I grew up in the barrio but my first conversation in Spanish wasn’t until I went thousands of miles away to Guatemala. It comes down to fear, as does much on this trip. Things I am afraid to do at home, I will do far from it.
When I got onto the plane at the Atlanta airport, I was not even brave enough to tell the woman that I had seat 23B, instead I pointed at my ticket and made helpless facial expressions.
By the time I arrived in Guatemala City, I had watched all of Hidalgo in Spanish (understanding little), listened to the "seat cushion flotation device" speech (in Spanish) more intently than ever, and was finally brave enough to ask the nice lady next to me what time it was.
Once I arrived in Antigua (about 25-35 minutes from the airport), I had found out that my driver, Frederico, had 2 sisters and a brother, spoke Spanish as a second language (I am not sure what his first was) and that he was tired. Although, he may have said married, as the two words always confuse me.
We spoke about much more than this, but I did not journal the conversation because I was just so excited to have had it. I used my broken Spanish to converse with someone who uses the language everyday.
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