June 21 - June 23, 2004

The days pass quickly now in much the same way. A small bit of sight seeing in Antigua, a lot of cataloging and cleaning in Duenas. The last full day of my stay, Jean asks me to go up to the library to bring a new book that’s come via the Airline Ambassadors. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m feeling lazy. Besides, the sky looks as though it’s about to burst and empty all the water that ever was. The night before it had rained buckets and the power was off for awhile. To a hearty Midwestern farm girl like me, this isn’t a big deal. Summer rains are something you live with. What is a bit nerve wracking is that the roads have tendency to wash out here. But Jean really wants me to go and make sure that the folks up at the library know what do when a new book comes. So I go.

I wait awhile until a bus for Duenas arrives. Sure enough it goes past the finca, winds up the hill, makes a few tight turns. Then, abruptly, it stops. I’ve seen this spot before but always as the bus was wheezing its way up towards Duenas. Now, apparently it’s the end of line of this bus. I believe this is Ciudad Vieja.

The few school kids left trickle off. The bus driver and conductor look at me—ah, you thought this bus was going to Duenas, they laugh jovially,  it’s not. I’m sure they’re having me on but after a bit of fancy maneuvering, they turn the bus around, point it down the hill and with a small apologetic puff of smoke, it’s gone.

Now, I suppose there might be some circumstance when you’d say to yourself, gee I’m glad to be in Cuidad Vieja waiting for a bus just before the rainstorm of the century—something to do with it being the only place left on earth. In the normal course of events, however, you probably wouldn’t find yourself standing alone staring at the sagging grey clouds with no idea when the next bus might arrive and say to yourself, “Well thank God, I’m here.” There doesn’t seem to be anyone around; few cars pass by. Finally an older man, bent and wrinkled comes around the corner and stops for minute. “Perdon. Senor,” I have been told that begging pardon like this is the way to win friends and influence people in Spanish. “¿Sabe Usted si el autobus por Duenas pasa aqui? The minute it’s out of my mouth, I think wrong! You said saber instead of conocer. Oh maybe it’s right and did I conjugate the verb correctly—was that the familiar instead of the formal? Even after 2 weeks, it is a major transaction asking the simplest things. I am quite sure more than a few people wondered what sort of mental institutions they run in the States.
But the Senor seems to know what I mean and he’s not offended. A light passes over his face, he smiles and says "Si. El camioneta pasa aqui." He makes a sweeping motion with his hands in the general direction of the street. He tells me just to wait, it will be along. He seems pleased to have helped. That’s the thing here, people will help though I’m most comfortable with babies and old men; anyone else and I’m totally out of my league.

As rain begins to fall more earnestly, I try and find somewhere out of it while at the same time remaining visible to the bus. Within 15 minutes, Esmeralda, a Duenas buses comes. This second bus has an older driver and a young fare taker. This fareman is what your Spanish grammar calls guapo (handsome) or at least HE thinks he is. He’s only about my height with slicked-back hair, tight jeans on a wiry build, a white shirt. I give him 1Q and I know I should be getting change-- a lot-- but he pockets the coin and continues hopping down the aisle. I glare at him. I feel my cultural superiority rear its ugly head. And when he heads back towards the front of the bus, I stop him. “Those jeans are a lousy imitation of the ones WE get from China. You think you can rip me off because I’m a gringa. Well, I know how to make change don’t you, you jerk!” Actually, I don’t, but I do give him a pointed stare and a little smirk when I get off the bus.
Here we are at the end of the line in Duenas. I scurry up the street to the library, sheltering the new book “Océano uno color diccionario enciclopédico” under my arm.

It’s busy inside. Lilian is working with some kids. I briefly interrupt to say a new book has come. She doesn’t look especially happy about this, but offers to stop her instruction and catalog it. I know this is what Jean had in mind, but tell her, no, you can do it later. I snap a few pictures and on the way out, see Dalia. I tell her thank you for letting me play in your library and make it a big mess (why do I try these jokes when my Spanish is so poor?) Ae you leaving, she asks, going back to Jean’s? Yes, I’m leaving but going back to my house (mi casa en los estados unidos). I tell her I miss my daughter but want to come back Duenas if they would like me to. Oh yes, she says, and bring your daughter next time, we’ll be waiting to meet her. Dalia is so sweet.

The same driver -conductor team operate the bus back down to Antigua and I’m delighted to report the conductor has dripped his lunch of over the front of his white shirt. This time, I get my change.