![\"antiguaguatemala4\"](\"https:\/\/www.theexpeditioner.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/05\/antiguaguatemala4.jpg\" "\\"antiguaguatemala4\\"")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
\u201cHop on! Just make sure you don\u2019t burn your leg on the exhaust.\u201d<\/p>\n
I straddled the back third of the scooter seat behind my newfound gringo and gringa companions, Luke and Leta, and started looking for a bar or something to grab onto.<\/p>\n
\u201cPut your hands around my waist, no need to be shy,\u201d Leta told me. Hearing that from an adorably freckled 20-year-old girl with bright blue eyes let me know that my night was beginning fortuitously, even if she meant it in a prosaic, crowded-scooter kind of way.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have to make a beer run first, hope you don\u2019t mind,\u201d Luke said. Or at least that\u2019s what Leta relayed to me — I couldn\u2019t make out most of the syllables from the front of the bike.<\/p>\n
The jaunt to the convenience store was a short one but I was already enjoying the cool night air and the stares from the Guatemalan and European tourists heading to the bars and restaurants near Parque Central. We passed a Guatemalan police officer.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re actually not even allowed to have two people on one of these,\u201d Luke told us. \u201cIt\u2019s to prevent drive-bys.\u201d<\/p>\n
Huh. I wasn\u2019t surprised. I had just spent the week working in Guatemala City, one of the most dangerous cities in the Western Hemisphere. I actually enjoyed my time in Guate (GWA-tay), as locals call it, but the tension was undeniable. Guatemalans were constantly warning me to be careful, and I saw plenty of evidence that the warnings were justified. Nearly every storefront had an armed security guard, most of whom looked like nervous high school students. Every day, newspaper articles piled multiple murder stories into one big article, kind of like the morning f\u00fatbol round-up, except with more scoring. Several people mentioned to me that in 2009, more Guatemalan civilians were shot, stabbed or beaten to death than in the Iraq war zone. Ninety-seven percent of all murders in Guatemala go unsolved<\/a>.<\/p>\n I was able to report my story without a single gunshot wound and didn\u2019t have any other problems with crime, but the stories of kidnappings and roadside robberies had made me feel a bit paranoid, and I was looking forward to decompressing in Antigua before the flight back to New York. I had asked Matt Stabile, the editor of this website, whether he was interested in a story from Guatemala, and he recommended I get in touch with Luke Maguire Armstrong, a russet-headed friend of his who also contributes to The Expeditioner. A few e-mails and text messages later, I was riding caboose on Luke\u2019s scooter, bouncing over cobblestones. As for Leta, she was a couchsurfer from Upstate New York passing through Antigua on a six-month trek through the Americas.<\/p>\n Luke put on his rounded helmet, looking like a dreamt-up spaceman from a bygone era, and we wobbled and swayed our way out of the busy, central part of Antigua. After maneuvering through a few quieter streets, we eventually reached an empty dirt road flanked by dense tropical brush; the headlight illuminated flashes of atavistic hunter greens and impudent harlequins. The beers were in cans and didn\u2019t clang around too much on the rough terrain.<\/p>\n We reached a gated community and Luke spoke to an armed security guard in accented but competent Spanish. The guard wrote in a book quite deliberately for a few awkward minutes and then let us in.<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you two know each other?\u201d Maggie asked Luke and me after inviting us inside. She was another gringa abroad, a friend of Luke\u2019s, and was hosting us at the one-story house that she rented along with two Salvadoran twin brothers, one of whom she was dating. It had a stone fountain in the middle of the living room, a fireplace, big bedrooms and lots of reassuring bars on the windows, not to mention a couple of goofy-looking boxer puppies tromping around. I had to ask the inevitable question that New Yorkers ask everyone else in the world.<\/p>\n \u201cWe pay about $500 a month between the three of us,\u201d Maggie told me. Did I mention that she had the muscle tone and firm personality of a capoeira instructor? At that point, I was finishing my first tall boy and feeling dreamily observant.<\/p>\n As I\u2019ve done many times before, in places like Milwaukee and New Jersey, I proceeded to rant about just how ridiculously cheap her rent was, and how the apartment looked like the type of place that one could settle into and write a novel.<\/p>\n \u201cI mean, if you could sell one or two freelance stories a month, you could live pretty nicely down here,\u201d I said to no one in particular. \u201cJesus, my apartment looks like a fucking prison cell next to this place. You\u2019ve got a fucking fountain in your living room.