Shon wasn’t a fan of my last blog post. He said the Semana Santa part was fine but that he didn’t like my “hating on Lake Atitlán.” To which I responded, “Well, I don’t like your beard!”

I welcome constructive criticism with open arms.

In truth, Shon’s beard looks fine. I think. It’s kind of hard to tell actually, because he’s in dire need of a haircut, and the top of his head has now merged with the lower half of his face in a blur of fur that I could totally see myself micro-braiding in the middle the night. Others, apparently, see this hirsuteness and think “weed.”

Shon and I have conducted an unofficial study and discovered a direct correlation between the length of his locks and the number of offers he gets to buy weed. One centimeter more of brown hair equals one to two extra propositions. He’s currently at the point where his puffy ‘fro guarantees myriad softly muttered offerings for “ganja” anytime we walk down Panajachel’s streets. My favorite exchange to date:

Vendor with a dozen wood-carved flutes to Shon: “Flauta?”

Shon: “No.”

Man (way more hopeful): “…ganja?”

Now, I should note here that Shon’s unshorn state has nothing to do with his not wanting to tame his unruly hair. But unless you’re a man with a hankering for a bowl cut or a teenager wanting a mini-mohawk, there’s nowhere in Panajachel to get a trim. As such, any time Shon needs a barber, he has to travel more than two hours to a city called Quetzaltenango. It’s there–and only there–that he’s found a place where he can walk out with favorable results. Since Quetzaltenango is so far away, though, his visits are understandably few and far between.

Fortunately, Shon does have an upcoming work visit in Quetzaltenango planned, so he should be getting a haircut soon. And I am C.R.A.Z.Y. jealous.

Why? Well, for while I’ve been yammering on about Shon’s head of hair, what I’ve failed to mention is my own. Twice I’ve had my hair cut in Guatemala, twice I’ve pointed out layers that needed to be trimmed, and twice I’ve left the salon with barely 1/16^th of an inch taken off of only my longest locks, leaving all of my other layers untrimmed and floating about my head in their split-, triple-, and quadruple-ended glory.

Coworkers have given me the number of Canadian hairstylist in Antigua who is supposed to be good, and I will be visiting her… one day. Maybe. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to make that appointment, yet. You see, it’s about time that I freshen up on color, too, and I’m still hoping to find the Guatemalan equivalent of Joyce, my NYC stylist who not only cuts hair but also does ombre highlights with the skill of an Old Master. I’ve yet to hear rumor of such a wunderkind here… and so I wait.

Of course, all this postponing means my hair is getting progressively worse. It’s dry and brittle and way too long. It’s sun-bleached, but not in a good way. In fact, it’s kind of looking like the fritzed, hippy-dippy expat hair that I swore I’d never have–the kind that implies years spent in the tropics without Joyces, heavy-duty conditioners, or frizz serums.

Needless to say, Shon and I make quite the pair these days. It’s funny how quickly expat living can turn you into someone you never thought you’d be: Shon, a non-smoking pothead. Me, an accidental hippy.

God, we really need haircuts.

At the rate we’re going, we will be this couple–though way less cute, way more disheveled, and without the benefit of rainbows or dramatic eye makeup–in about a week. I’ve been scouring Etsy.com for my doily wrap and Shon’s chest-exposing flowy shirt.

***

Bottom photo: http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/hippie%20couple

Truth be told, Guatemala has plenty of sights that leave me thinking, “Well, that was nice…” but not something I’d recommend anyone pay hundreds of dollars on travel to see.

Aldous Huxley, author of the book Brave New World, has been overwhelmingly, annoyingly, and pervasively misquoted in brochures, books, blogs, websites—pretty much anywhere you look—as having said that Lake Atitlán is the “most beautiful lake in the world.” Now, Mr. Huxley did compare Atitlán to Italy’s Lake Como in his book Beyond the Mexique Bay, adding that it has “several immense volcanoes,” but this “most beautiful lake in the world” remark was one he did not make. And still, people have embraced and lauded this misquote while often adding their own two cents. Atitlán is also described as mystical, magical, and magnetic.

