Xela
In Xela, Guatemala, it rains only in the evenings, and the place smells of earth and wet pavement. Mayan women, short, fat and colourful look like dolls with ribbons in their hair, their men in top hats and pants, like old hobos in old films. The graveyard is a city with towers blue, yellow, pink, orange, decorated in fresh flowers. Headless statues create a false nostalgia and Funeral services with accordion and guitar for the joined voices. Failed salsa classes, heated chocolate, living with an old women and her mother, slouched over the stove, wrinkled bright eyed smiles and muy biens. Spanish tires me, repetion in classes, and walking up stone streets to mi casa, half outdoor, half indoor. Izquierda on one hand, and derecha on the other.