\u201d<\/p>\n I never really got over the rent differential, but with a second beer, I at least turned my attention to other things. Luke had located two out-of-tune classical guitars and he handed me one.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know how good those will sound,\u201d one of the brothers said. I wish I could remember their names, but the truth is that I can\u2019t even remember Maggie\u2019s name; I made it up.<\/p>\n Luke tuned his guitar first. We didn\u2019t have a tuner, so he used his ear. I imagined him harnessing an airy melody from the mountains surrounding Antigua. Once he was tuned up, I followed suit, siphoning a low E note, and then tuning the other strings against that. I wondered if the rest of the party \u2013 los gemelos, the fit girl, Leta \u2013 were dreading the unknown sound that the two of us would generate with these crippled instruments. But I didn\u2019t care. All I wanted to do was play.<\/p>\n Luke began with a gentle, finger-picked ballad, over which I played accompaniment. I was grateful that he had a repertoire of songs to drawn on. We played a few more like that \u2013 Luke strumming the rhythm and singing, me adding fill. I overheard Maggie gathering everyone to leave for a bar as Luke started strumming what I figured would be the last song.<\/p>\n It sounded like an Irish pub song, and Luke sang some powerful vocals, the kind that are normally primed by years of drinking whiskey and not by a can and a half of Central American beer, but his voice sounded firm. We played it to its fullest for three verses and choruses, and then responsibly wound it down to a conclusion. Finished, we exchanged a look of mutual satisfaction. It was as if we had entered an acoustic brotherhood.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n Outside, conversation shifted to the security situation in Guatemala, a thematic discursion likely prompted by the bars on the windows and the dude at the front gate wielding heavy artillery.<\/p>\n \u201cOur friends were robbed,\u201d Maggie said. \u201cEven apartments with bars and security guards still get break-ins.\u201d Someone gave me a cigarette and my buzz increased exponentially.<\/p>\n After another motorbike ride, the night continued at a rooftop bar: drinks, people, more conversations. The mountain air felt like aloe vera on my skin after the raw heat of Guatemala City. Once the party disbanded, Luke, Leta and I ended up back near where we started, sharing a bench in a now-sedate Parque Central.<\/p>\n \u201cSo you met Saul Kripke?\u201d Luke asked me.<\/p>\n Actually, I had met Kripke. His name is pronounced \u201cCrip Key.\u201d I was working on a story for Time Out New York magazine about philosopher hangouts in NYC and I somehow ended up on the horn with a well-known art critic and philosopher whose name escapes me. He told me that Saul Kripke was one of the most famous philosophers in New York City. I gave Crip Key a call.<\/p>\n We met at Le Pain Quotidian a week or so later. I had never been there and, honestly, it seemed pretty lame. Kind of like a slightly cleaner Au Bon Pain and I\u2019m sure I\u2019m not the first to make that comparison. I was running late and I had to take a cab, which cut into my already insignificant paycheck. I decided I would only order a tea and wait for him to pick up the check.<\/p>\n Kripke was there, white haired, white bearded, and scrunchy-faced like a baby smelling pepper for the first time. He had a handler next to him, a beautiful young woman in her early 30s, possibly French or Israeli. Judging by how she manhandled philosophical jargon, she must have been an upper level graduate student, although she also appeared to have the kind of intimate knowledge of her employer\u2019s life that you might expect from a personal assistant. Or maybe she was his wife or his daughter, what the hell do I know? They were sitting at an unvarnished table, a signature part of Pain Quotidian d\u00e9cor.<\/p>\n I was late for the meeting because I have a tendency to be late for things, but also because I had been doing some research on Kripke. I thought I had at least a common man\u2019s understanding of philosophy, but Kripke\u2019s stuff made no fucking sense at all. And I was only reading the Wikipedia entry.<\/p>\n Here\u2019s one of his best quotes, according to Google Books<\/a>:<\/p>\n Humphrey might have won the election (if only he had done such-and-such), we are not talking about something that might have happened to Humphrey, but to someone else, a “counterpart.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n On the topic of philosopher hangouts, Kripke didn\u2019t have much to say. Actually, he seemed to object to the very premise of the interview, repeatedly telling me in a high-pitched and nasal but melodic voice, \u201cI don\u2019t really do anything all that interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n He technically didn\u2019t even live in the city. I think he had a place on the Upper West Side but he lived in Princeton and commuted a couple times a week. He seemed worried about the kind of piece I might write. I reassured him that the article would be of little interest to anyone. After about 30 minutes of haphazard chit-chat, he gave me the name of a supermarket in Princeton as one of his hangouts. I told him that it needed to be in the city.