Atitlán Sugar Loaf

Glistening on the lake, the sun sparkled as I gazed out towards the mountains. 

Nearby, the sounds from the kitchen could be heard as Paola prepared us her famous vegan breakfast. It was times like these where everything just felt right with the world. A new day, sparkling and fresh which held promises of summer fruits and hours of poolside lounging.
Back home upstate in NY, I knew my friends were in the midst of a snowstorm and the sweet summer smell for them would feel as a distant dream.  
This was our family tradition of leaving the cold New York winter and retreating to our summer house on the shores of Lago Di Atitlan. Guatemala held a richness that felt private, chaste, and hidden. Poverty abounded and the influx of North Americans buying up land was changing the very fabric of the place. Still, our family house had been with us since my parents were children as my grandmother, while working as a young journalist in her youth, had become enraptured with the country and the people. She had met a local Guatemalan in a nearby village and fallen head over heels. It had been a very different time back then. Despite the horrors of the war and all the death; from what Grandmother spoke of it had been a potent and life changing adventure filled with both the atrocities and the blooming feelings of romance that had sparked between her and Jorge. 


Behind me, the patio door creaked and in came mother with a morning brew of local coffee. Could a morning be complete without the smell of freshly ground coffee beans? The mixture of coffee, breakfast in preparation and the nearby bougainvillea combined with the smell of last night’s rain on the dusty road came together to form a scent bordering on aphrodisiac. I closed my eyes and escaped into the intoxication of the moment. Mother sat down and asked if I wished to join them for a trip to the market in Panajachel. 
The key was to take the early boat and to make sure to be back before lunch as then the waters usually became choppy and the boat, almost unbearably bumpy. 
I feigned to check my internal schedule by gazing upwards for a second. It was going to be a hot day and, if we left soon, we could be back and shaded before the worst of the heat hit in the afternoon. I agreed to join them. Breakfast hit all the right places. Washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice and I was in heaven. 


Taking the boat involved walking to the local jetty. The walk there took one along a rocky path where large trees held the terrain together with their large, exposed roots resembling elephant trunks. 
Our timing was immaculate, and the boat was soon veering off from the dock and gliding along the smooth waters. 
I always enjoyed the changing views from our place to Pana. It gave me comfort that some places would always be wild and without glossy houses. 
Arriving in Pana, we jumped in a Tuk Tuk and made our way to the market. 


Approaching the market area, our noses were bombarded by the smells of fresh meats and recently caught fishes being fanned by the market owners to ward off the many flies that made their rounds. Flowers, vegetables, fruits, nuts, seeds, clothing, spices filled the small market area. As we skillfully navigated our way towards our favorite vegetable store, my eyes caught a glimpse of a face which immediately felt familiar. When I went to look again, the face was gone. People bustled though and past us like schools of fish in human form, bedecked with the most gorgeous colorful woven clothes. 
Inspecting a pomegranate for any bruises or bumps, I felt the keenest glance. Looking up, I spied the familiar face from earlier standing by the spice stall. 
Our eyes locked for a few moments. Eye contact between us always felt electric and filled with a potency of something I could not put my finger on. 
I found myself beginning to smile and I looked down for a second. When my gaze lifted, milliseconds later, my friend by the spice stall had disappeared. Placing the pomegranate into our basket made from recycled potato chip packets, I separated from our family unit and made my way to the street for some fresh air and sunshine. Mother momentarily looked over and I caught her eye, reassuring her that I would wait outside for them. 


The heat from the approaching afternoon was rising and I found some shade under the awning of a clothing store. I closed my eyes for a second, leaning back on the warmly painted orange wall. 
Keeping my eyes closed, I felt someone stand next to me. Our arms touched and I kept my eyes closed. What hit me more than the physical touch of our arms was that scent that at first was a tobacco and chocolate essence and then, underlying those two, a subtle bergamot and patchouli. 
“Follow me” came the voice and I opened my eyes. I followed my friend down the little side street leading to my family’s favorite bakery and stopping briefly by a gate into a property, he reached through the metal window to unlatch the door, beckoned me follow and pushed me against the wall leading to another metal gate behind which must have been his casa. 
We kissed with such fervent intensity that a part of me initially thrilled became almost panicked. Our lips parted after what felt like minutes but was probably seconds. I caught my breath, our eyes locked for a second and then, with utmost earnest tenderness, he whispered “Go now.”


Between us, a deep seated knowing and a feeling of impossibilities hit me as I closed the gate and made my way back our bakery on the side street, feeling giddy. 
I purchased a sweet sugar loaf and bit down into the sweetness. 


By some miracle, when I returned to the awing next to the market, I could see mother and father heading my way.  I raised up what remained of my sugar bread with a smile to reassure them. 
On the boat ride back, I must have been unusually quiet and in truth a little dreamy as I gazed out towards the volcanoes. I felt my parents’ attention almost move them to question how I was doing as we stepped off the boat, onto the dock and passed the exposed roots of the trees. Only the quiet chit chat about the rest of the day’s activities was spoken of. Something must have held them back from asking anything as it wasn’t until dinner that my mother began recalling some of grandmother’s memories. Apparently, some old diaries had resurfaced back in NY. 
As she spoke of this new-in-town American journalist meeting the culture of Guatemala, meeting this local man, Jorge; I began to piece two and two together. Back then, their love was forbidden as grandmother was already engaged to be married to a young barrister from Connecticut. 
As I lay in bed that night, the windows slightly ajar, strange feelings of forbidden love intermingled with the day’s happenings. A shaft of moonlight shone through my bedroom window and the taste of today’s kiss intermingled in my mouth with the subtle patchouli and bergamot. Outside the waves could be heard crashing against the balustrade and I knew this was going to be a summer that could change everything.