You know what the lake is? It’s a freaking lake. It’s a body of water surrounded by a bunch of hills—and, yes, it’s home to three giant volcanoes, but a volcano is kind of like a mountain, and we’ve all seen mountains before, haven’t we, folks??

Ahem. Sorry about that. And my apologies to Lake Atitlán. You’re a perfectly fine lake, but please, let’s take it down a notch.

Anyway, the point that I’m trying to make (circuitously) is that while I’m often sort of wowed by places, events, and the utter lack of half-and-half in Guatemala, I knew that when it came to celebrating Semana Santa (the Holy Week leading up to Easter) in Antigua, I should adjust my expectations. I had been told it was incredible and not to miss, and I assumed it would be fun and certainly different, but I was also prepared for it to not live up to the hype. And so I was completely bowled over when I realized that I was enjoying it so much. Indeed, so much that I would recommend anyone with a handful of vacation days and a nominal interest in Easter come experience it for themselves. Here are a five reasons why:

1. You’ll finally get Easter. I was raised Catholic and have a reasonable understanding of what the holiday is all about: Jesus died for our sins, rose from the dead, and appointed a rabbit to bring us Peeps and Cadbury cream eggs to remind us how thankful we should be for mass-produced sweets. It’s pretty straightforward.

In Antigua, however, the holiday takes on a whole new depth. Indeed, if you want to truly understand this idea of Jesus suffering—and even attach some kind of emotional value to it (even if you’re a nonbeliever like me)—there is absolutely nothing like watching 80 men with eyes closed and pained faces slowly marching a more-than-6,000-pound depiction of a cross-bearing Jesus along a craggy cobblestone street beneath a hot, tropical sun. You get the idea of suffering and sacrifice because people are suffering and sacrificing before your eyes. No reading of the bible could make it quite as real. And this is just one part of Semana Santa. There are special events for Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and all throughout the Lenten season. You’ll see men on horseback dressed like Roman soldiers, ceremonies for the washing of Jesus’s feet, and celebrations of the resurrection. I certainly didn’t see everything, but I still took away more from three days of Semana Santa than I ever did years of Sunday school. The only odd part about it all was there were no bunnies.

Women (many in heels!) carry wooden depictions of Mary. Though much smaller, these platforms are most certainly heavy, too.

***

2. There’s so much to see—and at all hours of the day. Case in point: On Thursday, we saw a handful of religious processions in the afternoon, grabbed dinner, and then took a nap. We woke at 10:00 p.m. and headed out to watch carpets being made for the next day’s processions. We returned to our hotel at 1:00 a.m., took another nap, and got back up at 3:30 a.m. to see the first procession of Good Friday leave from a church called La Merced. We roamed around, admiring more carpets (while shivering in the cold), until 6:00 a.m. and then went back to bed. By noon, we were out on the streets for more. And we weren’t the only ones following this crazy schedule; both Shon and I saw friends and coworkers on the streets at all hours of the day and night. It’s intense and exhausting but totally fun. And it’s what you make of it. You can try to see it all or choose events a la carte. But be sure to check out plenty of carpets—they’re the best part.

My friend, Stefanie, helping out with her boyfriend’s family’s carpet. It took them 13 (!!) hours to finish….

***

3. It’s incredibly well-organized, which is impressive considering the influx of thousands of people to a very small city. Despite the giant crowds, the entire holiday felt friendly and utterly civil. We were as comfortable walking around seeing the sights at midday as we were at midnight (when there were events going on) and not once did the large quantity of people seem unbearable or out of control. Of course, for some, the presence of police and national guardsmen with fat machine guns on nearly every other corner might be an unnerving sight, but the presence of so many fatigue-clad and weapon-touting men and women clearly instilled a sense of fear in anyone with malicious intents. (I feel obligated to note here that pickpocketing is a problem during Semana Santa, though our wallets remained ours.)

