I wanted to write a blog about Central America, to conclude our time spent in this part of the world, to at least offer you a concise summary. This is what has come out instead; it isn't concise, and it certainly isn't a conclusion. Maybe I'll try again next time.
For, if seeing is believing than how can I attempt to describe everything I have seen in 500 words? How can I write of all the places I have been, and more importantly the people that have come to define them? As I sat in the airport on Tuesday morning, flying out of Guatemala City to head to the Yucatan, I was overcome by the impossibility of transcribing my pages of notes into any resemblance of coherent thoughts. Perhaps, I'm just not there yet, not quite ready to form my lasting thoughts on Central America. Or perhaps, I'm just not ready to call it the end.
For two weeks, Amanda and I called what may possibly be the most beautiful place on earth home. Lake Atitlan was formed by volcanic eruption and is the deepest lake in Central America. The water is a plateau of deep blue, the three volcanoes and endless mountain ranges frame the lake's edges, and small towns and farms speckle the coasts. Once on land you are overwhelmed by color - bright textiles sold by indigenous women and bougainvillea flowers ranging from bright oranges to dark purples. And the smells - trash that has sat a little too long lingers with the sweet smell of bread baking in the nearby tienda. 
Yet, as beautiful as the scenery was, our time was defined even more by our host family and the women artisans we interviewed each day, and by the struggles that were visible in their eyes even while they smiled and opened their warm hearts to us. We met women who live each day on less than I spent on a pack of gum in the airport, yet who are still willing to serve us a plate of rice, tortillas, guacamole, and the some of the best grilled chicken I've ever had.
As I sit writing this in a hotel in Cancun I feel worlds away from Lake Atitlan, from concrete floors, and from making tortillas in the small kitchen while our ten year old host-brother dribbles a deflated basketball around the chairs. Yet in the words of my new friend I met on the flight from Panama City to Cancun, "As long as you leave something behind, be it knowledge or friendship, your stay has a purpose." With eyes that have seen more than I could ever hope to see, and with legs that carry his 70-something years extremely well, my friend - from Trinidad, educated at MIT, and having set foot possibly on 80% of the countries in the world - perhaps knows what he's talking about.
With that, I'd like to think that in replace of the 600 photos and countless memories, that I have somehow left something behind in exchange. But perhaps it is just part of my heart.
Farewell Central America, I will find my way back to you soon . . .
That is lovely.
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