Against the Tide I'll Rise

Well, I am here. Thus far I have watched wide-eyed and yawnily as Marvin, my impressive driver, navigated capital city traffic, eaten pie and tiramisu with Celeste (the lovely sly friend who just happened to be traveling in Guate when I was to come) while chatting vigorously about the last bundle of months of our lives, conversed heatedly about U.S. politics and wood engraving tools and Jarabe de Palo with Kenny, a local musician sort and friend of Celeste's, gotten gently lost on my way back to the Casa de Maco (my home of one night before I meet my host family tomorrow), and now I'm plopped in my room plotting dinner. I have no sweeping conclusions yet, only sly pleasure in the center fountain who spouts water from her breasts and reverence for a sunset as varied and bright as any Walla Walla had to offer and gratitide that my instinct for walking with my eyes satellite-sensing treacherous sidewalk drops and low-hanging balconies and absorbing as much loveliness as possible all at once and an exhaustion held at bay by the scramble of traffic and the nori-wrapped rice crackers that my mom sent as part of my picnic lunch. 

During the layover in Houston, I tackled a very rough translation of the song that grants this blog its title. Seeing as how not everyone I want to read this darn thing speaks Spanish, I'll pass the translation along, hopefully at the bottom of this page. Its relevance is clear: I don't know what exactly I'm doing here (though I know I will start teaching on Monday, which is dizzyingly soon), I don't know how long I'm staying, and I don't really know where I'm going next. Good places, I trust. The optimism of arrival has set in.