Honduras: Hidden Gems and Heavy Hits

To say that the last week has been a whirlwind would be the greatest of understatements. I apologize for my relative lack of updates, but the reasons will likely be clear by the end of this piece.

I left Antigua the afternoon of Sunday 9/1, wishing on some level that I didn't have to; I'd really come to enjoy the small, if touristy, city between volcanoes, and I'd made some genuine friends during my time there, a few of whom have been in almost daily contact since I left. At least I was leaving with lasting memories, and a bit of lingering soreness to remember Acatenango by.

The ride out of Antigua and through Guatemala City wasn't one of the better ones I've had thus far; it was murderously hot and the traffic through the city was terribly slow, though no less homicidal than the Latin American norm. I was grateful to leave the city and get back out to the mountains, enjoying the last few hours of Guatemalan scenery visible between the curtains of rain following me most of the way. My destination was Chiquimula, a small town close to the border with Honduras. I arrived after nightfall and with a thunderstorm starting, but my hosts' hospitality more than made up for the less-than-ideal conditions; the family I was staying with had kept dinner for me, and had a place for me to pull the bike off the street. 

With far better weather the next day, I set off for the border, enjoying the last few miles of Guatemala until I arrived at the Frontera El Florido border station. After the relatively quick process of getting my exit stamp from Guatemala, my entry stamp for Honduras, and turning in my permit for the motorcycle, I realized that I'd made the colossal mistake of getting to the border in the middle of lunch. Cue close to an hour of waiting for the Honduran Aduana agent to get back from lunch, followed by another hour or so of running back and forth between the Aduana office, copy store across the street, ATM, and the second office I inexplicably had to go to in order to pay my vehicle permit fee. After about three hours, I was into Honduras. 

My destination for the night, Copan Ruinas, was only about 10 minutes from the border, and after a short wait for my host, Francia, I was settled for the night. The next morning, I made an early start to the ruins for with Copan is named. The easternmost of the major Mayan cities, Copan is one of the lesser-known ruins in Latin America, but beyond impressive. For one, it's enormous; over 4,500 structures have been discovered in the area, and I found myself stumbling onto more areas I hadn't seen without even meaning to. Copan's greatest assets are the many stelae and heiroglyphic inscriptions throughout the complex; the stelae are spectacularly detailed, several in the likeness of prominent kings of Copan. The centerpiece of the whole city is a 10-meter wide stairway ascending one of the pyramids with hieroglyphics depicting much of the history of Copan carved into each step, and comprises the largest and longest Mayan text currently known. 

The stelae are incredible as well, many in an excellent state of preservation and with some of the original paint and stucco still visible. 

I can't recommend the Copan Ruinas enough; there is simply so much to see there, from the ceremonial plaza, to the well-preserved juego de pelota (Mayan ball game) court, to the enormous pyramids, to multiple groups of residential structures, some not fully excavated. Watching excavations in progress on parts of the ruins was also fascinating, although I wasn't actually sure I was allowed in the area I'd stumbled into to watch those. 

After returning to town for a quick lunch, I followed one of my host's recommendations and visited Macaw Mountain, a breeding and rehab center for native bird species, specializing particularly in Scarlet Macaws, the national bird of Honduras. The program started on the island of Roatan in the 1980s with Mandy Wagner, an American resident who began taking in and caring for unwanted or abandoned parrots and macaws that had been kept as pets by other expats who subsequently left the island. After Wagner herself moved from Roatan, the birds passed to another American, Lloyd Davidson, who founded the first actual park on the island, including a number of aviaries for the expanding number of birds left by expats. In 2001, Davidson moved the project to a 10-acre plot of land above Copan Ruinas and had the birds flown from Roatan to their new permanent home. Macaw Mountain now exists as a rehab center for injured and rescued birds, a permanent home for birds unable to be released into the wild, and a breeding center for multiple species of macaws. There are almost 30 aviaries housing species ranging from parakeets to a King Vulture and Great Horned Owl, and they house at least 6 breeding pairs of Scarlet Macaws in an effort to repopulate the species' original range. 

That night, Francia had me come talk to the English class she teaches about my trip and answer any questions the class could think of, after which one of her students drove us to dinner in his moto-taxi, or "tuk-tuk". Imagine a VW beetle with the doors and front wheels removed, and the front end of a motorcycle stuck on, and you've got the general idea of a tuk-tuk. They're all over Central America, and riding in one is mildly terrifying. 

