What it took to get there

I cry at weddings. Always. Embarrassing.

It's not a planned reaction -- it always catches me off guard somehow -- but there's just something about weddings that provokes my lacrimal glands.

This weekend, sitting in a little chapel in the southwest quarter of Rochester, MN, I figured out what it is: It's the sheer magnitude of knowing what it took for the couple to get there. Of course, we always seem to focus on the sparkly romance and the dash of destiny that brought two people together into saccharine-sweet happiness. Stuff like, "How did you meet?" "When did you know he/she was The One?" and "How did he propose?" *swooooooooooooon*

But this time, I was thinking more about the long, heart-wrenching backstory that virtually everyone has to go through before the dizzy romantic part comes along.

Who got married this weekend? This (awesomely photoshopped) guy: Justin, one of my best friends. He's brilliant, hard-working, adventurous, tender-hearted, occasionally sassy, and relentlessly dedicated to being a good person. He has fought harder than most people I know to overcome what life has dealt him. So as I sat at his wedding, crying like a goober, it was because I was thinking about the long hard road he had traveled to make it to that day.

Of course he had to find the girl, hang on tight, shave his beard, rent a tux, and say "I do." But way before that, he had to leave his family and his home, decide whether to be a victim or a survivor, define for himself who he is and the kind of man he wants to be, and accept the fact that he's worth loving.

It took nearly 30 years, but the sweetness of that moment was all the richer because of what it took to get there.

Congratulations Justin and Katie.

It's really beautiful to see you happy at the end (and beginning) of this journey.

Whirlwinds of random

The existential crisis of a blog is that anything interesting enough to post about keeps me too busy to post anything. I always end up with a slurry of pictures and stories and no time to do them justice. Such is the situation now. Guatemala was incredible -- a rollercoaster of cultural immersion, homesickness, serene moments, killer hikes, and freaky colloquial "saints."

...and lots of little old people carrying big heavy things, of course:

As I was coming down from a hike to the top of an active volcano outside of Quetzaltenango, a heavy fog rolled in so I stopped in a meadow where some cows with bells were grazing. As I was sitting there a while appreciating that disembodied feeling of being able to hear but not see, this man and his horse came wandering through the mist. I like how the horse is loaded with about 200 pounds of firewood and the guy is carrying two sticks. Its as though he was loading the horse and thought, "Hmmm...these last two sticks would just make it way too heavy."

Here's the volcano:

And here's me standing on the very tippy top of it. I wanted to be aerodynamic in case it erupted:

Meanwhile, back at the host-family house, this is the showerhead, which was connected with an inline water heater via some sketchy wiring. (Ooh...bare wires and running water...every electrician's dream!) With trial and error, I learned that the trick to getting warm water from this thing was to watch the bare lightbulb on the bathroom ceiling while gradually turning on the water in the shower. As soon as the lightbulb dimmed, that meant there was electric power running to the showerhead. Also with trial and error, I learned to ignore that uneasy, unsafe feeling of imminent electrocution that would rise within me anytime I looked at the showerhead.

My homestay bedroom (which was actually the family's laundry room with a mattress on the floor) had this stunning view of a roof. But not just any roof. It had a roof toilet. Fans of Scrubs, this is your moment to comptemplate the glory of our world:

How could waking up to a view of a roof toilet every morning not make me want to run skipping and dancing through the streets of Guatemala? It was a recipe for inevitable joy. And joyness. And joy. In other random travel news: This mouth full of bling belongs to a lady named Maria who lives in Panajachel on the banks of Lake Atitlan where she weaves blankets and smiles at tourists.

Lago Atitlan itself is ringed by 3 major volcanoes and countless minor cinder cones. There was a morning when I negotiated a kayak rental then paddled around on the lake before anyone else was awake. At one point out on the water I had a moment in which it suddenly hit me just how amazing life really is -- a blinding flash of the obvious when I realized "Holy cow! I'm in Guatemala. Kayaking Lake Atitlan." Even if the whole entire trip had only been for the purpose of having that one moment of realization in which it was so clear to me that I'm happy and content and life is good, it would've been worthwhile.And since we're pondering life's deep existential questions of happiness... If you happened to be starting a vest-wearing Latin music octet, would you name it Oasis de Amor/Love Oasis? Dudes, you'll never have the cool factor of Bruce Springstein with a name like that, regardless of your mullets and matching vests. At least I finally discovered the answer to another important existential question while I was traveling Central America. What is the purpose of Lichi? Behold, an answer at last:

Unfortunately, the world is still plagued by another question: Why is it so easy for children's dolls to cross the threshold from cute to creepy? Does this make you want to buy a soccer uniform for your child at the street market? I felt like I'd be voodoo cursed just for stopping to take a picture of it.

And finally, in the absolutely weirdest thing I´ve ever seen in my whole life, I went with some of the students from my Spanish school on a pilgrimage to see San Simon ¨Maximón.¨ He's a funky little wooden mannequin that sits on a throne, wears sunglasses and a fedora and a black necktie, smokes cigarettes, wears only the most expensive suits, and grants the desires (both good and evil) of all comers.

According to the 500 year old back-story, when the Conquistadors arrived to the region, they were kidnapping and violating the women and children of the villages. Maximón (a real man who hated injustice and abuse of power...and who also happened to really like tobacco and rum and voodoo-ish stuff), went from village to village helping them hide their women and children from the Conquistadors to keep them safe. He was lauded as a hero by the villagers, but the Spaniards were so upset by his defiance that they killed and dismembered him, then spread his body parts across the whole country -- an arm there, a leg here, a head over there. But then, they say that his spirit appeared to people in every village that his body parts had been spread to, so the villagers started worshipping him as a saint. The Catholic church refused to grant him sainthood (no surprise there), so the townspeople have taken turns hosting the idol in their homes ever since. They all worship him in whatever ways they see fit (Catholic prayers, Mayan rituals, animal sacrifices, voodoo dolls, whatever), and he'll help pretty much anyone with pretty much anything from miracles to murders, as long as they sacrifice enough money and votive candles and bottles of his favorite rum at his altar. While I was there, a guy was sitting in one corner doing Tarot card readings, a woman was there praying for her sick child alternating between Hail Mary's and The Lord's Prayer and pleas to Maximón, and this actual Mayan shaaman was knelt down doing a smoke ritual to commune with the dead:

Just think of the blend of Christianity, paganism, coincidental beliefs, humanitarianism, virtues, vices, pyromania, and moneymaking that all had to converge in order to create a belief system like that. It blows my mind.

Congratulations are Overdue!

I'm currently in Panajachel (a touristy town on the banks of Lake Atitlan), staying the weekend at a sweet little hotel that provides hot water (...oh, how I've missed thee) and WiFi (ditto). All for about $12 US per night. Getting here involved a 2-hour ride through the pouring rain in a refurbished 1970's school bus that was billowing black smoke and loaded with about 80 passengers in a space intended for 40. A middle-aged indigenous lady carrying a huge canvas bag full of radishes essentially sat on my lap most of the way there.

Cost for the bus: $3US.

Value: Priceless.

I love this country.

But first things first!

May 16th, two of my most awesome friends got married on the edge of a cliff in Yosemite National Park. It was one of the prettiest weddings I've ever been to.

Despite the weird May snowstorm:

...And it was certainly the only wedding I've attended in which the bride changed into her dress on a ledge of rock behind a tarp, the happy couple wore safety harnesses, and all the guests had helmets on.

Congratulations Jorge and Val!

As the card said: "May you always be happy campers."