Original post date: September 26, 2007
Hola mi Taquillos, (Hello my little tacos)
So… they gave me the job based on the fact that I could speak conversational Spanish – which, in all honesty, I thought that I could…
After my first day, scratch that, after the first hour of classes…..ya… not so much.
To date, apparently even though everyone would converse with me and smile as if they understood me, it´s become painfully clear to me that I was closer to a Spanish speaking Borat, than an actual conversationalist. VARY NICE!! HOW MAUCH?? 
And so began my long road to learning to speak Spanish properly.
I signed up for a week but by the end of day 2, I was already needing to forget my name and vital statistics in order to make room for all the irregular verbs. I mean, how many exceptional verbs do you really need anyway? At this rate of forgetting basic functions, by the end of the week I’m sure I’ll have forgotten how to dress myself and might occasionally pee in a corner.
As part of the full immersion into Guatemalan culture, the school offered optional activities, one of which included a salsa dance class. A group of Swedish journalists also studying at the school proved once again that not only can white men not jump, they apparently can´t dance either.
Gloria Estefan warned me that ´The rhythm was gonna get you´ and I later signed up for a private dance lesson. One hour and many beads of sweat later, after how he taught me how to shake my money maker, I will now be able to afford 2 extra trips back home.
Next was an excursion to a Macadamia nut farm. At the giant plantation we learned all about the different types of trees and how nuts were harvested and processed. I was happy to escape my Spanish lessons momentarily and spent some time looking for the trees growing the chocolate covered nuts, but no dice.
Feeling slightly insecure about my speaking abilities, I nerded out and took an extra few days of classes. Nothing says great adventurer like a hot date on a Saturday night with personal pronouns.
Family Homestay:
The first day I met my ‘family’ – which really meant ´the lady of the house´ and a really mean looking parrot. The daughter and her son showed up on Day 2 and the husband on Day 3. Meals were served at 7 am, 1 pm, and 6 pm sharp. If you were late, the food nazi would remind you through a gritted smile what time meals were. Hot water was only run from 6-7 am in the morning. Which really meant you ran ice cold water for 10 minutes waiting in eager anticipation for when the tepid water would run for 5 minutes before the return of the iceman. The other student in the house used my morning screams as her alarm clock. Had I any male genitalia, they would have shriveled up and crawled inside by now.
Making Friends:
In an effort to escape a relentless salesman, I randomly ended up having lunch with a fellow whose behaviour can only be explained by extended hard drug use. Nice guy really, but enough of a nut to make me look normal and calm.
People also seem to get bored a lot here as well. On a couple of occasions now, waitresses and owners of restaurants have offered to walk around with me after their shifts are done. 2 hours into the walks I often wondered at what point my Spanish lessons would kick in and when I´d be able to understand what the hell they were talking about.
Random Celebrations:
One must exercise caution as spontaneous celebrations break out randomly when you least expect them. My morning trip to the bakery was thwarted by parade of school bands. Pretty cool. Band members wear the hats where the chin strap goes under the nose (nose straps?). Band leaders wear short skirts and cowboy boots, and twirl batons.
Bells and Roosters:
Bells in the church next to my hotel ring every morning at 5 am. No need to worry if you missed it though – they also ring at 5:30, 6, 6:30, and 7 am. Quasimodo would have a frikkin´ field day. I´m also still looking for the rooster that has been following me around Central America so I can start yelling in HIS ear when he´s trying to sleep.
Naming conventions:
The ´sh´ sound in my name seems to cause locals some difficulty, and so I´ve since taken to calling myself – Michellita (little Michelle). Conveniently, it´s very close to the name of one of the most popular drinks in Mexico – Micheladas. Which is good I suppose, as having too much of either one would give you a really big headache in the morning.
Gun Control:
The Men in Black (I call them the Guatemalan SWAT team) can be seen walking the streets carrying a cross between a rifle and a gun. (´Big Fuck Off Guns´ as one passenger aptly named them). The tourist police carry small hand guns as well, presumably to stop the Japanese tourists from taking too many pictures. Every bank has a handful of armed guards at the door, which makes me laugh almost uncontrollably, as the locks on the doors are the little slider locks that you find in public bathrooms.
Stay tuned for the next update about my shadow training trip: BRIT CHICKS GONE WILD IN CENTRAL AMERICA – uncut and uncensored….