I made the short ride to Santa Rosa de Copan the next morning, planning on a short visit. There wasn't much to see in the town itself other than a nicely laid out park with a gigantic depiction of the 10 Commandments at the top, but my host, Oscar, introduced me to a number of his friends, with whom I spent most of the afternoon and evening eating, drinking coffee, and conversing about our various international experiences. For a quick stopover, it definitely wasn't a bad one.

The next morning, I left early for what was supposed to be the long ride to Isla Zacate Grande, an island on the south coast formed by a dormant volcano. I say "supposed to be", because I never actually made it. Around an hour and a half from my destination, while riding on a mostly deserted, brand-new 4-lane highway, I came up on a pickup parked on the right shoulder with its hazard lights on. Thinking he was stopped with a mechanical problem or some such, I changed lanes and intended to move on, just as the truck suddenly pulled a U-turn across both lanes of the highway, completely blocking the road right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes, feeling the ABS kick in on both ends, but ran out of room and hit the driver's side of truck, dumping myself and the bike on the ground. I was immediately confronted by an overweight Honduran yelling angrily about why I'd run into his truck, as though the entire thing had been my fault; rather than act on my immediate instinct to bash the man's face in with my helmet, I retreated and did the one thing I absolutely didn't want to do anywhere in Latin America: called the police. 

While we waited, I assessed the damage to the bike and myself. I'd landed on my right knee and hit my hand on the side of the truck but thanks to the armor in my pants and gloves, what could have been a couple of broken bones turned out to be only mild soreness. The Twin wasn't as lucky; I picked it up off the ground with a sick feeling in my stomach, assuming a completely smashed front end and likely the end of my trip. A few bystanders and I tried to move it back from the truck, but the front wheel wasn't turning. Before I got too far into my own head, two Policia Nacional officers showed up on motorcycles. I'm going to paraphrase the conversation that followed, because I still can't quite believe the way it went:

Fed: What happened? 

Driver: I was just driving down the road and tried to turn around, and all of a sudden he hits me out of nowhere! 

Fed, to me: What happened? 

Me: I was 50-100 meters down the road, saw him on the side with his flashers on from way back, and he pulled across both lanes in front of me without any warning. I couldn't avoid him and hit the side of his truck. 

Fed, to Driver: You turned from the right side of the road? 

Driver: Yes. 

Fed: ...and you were trying to cross two lanes and a solid yellow line with barrier dots when there's a turnaround a kilometer up the road? 

Driver: ... 

Fed, to me: How much is it going to cost to fix your bike? 

Me: I'll have to get it inspected at a shop, but that plus the small things I can see are broken will probably be about 4,000 Lempiras (about $200) 

Fed, to Driver: Pay him the 4,000 lempiras. Here's your ticket. You can both go.

Scarcely believing the exchange that had just happened, I turned my attention back to the Twin. The right handguard was broken off and the metal cage around it bent, but upon further inspection, it turned out that the guard was compressing the brake level, preventing the wheel from turning. Once that was straightened out, the wheel turned freely, but the bars were noticeably tweaked, and the front suspension visibly out of alignment. Other than that, the only damage I could find was some scuffed coating on the crash bars and a minor scuff on one of my side bags. All the bodywork and lights were intact, all the electronics worked, and the bike started up as though nothing had happened.

I just want to emphasize a point here: I hit a Toyota Hilux, a truck so legendarily indestructible that after the hosts of Top Gear left one in the English Channel overnight, ran it into all manner of walls and poles, and left it on top of a building that was promptly demolished, it still started and drove. The impact the Twin suffered would have smashed in the entire front ends of every other motorcycle I've owned, and yet I was able to ride away with slightly tweaked front suspension and one broken piece of plastic. This thing is an absolute TANK. I continued a short distance down the road, making sure the bike wasn't going to shake itself to the ground or anything, and then pulled off and called my family, the stress and adrenaline finally catching up with me. I immediately abandoned my plans for island camping, and found a hotel in Nacoame, a small town not far from the Nicaraguan border, where I was finally able to take a short breather and let myself relax. The combined efforts of several friends, family members, and friends-of-friends had found me a mechanic just over the Nicaraguan border who was sure he could fix my alignment, and a number of resources had I needed them, but fortunately I didn't. The most important thing was that I was physically OK, and still on the road.

All in all, my short time in Honduras had been one of extremes; Copan had been the most interesting and fascinating ruin I'd explored by far and I'd really enjoyed meeting all the people I'd met, but on the flip side, I'd had the single worst experience of the trip so far, one that easily could have seriously injured me and/or ended my journey entirely, and that would keep me shaken up long after I'd left the scene. I will definitely give Honduras another, and longer, chance in the future, but this time, I just wanted to get on with my travels.

