Hot Water and a Gym
The shower’s hot water still doesn’t work. Tito keeps telling me he’s going to fix it, and I believe that he tries, but so far it’s a no go. Margoth thinks I’m turning it on too high, but I’ve assured her that I know how to use the Guatemalan showers. Dripping is hot, pressured is cold. Still, we are at an impasse. It’s not a huge deal since I’m just using Robin’s shower; and truthfully her bathroom is a lot friendlier feeling than mine. My bathroom has mint colored walls, with olive and mint speckled tiles for the lower half. The sink is a hunter green that holds onto water spots with envy. And the toilet seat is decorated with a furry green cover. The toilet itself is green, although of all the greens in the room, it is probably the nicest.
The shower itself is tiled in more of the olive and mint tiles, and there is one metal hook bored into a tile on which to hang a cloth or a shower rack should I ever get to use this shower again. The curtain is a lovely white cloth, lacy and jarring in its whiteness. It should brighten up the room, but only serves to make the green more present. The combination is fairly depressing, and after my high school reading of Goethe’s color theory using The Great Gatsby, I have never been able to see walls in yellow or green without feeling fairly nauseous. These two colors in particular have a very narrow window of acceptability, and sadly, my bathroom green does not fit within the meter.
Happily, my yellow and ochre colored bedroom is as pleasant and airy as the bathroom is sad. Two windows, one which looks out onto the mountains and the roofs of the sad houses beneath, the other which looks out onto the garden, the house wall and gate and the streets and mountains beyond. When I first arrived here, my bed was against the opposite wall and the curtain was hanging against the window which didn’t open and which faced north. When I returned from Xela, the bed had mysteriously been turned and the curtain moved to the opposite window. It was a thoughtful gesture, as that window faced other houses while the closed window only looked out onto corrugated roofs and some church bells.
I have decided to join a gym instead of risking my ankles in the streets. The cobbles are as deep as the stones are high, and don’t even think about trying to jog on the sidewalk. It’s all I can do to walk without bumping into someone. “Con Permiso” is constantly on my lips, although I often bungle it and say “desculpe” instead, which is a different type of excuse me. So a regular gym is in my budget now. Two fellas from CSA are going to show me the “gringo” gym, and have assured me that it’s the finest in town. Barry, the 60 year old grandpa with arms of steel, is my guide. I trust him with gym knowledgability. He is both an auctioneer, an impound lot salesman, and an old carnie.
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Update: I have hit a snag. In my excitement at gym membership, I told Margoth about my decision. As it turns out, Giovani, her eldest son, works at the “other” gringo gym, La Fabrica. This one is cheaper but much further away. They have salsa classes, but none of my new friends go to it, nor does Barry endorse it. Margoth is fairly insistent though, and I am unsure how to proceed.
The shower itself is tiled in more of the olive and mint tiles, and there is one metal hook bored into a tile on which to hang a cloth or a shower rack should I ever get to use this shower again. The curtain is a lovely white cloth, lacy and jarring in its whiteness. It should brighten up the room, but only serves to make the green more present. The combination is fairly depressing, and after my high school reading of Goethe’s color theory using The Great Gatsby, I have never been able to see walls in yellow or green without feeling fairly nauseous. These two colors in particular have a very narrow window of acceptability, and sadly, my bathroom green does not fit within the meter.
Happily, my yellow and ochre colored bedroom is as pleasant and airy as the bathroom is sad. Two windows, one which looks out onto the mountains and the roofs of the sad houses beneath, the other which looks out onto the garden, the house wall and gate and the streets and mountains beyond. When I first arrived here, my bed was against the opposite wall and the curtain was hanging against the window which didn’t open and which faced north. When I returned from Xela, the bed had mysteriously been turned and the curtain moved to the opposite window. It was a thoughtful gesture, as that window faced other houses while the closed window only looked out onto corrugated roofs and some church bells.
I have decided to join a gym instead of risking my ankles in the streets. The cobbles are as deep as the stones are high, and don’t even think about trying to jog on the sidewalk. It’s all I can do to walk without bumping into someone. “Con Permiso” is constantly on my lips, although I often bungle it and say “desculpe” instead, which is a different type of excuse me. So a regular gym is in my budget now. Two fellas from CSA are going to show me the “gringo” gym, and have assured me that it’s the finest in town. Barry, the 60 year old grandpa with arms of steel, is my guide. I trust him with gym knowledgability. He is both an auctioneer, an impound lot salesman, and an old carnie.
...
Update: I have hit a snag. In my excitement at gym membership, I told Margoth about my decision. As it turns out, Giovani, her eldest son, works at the “other” gringo gym, La Fabrica. This one is cheaper but much further away. They have salsa classes, but none of my new friends go to it, nor does Barry endorse it. Margoth is fairly insistent though, and I am unsure how to proceed.
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