Antigua

I forced myself to stay awake for the drive from Guatemala City to Antigua. I planned to fall asleep the second I sat down. The scenery had other plans as the desperate sprawl of the city quickly gave way to amazing views. We crossed a bridge that hung hundreds of feet over a valley. Shack cities populated the hillsides, possessing views that the wealthy would cannibalize one another for back home.
We entered the mountains. Morning mist danced around people walking the roadways between tiny pueblos and towns. Men propped fruits, art, and obscure furniture along the wonding highway, hoping to entice buyers. An older man with a white beard and checkered shirt smoked a cigarette in a rocking chair, surrounded by vibrant paintings of the last supper. I fought to keep my eyes open as we descended into Antigua.
The streets were narrow. Cars lined both sides of the one-way streets that we soared down, coming within centimetres of colliding.
We passed under a stone archway, connected to a large cathedral. They shared the gold paint, and white trim. The only gaps were intersections. Each city block was one attached building, dividing properties with internal walls. My English shuttlemates stopped the driver.
As he unloaded their bags, they knocked on the hotel's large oak door. It opened inward, revealing a courtyard. Second floor balconies overlooked the central fountain.
We departed, turning several times down the one-way streets. The driver stopped and pointed me towards a corridor. Bright woven colors hung everywhere, formed as blankets, bags, and hammocks, united in their vibrancy. At the end of the storefront was a wrought iron gate. A sign read 'Casa Rustica,' the hotel I booked at the last minute at LAX. With no idea of how many cheap hostels existed in Antigua (it turns out there are many,) I picked Rustica at random. It was somewhere to start.
I thanked the driver, for both the ride and allowing me to join him and his friends at breakfast. We shook hands and I walked through the gate. I approached the front desk.
"Tengo una reservacion, mi nombre Ben Sir."
The woman looked confused. For the first of what would be a million times, i pronounced my name in a way more recognizable in Spanish.
"Ben-ha-mean."
She smiled and found the slip. A white man in a sleeveless Dallas Mavericks shirt turned to me, diverting his attention from the computer behind the desk.
"You're the canuck that booked late last night over the internet right?"
"That's me."
"You know, those internet bookers gouge you. You know with their fees you're paying double the rate you would have if you had just walked up."
Great. I tried to plan ahead for the first time, defying my urge to play it as I impulsively go, and I screw myself. Lesson learned. The responsible way is always stupid.
The Texan chuckled.
"I'm sorry, I know it's bad when even foreigners treat you like you're green."
His laugh was honest and full. I liked him immediately.
"Since you're paying too much, I'll throw you in a bigger room that noone's using."
"Thanks."
"Make no mistake, it's still a small room, like all of 'em, but this one has it's own bathroom."
He led me through a lounge, and a row of washing machines the guests could use. He left me in front of room two on the first floor.
I opened the door, and appreciated his honesty. The room was tiny. The door stoped against the end of the bed before it was three quarters open. The head of the bed rested against the bathroom wall. It was tiny, but more than I needed. I was a traveller now dammit! I wouldn't be rotting in a hotel room, I'd be suckling the social nectars of Guatemala, only to return when bedding a rotating bevy of international beauties! Right?

By 7:30, I was sprawled out in my ginch, thanking God that a channel was showing Gladiator in English. I laughed at myself. I flew all this way to spend my evening kicking it with Maximus.