I was also impressed by the handy supply of information. Booths were set up in Antigua’s central plaza with free maps and schedules printed in both English and Spanish. Police carried maps to help you try to find your way around. There were also free public toilets and plenty of trash cans everywhere. Indeed, the city was incredibly clean. We saw dozens of people apparently employed solely to roam the streets and pick up trash, and even processions were followed by a group of men who swept up destroyed street carpets, leaving streets pristine.

4. It’s cheap. Yes, prices for hotels, restaurants, and other services do go up around Semana Santa, but travel in Guatemala is inexpensive to start. So, while Antigua may not be as cheap at Easter as it is during other parts of the year, it can still make for a very economical trip.

5. It’s not just about Easter. Not only do you get to witness Antigua’s take on Easter during Semana Santa, but you’ll also see plenty of traditional Mayan dress, get to taste endless amounts of typical food (street vendors galore sell delicious eats), and have the opportunity to watch local families come together to celebrate the holiday. What’s more, with so much going on, it’s easy to take a day trip or two outside of the city without missing much. Plan a volcano hike, take a trip to the Tikal ruins, visit Lake Atitlán (it’s the most beautiful lake in the world!), or play a round or two of golf (there’s a Pete Dye-designed course just 30 minutes away). Guaranteed, another procession will be waiting for you when you return.

So, what do you say…? Semana Santa 2014?! ; )

***

]]> http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/04/15/5-reasons-to-easter-in-antigua-next-year/feed/ 3 melissadenchak b.carpet.face b.anda b.anda.w b.roman1 b.roman2 b.statues b.band IMG_4424 (640x427) b.carpet.fish b.carpet.bull b.carpet.guys.2 ss.carpet5stef b.carpet b.cleanup b.traddress IMG_4384 (640x427) http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/03/29/celebrating-semana-santa-in-antigua-and-happy-easter/ http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/03/29/celebrating-semana-santa-in-antigua-and-happy-easter/#comments Fri, 29 Mar 2013 20:45:18 +0000 Melissa http://notquiteroughingit.com/?p=3055 ]]> New York City has New Year’s Eve. Río de Janeiro has Carnival. Antigua, Guatemala has Semana Santa, one extraordinary week of elaborate religious festivities that lead up to Easter Sunday. Over the course of the holiday, this cobblestoned city of pastel-hued houses and crumbling ruins becomes a backdrop for incense-infused religious processions, elaborate holy vigils, and exquisite street carpets made of sawdust, pine needles, and flowers. There are thousands of visitors, men in costume, women in black, and events that start as early as 4:00 a.m. It’s one incredible production.

This week, I worked in Antigua from Monday through Wednesday. Our office–like pretty much every office in the country–had off yesterday and today (Friday), and so Shon traveled to join me here, where the country’s biggest Semana Santa celebrations take place. We’re still in the midst of all the goings on, but I thought I’d share a quick overview of what exactly Semana Santa is all about.

Over the course of the week, local churches host religious processions during which enormous andas–wooden depictions of Jesus and Mary that can weigh more than 6,600 pounds–are carried through Antigua’s streets on the shoulders of 60 to 80 cucuruchos (men) and cargadoras (women). Hundreds of people rotate in to carry the andas during any one procession and switch out every block or so. It’s a slow-moving march that also includes incense carriers, funeral bands, and costumed participants, and some last as many as 15 hours.

Prior to hosting a religious procession, a church will organize a holy vigil (or velacione), during which it sets up an elaborate biblical scene in front of its main altar. A vigil usually comprises statues, flowers, candles, and “carpets” made of sawdust (see below). The one that I attended on Wednesday night featured huge statues, a light display, and a gorgeous sawdust carpet surrounded by an ocean of chiles, watermelons, pineapples, carrots, and myriad other produce. Rumor has it, there was a cage of birds, too—though, I missed those. (I didn’t have my camera with me on Wednesday night, so the photos below are from other churches.)

