Into the Gentle Rubber-Gloved Hands of Airport Security

One of us jumps out of bed at 5am, fixes a large steaming bowl of some sort of hot multi-grain cereal, a chewably thick cup of coffee and they're ready to plow fields, wrestle cows, and fight evil in our time. And one of us doesn't. One of us greets this experience with all the enthusiasm of a car sick lapdog. A dark cab ride, Christmas morning, one of us leaning a cheek against the cold glass, the cab driver asking odd questions about how long we planned to be gone. An understaffed airport security checkpoint with a thin blonde barking orders — shoes off, watches off, computers out, cameras out. Oh, and nothing like the holidays to fill the airports with small misbehaving children.

We'd been trying for days to get Guatemala money before we arrived because we were getting in late on Christmas Day and didn't want to deal with problems with ATMs maybe being out of money over a holiday. We'd gone as far as to order Guatemala Queztals at a local exchange service, but the money had to be flown in from the east coast and there was this small problem of enormous snow storms shutting down everything east of the Rockies. The airlines were such a mess, US Air alone mishandled luggage for 10,000 passengers, they were flying extra empty planes filled with luggage that'd been disconnected from passengers on other flights. People were having heart attacks trying to dig themselves out from snowbanks. Fed Ex and UPS were admitting defeat on last minute Christmas presents. Our currency problems were not high on anyone's radar. But the Houston airport had Quetzals, making the 3 and a half hour layover almost, well, almost, productive.

And there waiting for us beyond the last set of doors, on a warm, humid night in chaotic crowd of guards with bullet-proof vests and sawed off shotguns, touts, cab drivers, small boys and women, was a lovely man holding a sign with Dean's name on it. Usually when we travel, I spend months researching a location and making phone calls and making the arrangements. This time, I'd found a travel agent in Atlanta, Georgia, that specialized in Central and South America and just said, Guatemala, I want to see Guatemala, I want to see Mayan ruins, I don't know anything about Guatemala, I don't speak Spanish, I don't want to be part of a tour with anyone else, just make it happen. And they did. The lovely man had a book of vouchers for us and everything was covered. Here ya go, Guatemala in an envelope.

By the time we got off the plane and got through customs and got our luggage and get settled in the hotel it was almost 11pm. My only memory is that the hotel was dark and quiet and had an enormous king sized bed and an alarm set for 4:30am.

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