you alone and don’t want to seem like they’re pestering you. So, you have to flag them down and ask for the check or anything else needed. They don’t mind.
We have a long dinner and get back to the hotel about 9 p.m. John Malas and Diana Shuler, the others from St. Albert on the mission trip with me got in on a late flight. We visit for a while then call it a night.
Lights out at 10:30 p.m. on Day 1 in Guatemala.
posted by Enforcer @ 7:31 PM
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