Aside from featuring creative biblical scenes, holy vigils are also notable for all that goes on in the streets around the hosting churches. Here, you’ll find hundreds of vendors selling everything from chuchitos and chiles rellenos to tostadas, grilled corn, freshly fried plantain chips, churros, and cotton candy. Families gather to eat, drink, and eat some more.

For many, though, the real highlight of Semana Santa is the carpets (or alfombras) that people create in the streets before a religious procession passes. These carpets are made by hand and most often with sawdust, though you’ll see pine needles, flowers, and wood shavings used, too.

Making an alfombra is an elaborate process that begins days—if not weeks—in advance. Sawdust is sifted so that it’s very fine before it’s dyed. A design—which can range from religious to geometric to cheeky—is chosen and a mold is made. Several hours before a procession is scheduled to pass, a layer of sawdust or sand is spread on the street to create a level canvas on which the carpet-makers can work. A fine mist of water is sprayed over top, as well as during the carpet-making process, to ensure no sudden gust of wind blows it away (wind, rain, and the roaming street dog are the biggest threats to a carpet). Family and friends gather to work on hands and knees, painstakingly filling in their mold with tiny pinches or spoonfuls of sawdust until their colorful creation is complete.

Carpets are laid out for every procession, with the more elaborate ones appearing the Thursday and Friday before Easter, when some of the biggest church processions roll through. The only people allowed to walk over the carefully crafted street art are the men and women who carry the andas, and beneath their heavy, shuffling feet, the carpets are quickly destroyed.

Well, that’s all for now. Shon and I are off to partake in another day of Semana Santa celebrations. Enjoy your Easter! And if you think of it, please eat a Cadbury cream egg for me. Sadly, bunnies don’t deliver to the tropics, and chuchitos and churros just aren’t the same.

Accessed via a narrow road that winds through steep hills and a patchwork of agricultural fields, Fuentes Georginas is located approximately 45 minutes outside of Quetzaltenango (Guatemala’s second-largest city). The springs are tucked into a mountainside and surrounded by a cool cloud forest. Shon and I visited about a month ago while on a weekend trip to Quetzaltenango.

Fuentes Georginas has three separate pools—the largest (and hottest) of which is supplied by a trickle of hot water that runs down a natural, fern-covered rock wall; water from this pool flows into two smaller pools, getting incrementally cooler along the way.

Shon and I braved the largest of the three pools first. We made our way gingerly down a series of stone steps as the incredibly hot water turned our skin lobster pink. We got in up to our shoulders and noticed an odd phenomenon: The faster we moved, the hotter the water felt, and so we moved through the pool at a sloth-like pace as beads of sweat rolled down our foreheads. I felt light-headed in the steam-heavy air—a not entirely unpleasant feeling, and I briefly noted that boiling to death might not be such a bad fate.

Shon put his head underwater and survived, so I did, too. The cool air that hit my overheated face when I popped up felt remarkably refreshing and reminded me of my original quest. I licked my lips to taste the droplets of water on them… and was rather disappointed. Much in the way that the stinkiest cheeses can pack the biggest flavor, I had kind of thought the sulfur-scented water might taste somehow meaty and satisfying. Sadly, it was more like a lukewarm, flat, and skunky Heineken. It was thoroughly unpleasant but still worth the moment or two of gagging to be able to speak with authority on the subject.

Lucky for Fuentes Georginas, no one’s judging it on taste, and it turns out that it’s a very popular spot with tourists and locals alike. We arrived at 9:00 a.m. on a shuttle, and there were about a dozen people. By noon, though, the place was packed with families, and I quickly felt like I was sharing a bathtub with strangers. I detest baths (even when it’s just me and a bar of soap), so I found this crowded scenario particularly icky. It wasn’t too big a deal, though, for after nearly three hours of soaking, Shon and I climbed out of the water perfectly warm and toasty. The cool mountain air felt great–as did the knowledge that I’d never have to sample a sulfur spring again. That taste memory was made.