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, but I hardly ever go anywhere in the city. Sometimes we come here.\u201d<\/p>\n I conceded that I\u2019d have to eat the cab fare on this one, and then said goodbye to Kripke and his lovely Israeli\/French sidekick.<\/p>\n *<\/p>\n Luke, Leta and I on the bench.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, I met Kripke. Kind of a strange dude, but I guess even if his work is unintelligible it\u2019s because of his level of genius.\u201d And then I told them the story of Kripke.<\/p>\n I woke up the next morning with a legitimate hangover, but feeling the high that comes after a night full of pleasant surprises. I looked at the clock on my Guatemalan cell phone. Just after 10 a.m. Luke was supposed to be hiking a volcano. What a vigorous young man — my goal was brunch.<\/p>\n I showered, grabbed a newspaper and a bottle of water, and returned to the park, where I was supposed to meet Leta.<\/p>\n I haven\u2019t said much about her. She was a bit of a hippie in disguise — a Marxist in J. Crew. The night before, she sat between Luke and me on the park bench with one knee hugged to her chest, saying how amazing it was to meet the two of us on the same day. After some degree of inner reflection, I decided I would participate in a threesome if that was what she was implying, but I knew it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u201cSorry to keep you waiting, Luke just dropped me off,\u201d she said. She looked limpid in a breezy dress and flip-flops. We grabbed some breakfast at an upscale Guatemalan caf\u00e9 trafficked by tourists and weekenders from Guatemala City. I learned about Leta.<\/p>\n You meet a certain type of gringo backpacker in Latin America. Unlike in Europe, you don\u2019t seem to run into study abroad students. Depending on the country, you won\u2019t even encounter too many other American travelers (expect Kiwis by the jolly dozen). But the expat backpackers you do meet tend to speak Spanish, intoxicate freely and consider socialism a valid \u2013 if not necessary \u2013 form of government. They may or may not have dreadlocks, but in all cases, they respect people who do. In other words, these are cool folks.<\/p>\n Leta was no exception. After brunch we returned to Parque Central and passed more time on a bench. The plaza was still bustling.<\/p>\n \u201cTengo Biblias! Se vende Biblias!\u201d A little boy — maybe eight years old — yelled, trying to sell Bibles in the square. Oddly, we had been talking about God, or the lack thereof, a little while before. The boy sat down on the bench next to Leta.<\/p>\n \u201cTengo Biblias,\u201d he said halfheartedly. His gaze was fixed absentmindedly across the square. Apparently he didn\u2019t sell a lot of these, or at least he wasn\u2019t concerned with sales tactics.<\/p>\n \u201cNo creo en Dios,\u201d Leta told him. The bluntness of her comment caught him like a slap in the face. He looked dazed.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfY usted. Cree en Dios?” he asked me. \u201cS\u00ed,\u201d I told him, even though the answer is probably more like, \u201cI wish.\u201d In a country where you could never have too much Jesus paraphernalia, I didn\u2019t want to be the asshole who killed Santa Claus on a bright Saturday morning.<\/p>\n Leta was meeting with a friend later, and she pulled out an iPhone that she used for picking up WiFi. I can\u2019t remember if she was actually checking the phone or just playing with it, but at least it shifted our conversation away from the absence of a benevolent deity.<\/p>\n The boy, his name was David, didn\u2019t seem to be too familiar with the iPhone, and she showed him how the touch screen worked. He asked how much it was worth, and when she told him, in quetzales, I thought about how many Bibles he would need to sell to make that much money.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfTu peso?\u201d David asked. In addition to the Bibles, he had a scale that he carried around so that people could get an up-to-the-minute heft assessment. I told Leta she should try it, but in the end we both passed. David stayed with us a while longer on the bench, then decided to continue working the square.<\/p>\n \u201cI believe in polyamory,\u201d she said. \u201cI don\u2019t think you should have to be with one person just because that\u2019s what society tells you to do.\u201d She went on to explain polyamory to me. I actually didn\u2019t know exactly what it was. And, yes, I wanted to hear her talk more about it, and even see it in action, if possible. \u201cI had this amazing sociology professor and I was talking to him about dating guys, and how I felt about it, and he said, \u2018Maybe you\u2019re polyamorous.