Good afternoon, Xela!

I'm not sure why, but I love it when people here call me Rosita. Somehow, the teachers seem to know lots of songs with Rosita, and everyday I appreciate their serenades.

But I can't stay long after class. I have limitied time to get down the hill, past the market and to a good place to eat before I need to come back to the market and up the hill for the afternoon's work. On my journey, I listen with newfound appreciation to Marc Anthony. I can't explain it; it's a Guatemalan mystery. My head is full as I try to think with new words. I formulate sentences to greet the sights that I missed on this morning's trek: buenas tardes (the papeleria boy), gracias por los regalos ayer (the local pan shop), su hijo es muy lindo (the family tienda lady), me recuerdes de Daisy (the tan dalmation.)

I make it to the Blue Angel with barely enough time to eat. Superman is flying around in the form of a 3 year old. I try to talk to him, but he will only respond with scowls and grunts while his cape chases him with a dramatic flair that cannot be equaled. His determination to save the world gives me motivation to finish my vegetables, beans, tortillas and tea in reasonable time to walk back up the hill to my duty.

There, I choose a bike that is only slightly the wrong size for me, and I make some plans during our bike ride to La Cuchilla for the upcoming classes: english and art. First hill: if I can make it to the tienda with the peacocks, I feel like Lance Armstrong. I don't mind walking the bike up the last 20 foot incline. Left turn at the gas station: everyday I wonder if that street is Rodolfo Robles but no one can give me a straight answer, not even the map. The hill of doom: anyone who attempts to bike this immediately receives my full admiration. Left turn at the bus stop: we've gone past the ritzy neighborhood with the waterfall into the extremely poor neighborhoods with the goats and crumbling bricks.

Classes begin. Marcos has vision problems and his shoes are literally falling off of his feet, but when he shows me his art, he could not be happier. Evelyn draws me pictures and calls me "seño"... Oliver likes to bully, but when you sit with him, he remains quite attentive.

I walk with anxious kids to get the key for the bathroom during the pause. The others play soccer, and I am eager to watch. In those moments, they have no cares. Their minds are not on having new school clothes to show off or video games to play. No, instead their sole delight is in a simple game with a simple ball. Even the pouring rain cannot wash away their joy in this game they play together. Here I realize that though many of them may never see a portion of the wealth that we see everyday, their lives are abundantly rich.

Classes finish and the other teachers and I affectionately say goodbye to the children. We head back down the hills on our bikes in the pounding rain. We rest a bit at our school and continue our descent back down the hill to the heart of the city where we live. The rain continues, and our pants have become so soaked that the street water becomes the wick and our pants the source. During this walk, as we talk and laugh, when we are cold, wet and most likely to be miserable, that is when we find ourselves most happy to be in Xela.