A while back, I mentioned that I freelance for a travel company here in Guatemala, but I never really talked about what exactly I do. Please put down the gun. I swear that I’m not going to bore you to death with a job summary now. I would, however, like to share with you one of the more fun elements of my work: developing and writing our monthly newsletter.

The company I work for is called Viaventure Central America and is based in the colonial city of Antigua. It specializes in creating tailor-made adventures, mostly in Guatemala, Honduras, and Belize. Travel with Viaventure, and you won’t just visit a Maya ruin–you’ll visit a Maya ruin with the archaeologist who helped unearth it. It’s luxury travel with a local spin.

Back in January, we launched the first issue of the company’s new newsletter, The Viaventurer. Apart from featuring some of the amazing products that Viaventure has to offer, the goal of the newsletter is to inspire, to excite, and to get people so jazzed up about travel that they buy a ticket to a foreign land and set out on brand new adventures.

The theme of this month’s issue was one near and dear to my stomach–er, heart–food, so naturally, it was fun to put together. I got to interview two expat chefs in Belize–one in the Caribbean and one in the jungle–as well as a Honduran cowboy. I drooled on my keyboard as I gathered details on two upcoming Belizean food festivals and suddenly found myself wildly craving Guatemalan chocolate, coffee, and street eats as I wrote up a handful of Viaventure’s epicurean offerings. It was a delicious issue to write–and is, hopefully, a delicious issue to read, too!

You can check out the full newsletter here. And if you are indeed inspired to travel, let me know. I’ll be more than happy to serve as a your (hungry) travel companion. : )

Photo credits: Muzamanzie Photography (top), Viaventure Central America (center), and Rojo Beach Bar (bottom).

And, as of earlier this week, also kind of impressed.

On Monday, McDonald’s announced that over the next five years, it plans to invest $6.5 million to help approximately 13,000 Guatemalan coffee farmers grow higher-quality, more environmentally sustainable beans. According to McDonald’s, the initiative seeks to address the root causes of poverty in farming communities by expanding the use of techniques that promote sustainable, profitable agricultural. It’s also going to try to help mitigate the effects of leaf rust, a fungal disease that’s currently threatening coffee crops throughout Central America.

Of course, this initiative benefits McDonald’s, too. Per Bloomberg.com, the move will help the company secure supplies of arabica beans for its premium-roast coffee, for which sales have doubled since 2006. Plus, it’s just smart marketing to be able to label anything “environmentally sustainable.” And yes, we could have a whole discussion about wealth distribution (I doubt any Guatemalan coffee farmers will be upgrading to McMansions when all is said and done), but still. I think it’s pretty great when it makes smart business sense for a big brand to do good.

So, hats off to McDonald’s (and the many farmers with whom it works). I’ll be sure to support its efforts by buying many premium-roast coffees–and, well, since I’ll already be at the register and all… quite a few McConos, too.

I’d hear “bombachas y algogos” and think of gobstoppers, pinwheels, and magic neon elixirs. The pairing of bombachas with algogos was word candy to my ears, despite the fact that the former meant underwear and latter referred to hair ties.

In Guatemala, I feel much the same way about chuchitos—the country’s take on the tamale. I crave chuchitos because I like chuchitos but also because I love their name. Say “chuchito,” and I guarantee you’ll think of chubby baby thighs. “Chuchito” even means puppy–which just adds to its delectable-ness, as far as words go.

What’s even better, though, is that eating a chuchito is as satisfying as saying chuchito. Usually served warm, they generally consist of corn masa (dough) that’s stuffed with a small piece of pork or chicken, as well as a mild tomato-chili sauce, and then wrapped in a dried corn husk. They’re steamed until the dough is cooked through. Occasionally, they’re also grilled after they’re steamed, which lends them a delicious, smoky flavor.