\u2019 And I think I am. It really does make more sense.\u201d<\/p>\n Of course it does. At least to every guy in the world, including your professor, I thought. But let\u2019s stay away from sexist stereotypes and listen to Leta talk about polyamory.<\/p>\n \u201cThis isn\u2019t about sex. I only have sex with one guy. It\u2019s about relationships. There are things that some guys can give me that others can\u2019t, and vice versa. I may want to spend time with a guy, and really enjoy his company, but not fuck him. That\u2019s how polyamory works.\u201d<\/p>\n I was a little surprised\/disappointed that her philosophy wasn\u2019t pegged around casual and exhaustive sex, but she certainly had a good point.<\/p>\n We finished perusing the crafts and she offered to take me over to another market, one where locals shopped. It wasn\u2019t far away. We approached some fruit vendors with big baskets of mangos, papayas, guavas and avocados, as well as loads of other fruits I didn\u2019t recognize. We walked between the vendors into an indoor market, a conglomeration of simple wooden stalls covered overhead by corrugated metal panels. We passed people selling all types of foodstuffs: spices out of open sacks, fish, Guatemalan pastries. The walking lanes were narrow and crowded.<\/p>\n There may have been other gringo tourists, but if so, I didn\u2019t see them, and the market didn\u2019t seem particularly geared toward out-of-towners. Mostly people were selling essentials. The vendors were grouped in sections. After the food, we passed through an area where people were selling wooden chairs, followed by an area with electronics, and an area with clothes.<\/p>\n I was running low on clean laundry and bought a pair of socks with the word \u201cUMBRO\u201d stitched into the fabric; the price was negligible by US standards. I got the impression that Guatemalans from more rural areas around Antigua traveled into town on Saturdays, or maybe every day, to sell their wares at this market. Labyrinthine would have described it, and after five minutes of shuffling from stall to stall amid the crowds, I felt the intoxication of the minotaur\u2019s prison, at once amazing and overwhelming.<\/p>\n In an area that could have been the center of the maze, we found some eateries serving traditional Guatemalan dishes. The mini-restaurants were lined up one after the other, people cooking more or less in the open, and a few picnic tables and benches where you could sit down and eat. We found an open table and ordered the menu of the day, soup and fried chicken. I ordered a Coke.<\/p>\n \u201cMy problem is that I\u2019ve been dating the same girl for years, but I still don\u2019t want to get married,\u201d I told Leta. \u201cI feel awful. I know she wanted that years ago, but I\u2019m just not ready. I tell myself that I might be ready eventually, but when I think about it, I just can\u2019t believe that will be the case.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen why are you still doing it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s complicated,\u201d I said. \u201cWe should probably break up, but it\u2019s not that easy.\u201d<\/p>\n A young lady brought my Coke and a glass of ice.<\/p>\n \u201cShould I drink this with the ice?\u201d I asked Leta, afraid of the consequences of drinking unfiltered water. \u201cI\u2019d rather not drink it warm, and they already put ice in the glass.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust drink it, you\u2019ll be fine,\u201d she told me.<\/p>\n By Ted Hesson<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n [Guatemala by Marina Villatoro\/Flickr<\/a>; Remaining photos by Matt Stabile<\/em>]<\/p>\n![\"antiguaguatemala2\"](\"https:\/\/www.theexpeditioner.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/05\/antiguaguatemala2.jpg\" "\\"antiguaguatemala2\\"")
\u201cIt\u2019s not that cheap when you\u2019re working down here, earning Guatemalan money,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m bartending, so I basically make enough to cover rent.\u201d I was already disconnected from any empathy I might have felt toward her situation.<\/p>\n![\"antigua2\"](\"https:\/\/www.theexpeditioner.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/05\/antigua2.jpg\" "\\"antigua2\\"")
Leta and I took a walk to a nearby craft market that catered to tourists who were looking for something a little nicer than what you might find on the street. We walked into an open-air courtyard surrounded by stalls, and strolled from stall to stall, considering an occasional trinket: earrings, necklaces. I was looking for something for my girlfriend.<\/p>\n![\"TheExpeditioner\"](\"\/Images\/aboutuslogo.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
![\"tedhessonbiopic\"](\"https:\/\/www.theexpeditioner.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/05\/tedhessonbiopic.jpg\" "\\"tedhessonbiopic\\"")
Ted Hesson is a multimedia editor and producer based in Manhattan. For more of his work, visit