....to living here... I forget to take note of the little differences around me. The trash piles that no one gives a second thought; the way that men and women in the market prop themselves up on a blanket to sit for long periods of time; the incredible diversity of color, dress, and language that surrounds me when I go anywhere; the act of going to a market to procure anything and everything for consumption; the routine packing of 12 person vans to 20; the diversity of salutations on the street; the whistling, hissing, or ch-ch-ing that every other man does on the street to a woman and gets away with it; the entire set of reggaeton songs that I know and can sort of mumble along to but fall under a genre and scene of music that I would NEVER know in the states; the firecrackers and fireworks at all times of day and night, all week along - for there is always a reason to set them off; the confusing hand gesture that to foreigners at first means "go away!" but actually means "hurry up, you or come here"; the number of 6-14 year old children I pass on the street that should clearly be in school but are instead helping their parents or just aren't forced to go; the 6-10 year old boys that work and are the strongholds of micro-bus and chicken bus** entry management - ie, those that scream the destination of whatever moving vehicle half hanging out of the window and/or open door and skillfully (and dare I say it...even...gracefully) help shove more people into said vehicle than thought humanly possible; strangers on the street actually looking you in the eye just to greet you; and, of course, speaking Spanish everyday.
**I realize that in my short and very lacking narrative of my experience in Guatemala, I have managed to leave out an explanation of the "chicken bus". This will follow shortly (tomorrow).
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