Chuchitos are one of Guatemala’s most ubiquitous foods. You’ll find them at street stalls and in the towel-lined wicker baskets of señoras at the local market. People eat them in the morning and at night.

In Panajachel, I buy them at the market’s busy entrance or on Santander, our town’s main drag. In Antigua, they’re sold in the plaza outside of La Merced church, as well as across the street from San Pedro church. You can get them to go, still wrapped in their husks, but I’d recommend sitting down and eating them at a street stand, if you can. A señora (and it’s always a señora) will unwrap your chuchitos for you (don’t eat the husks) and top them with more tomato sauce and sometimes a sprinkle of cheese. They’re as delicious as they are filling. And unlike bombachas y algogos, they most definitely live up to their name.

For tips on choosing the best street food, click here. To learn about the desayuno chapin (Guatemala’s all-time favorite breakfast), click here.

It turns out that volcanoes are to Guatemalans what the Empire State Building is to most New Yorkers: Something you don’t really bother with until you have visitors in town.

This I discovered a few weeks ago when Shon and I climbed San Pedro, one of Lake Atitlán’s three volcanoes, along with four of Shon’s coworkers (from Guatemala) and two of his coworker’s sons (from Colombia). None of them had climbed a volcano before, despite living in a country with more than 30. It was Shon who rallied the troops, set a date, and found a guide to take us. Only an out-of-towner would plan such an excursion with such enthusiasm.

Not to say that Shon’s exuberance was for naught—indeed, he had hiked San Pedro before with a friend and loved it and was certain we would, too. And so, early one Saturday morning, we gathered at the docks in Panajachel and took a private boat across the lake to the town of San Pedro, located just next door to the 9,908-foot mountainous behemoth we planned to conquer.

San Pedro is a town of approximately 13,000 people and is as touristy as Panajachel but in a very different way. Whereas Pana is giant tourist buses and groups in matching khaki, San Pedro is fire dancers, backpackers, hostels, dreads, and drugs. (We fit more into one group. Sadly, it’s not the cool one.)

We met our guide, Manuel (the same guide who had led Shon up the volcano before), near the docks of San Pedro and then hopped into the back of a pick-up truck to get to the volcano’s trail head. As soon as we arrived, we set out on a dirt path that ascended gradually passed fields of green coffee plants and tall stands of corn. We meandered through pockets of sun and shade and caught lake views from the occasional opening in the forest.

Half-way up the mountain, we stopped at an overlook where Shon and I could see the ridge where we had watched the sun rise over Lake Atitlán just a couple of weeks before. Known locally as “Indian Nose,” this ridge vaguely resembles the profile of a man’s face. I could definitely see the profile, though I’d say the nose looks a bit more Ukrainian–or maybe Dutch. No, Ukrainian.

From here, the trail grew significantly steeper. The dry, warm air quickly turned damp and chilly as we headed into cloud forests and worked our way between giant trees draped in heather-colored Spanish moss.

It was a strenuous hike, but three hours after starting out, we finally reached the top.

This is not the top of San Pedro.

***

And now I believe I’m going to disappoint. If you’ve been reading along so far, expecting us to reach a hot, steamy, lave-spewing summit where we’d sacrificed a goat or someone in our group, I’m sad to say that our arrival was much more subdued. San Pedro volcano has been inactive for a very long time (no one knows when it last erupted), and its crater today is enshrouded by thick, lush forest.

Active or not, though, the birds-eye-view from San Pedro’s peak is pretty spectacular. We had set out early enough to beat the midday clouds that normally settle over its cone and had an unobscured look at the lake and everything that surrounds it. We could see San Pedro’s neighbors–volcanoes Atitlán and Tolíman–as well as Panajachel and a handful other small towns. Boats were just specks on the vast expanse of water.

