Espuma, #2

Classic Meg. Really. Ok. Sometimes I think I am really not ok in life. So on Saturday I had decided that I was going to put my bike on a bus for a few hours (on top), then get off and ride back to Panachel, since biking through the countryside is what I do in life. (I got the idea of the route from this guy that was biking from Colorado, down to where I met him in Antigua. His original plan was to go all the way to Costa Rica, but was on his way to the Internet cafe to a) book a ticket home and b) tell his friends he wasn´t going all the way to Costa Rica). He also pretty much convinced that I should start racing Cat 5 this year, which I have been seriously considering. Anyway, back to the story at hand.

I get back to Pana (it was a beautiful ride, though a lot shorter than I had anticipated), and run into this guy (Costa Rican, incidently), that I had met the night before, and we had plans to meet up Saturday evening for a beer or whatever. So I, of course, am sweaty, and on my bike, but there is no way out of saying hello, and figure, hell, I probably don´t look that different than I do half the time down here (my lack of femininity down here even I feel has escalated...there will be a manicure, blowdrying of hair, application of makeup, and something other than the one pair of pants I have on my return to SF...but do people really wear heels to Zeitgeist?? Hmmm).

So we (the guy I am supposed to meet up with that night) are talking for awhile (10 minutes in Spanish can feel like approximately 867 years in English sometimes, especially when being attacked by hunger), and then I realize, because he actually points out, that I happen to have dried spit, espuma, if you will, all across my cheek. Sweet. Hot.

That would be my second blog entry on spit.

At least this time its my spit? I scrubbed my face profusely Saturday evening, for the record (though I had some mishaps with the shower, causing minor explosions of both water and jolts of electricity and doused the entire bathroom in freezing cold water), and then put on that same pair of pants and same long sleeved shirt and headed out. Saturday night was really fun, though. And since in my village of San Antonio, there are no bars, cafes or restaurants (or women on the streets past 8), I was pretty excited for the big night out, if you will.