Some Thoughts Surrounding Our Flight From Oakland

From what I can tell, even though we haven’t lived there yet, San Cristobal will be more our speed. There is a Scandinavian Gym just down the main boulevard from our neighborhood, so most likely I will fit right in (Mom—I’ve been meaning to tell you there’s a Curves not two miles from our house here in Zona 10; I’m sure I could get you a part-time gig there if you and Dad decide to winter in Guate). There is also a view of Volcan Augua, yes, the very same volcano our little neighborhood in South Antigua butted up against. And to the left—I have no idea which direction this is—there’s a view of the city which I imagine at night will light up like Christmas. Harder to get used to, I think, will be the morning cock’s crow next door. Kristin is dreading this wake up call. Anyway, I am anxious for Saturday—to get our stuff in a truck and out of town, up the hill, and into our new digs. Despite being a little old fashioned at heart, I love new places, sights, roads, geographies. I like that we will be learning a whole new area, with its own feel, its own pace.

However, we will not leave Oakland without some regret. Our house at the end of 11th Avenida “B” has a charm and tranquility hard to come by in this city. We wake up to tall exotic trees, the sound of birds, a distant and harmless dog’s bark, and always the sun. Even now as I write this an almost full moon is in my office window, and it’s perfectly quiet outside. We will miss our neighbors, the gringos from Portland, their kids, their friendship, and their pong table in particular, but not their dogs. And of course Tony, my morose nextdoor neighbor with the bum hip who wants so badly to leave this country for a new life in Florida. This week alone, no kidding, he has asked me for 40Q, bummed six Advil, two AA batteries (twice), the last of my good rum, a cup and half of brown rice, and a bag of microwavable popcorn. I will miss his laugh and his heart that I know is good, but there is nothing else about him or his life that I will miss.


(15th Avenida Finale, Oakland, Zona 10)

I will miss too the quiet street leading out of the barranco, and the folks that greet me every morning with a wave on our drive to the bus stop and back again—the neighborhood gardener whom we’ve passed urinating on the side of the street countless times (not uncommon in Guatemala), the pack of women walkers, the handful of maids on their way to work, the rides I sometimes give them where I try speaking to them in something like Spanish. Three months has felt almost like a year, a complicated and sometimes arresting year, but a good one.