It was fun to see the area where we live from such precipitous heights–and apparently not just for Shon and me. The rest of our group (i.e. the real locals) was just as camera-happy and seemingly excited to have made it to the top as we were. Clearly, you don’t have to be an out-of-towner or tourist to appreciate a mighty fine view.

My face looks like German’s (the guy to the left of Shon) every time I see this photo. “Shon, you climbed a volcano and look so… refreshed.” Meanwhile, I complained of hip pain.

***

]]> http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/02/20/conquering-volcanoes-or-san-pedro-even-locals-like-it/feed/ 2 melissadenchak IMG_1942 (640x427) IMG_1858 (640x426) IMG_1877 (640x409) IMG_1885 (427x640) IMG_1922 (640x427) IMG_1904 (640x427) IMG_2076 (640x427) IMG_1934 (640x427) IMG_1931 (640x427) IMG_1927 (640x427) IMG_2003 (427x640) IMG_1990 (640x427) IMG_1982 (640x426) IMG_2002 (640x427) volcano IMG_2026 (640x427) IMG_2037 (640x427) IMG_2068 (640x427) http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/02/04/guatemala-eats-how-to-choose-the-safest-street-food/ http://notquiteroughingit.com/2013/02/04/guatemala-eats-how-to-choose-the-safest-street-food/#comments Mon, 04 Feb 2013 14:00:41 +0000 Melissa http://notquiteroughingit.com/?p=2743 ]]> I get why people don’t eat street food when they visit Guatemala. After dropping hundreds of dollars (or more) on airfare, hotels, and other travel expenses, the last thing you want to do is spend your vacation touring Guatemala’s bathrooms.

The thing is, though, the street is exactly where much of the country’s best food is found. Here you’ll discover smoky grills lined with sizzling meat, señoras hawking homemade eats out of wicker baskets, and vendors pushing carts full of fresh, juicy fruit. There’s arroz con leche (a sweet, cinnamon-y drink of rice and milk that’s served steaming hot in Styrofoam cups), grilled pupusas (corn tortillas filled with melted, gooey cheese), and crispy tostadas (fried tortillas smeared with guacamole or black beans and topped with tomato sauce, crumbled queso fresco, and parsley). Guatemala’s street food is delicious, cheap, and infinitely better than what’s on offer in pricier restaurants with confused international menus.

I eat street food all the time and have been fortunate enough to never get sick. I think it’s partly luck and partly the simple strategy that I use to select the spots where I eat.

My first rule of thumb is to frequent places where the same people set up shop each and every day. Not only are these folks old hats at what they do, but they’d quickly lose their regular customers by serving sub-par food.

Of course, travelers who only spend a few days in a destination don’t have the luxury of knowing who regular vendors are, and so my second suggestion is to head to places with lots of locals—and plenty of conversation. Good vendors develop a rapport with regulars. If you see cheerful exchanges going on at a food stand, head there.

Finally, be observant. Street stands should be near-spotless. Look for an orderly set up: All food (unless cooking on a grill) should be covered, and there should be a designated spot–like a bucket–for dirty dishes, if disposable ones aren’t provided. Vendors who care about presentation will care about their products, too.

Of course, these strategies can’t guarantee that you’ll never cross paths with a mean-spirited microorganism, but they will lessen the odds. And if you’re still wondering if trying that grilled pupusa might come between you and your seeing one more Maya ruin on your Guatemala trip, I say go for the pupusa. I promise it’s worth the risk.

We all know where babies come from.

We have a new dog, and his name is Sam. For a while, we called him Scarface (see photo above), but he was too skinny and uncoordinated to live up to the name. And so, after trying out a series of new names—including Sue and Joe Cat—we finally settled on Sam, one of the most popular dog names in the United States. True, it’s not very creative, but Shon has put an interesting spin on it by adding an occasional (and TOTALLY innocent) “-bo” at the end. I happened to look up “Sambo” online one day, and learned that Shon’s seemingly playful nickname for our black dog will get him shot if we ever move back to Brooklyn.

There are dozens of street dogs in Panajachel. They roam the streets solo and in gangs and are, for the most part, harmless. (Shon will likely disagree, as he was chased down by a pack of dogs on his bike.) There’s a forested area in front of our house where many dogs sleep at night. The majority of them are more into dog things—searching for scraps of food, guarding territory, and sniffing butts—than people, though a couple are inexplicably sweet. I’ve taken to one in particular. She has light brown fur and big brown eyes and is a sucker for a high-pitched Hiii!, always approaching shyly to be pet. She couldn’t be nicer, and yet a scar on her back suggests someone tossed boiling water on her.

With so many dogs running loose, it’s not unusual to see puppies on the street. For a long time, I wanted to take each and every one home. After approaching a few, though, I learned they’re often wary of people (and just as often cared for by a mama dog already), so it’s best to leave them be. Plus, it’s impossible to adopt them all, and so Shon and I made an active decision to adopt none.

So when I did see a teeny, tiny black puppy wandering down the street last October as I walked Chaddy (my dog), I didn’t think much of him. There was no mother dog in sight, which led me to believe he belonged to someone in the neighborhood. Chaddy and I continued on our merry way.

A few days later, I went for a run and was on the outskirts of town when I saw the puppy once more. Again, he was by himself, shuffling through leaves on the side of road, looking very small. “Poor puppy,” I thought as I ran by.

A few more days passed, and Shon and I decided to take Chaddy for a long walk to a neighboring town called Santa Catarina. On the way, we spotted the puppy wandering along a street drain. This time, I stopped and petted him gingerly. He was dirty, dusty, and greasy, but he didn’t seem fearful, perhaps because he was so young. I snapped a few photos and told him I’d bring him food after our walk. When we returned to the same spot later, though, he was gone.

Well, gone—but not for long. For when we arrived home, lo and behold, we found the puppy nosing around in the brush across the street from our house, just a few feet from our front door. It seemed silly to put food out on the street for him where a bigger dog would surely steal it, so I scooped him up with one hand and brought him inside.

We gave him milk and some of Chaddy’s food. He lapped up the milk, leaving the hard dog food behind, and before we could even consider putting him back on the street, he found a sunny spot on the living room floor and fell into a deep sleep.

I took the opportunity to examine the tiny pads on the bottom of his feet and his even tinier toenails. I patted his felt-like floppy ears and took note of the fleas in his rather coarse, dull fur. I confused his boy who-ha for a belly button and his balls for a girl who-ha and for a short period of time thought he was a she.

When he finally woke up, it seemed a bath was in order. If he was heading back to the streets, we figured he might as well be clean.

We bathed and dried him and let him play with Chaddy and before long dusk arrived. It seemed heartless to toss him out on the chilly, dark street, so we decided to let him stay–just for one night. We found an old pillow and made him bed.

Of course, one night turned into two. And then three. And four. All the while, Shon and I played, walked, and fed him, while avoiding any discussion of him. Neither of us wanted to say he could stay, but nor did we want to make him go. He became the world’s tiniest elephant in the room.

Ultimately, the puppy made our decision to keep him for us. He proved to be incredibly sweet, snuggly, and playful, plus he adored Chaddy, and she seemed to enjoy [tolerate] him. He made it so we simply couldn’t return him to the street. And so, he stayed.

A few months have passed, and Sam is still snuggly and sweet, but he’s also no longer quite the baby he was before. With a healthy diet, his fur has become shiny, soft, and flea-free. He’s practically doubled in size and is starting to look stocky; I think he may be part Lab.

He has more of a personality now, too, which I adore–mostly because it sparks exchanges such as this one:

Shon: “SAM! Stop chewing on [fill in the blank]!!”

Sam (back at Shon): “WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!”

Shon: “DON’T YELL AT ME WHEN I YELL AT YOU!”

… : ) I can’t wait to see what lands on our doorstep next.