One Week in Antigua, Pt. 2: Mount Doom

If you've been keeping up with my journey so far, you'll have already read the account of most of my time in Antigua, but Thursday and Friday 8/29-30 were special enough to warrant a whole separate story.

As previously mentioned, Antigua is surrounded on two sides by a total of three volcanoes, one of which, Volcán de Fuego, is almost constantly active. While the puffs of smoke and ash it regularly emits are often visible from the city, it's possible to see the eruptions up close by climbing neighboring Acatenango. So, with little else to do, I booked an overnight backpacking tour with Ox Expeditions, one of the more highly rated tour companies in Antigua. 

The group of six others and two guides that I'd be making the climb with gathered at 7:00 on Thursday to pack up our food, water, and parts of the camping gear provided by Ox. One of the upshots was that I already had my own sleeping bag and pad, both of which weighed significantly less than the provided gear, and the Mosko Moto Backcountry duffel in which I'd been keeping all my clothes on the back of the bike doubled as a decent and completely waterproof backpack. Gear-wise, I felt pretty set, with the only possible problem being my shoes; in the interest of saving weight and space on the trip, the only footwear I'd brought were my enormous, largely inflexible riding boots, and a pair of Keens, which I'd opted to wear. More on why that's an utterly horrendous idea later. 

We were dropped off around 9:30 at the foot of Acatenango, and from the very beginning, it was obvious that the mountain wasn't going to be an easy hike. The trail climbed steeply through a channel between farm fields, and the surface was loose gravel at best, slippery dirt at worst. At least we had the usual fantastic Guatemalan scenery to look back at.

As we ascended further, farmland gave way to tropical cloud forest and some relief from the sun and heat. We'd been blessed with entirely clear and gorgeous weather near the bottom, so there were no clouds to be seen in said forest, but the lush, green environment and firmer ground were more than welcome after the difficult first part. The trail wasn't getting any less steep though, and as we trudged up through the cloud forest and watched it transition to deciduous alpine forest, we collectively started wondering if we were going to see any flat ground prior to arriving at the mountain's base camp. I was having a particularly bad time with the sloping trail; my Keens had very little traction on loose ground, and the open design of the shoes was causing them to fill with rocks every time I slid backwards, necessitating several stops to empty them out or have the soles of my feet ground off. As the forest opened up, the trail finally started to flatten out, allowing us to take a bit of a breather and a look around, and what we saw was quite spectacular. There was evidence that the higher reaches of Acatenango had once been densely forested, but what had once been tall evergreen trees were now dead trunks, their leaves and branches having been blasted off by Acatenango's most recent eruption in 1972. The thinning forest also revealed an even better view of the surrounding mountains and landscape than we'd seen thus far.

We made it to base camp around 4:30 in the afternoon, and while we'd been hiking over mostly flat ground for the final hour or so, another problem revealed itself as soon as we set down at camp: strong, howling, unrelenting wind blowing across our side of the mountain and making it nearly impossible to hold onto anything that wasn't weighted down. The temperature had also dropped significantly as we ascended, and would continue to do so as the sun descended. I wasn't concerned with unpacking my things quite yet, however, as three of the other hikers and I had opted to continue onward to Volcan de Fuego itself. The volcano had been looming larger as we approached base camp, blowing out plumes of ash as we hiked towards it, but we wanted to get as close as we safely could. The hike across the ridge linking the two peaks was steep, but not overly difficult compared to what we'd just done, but the wind on the ridge was even worse; the gusts had to be close to 50 mph, and it was almost impossible to stand up straight lest the wind blow us off balance. The sight of Volcan de Fuego up close was worth it though, even if we didn't witness a significant eruption during our short time on the ridge. Up close, what looked like dull grey slopes turned out to be a palate of reddish volcanic pyroclast deposited on Fuego's slopes, and steam was visible issuing from vents near the peak. The famous Jeff Goldblum line from Jurassic Park also came to mind: "Life...uh...finds a way." Even in this desolate wind-swept, volcano-blasted landscape, small flowers were blooming all over the ridge, stubbornly attempting to claim the volcanic soil. 

Night was starting to fall as we made our way back down the ridge and across to base camp Acatenango; thankfully we'd all been advised to bring headlamps with us, which made what would otherwise have been a blind hike through sketchy terrain relatively easy. Just as we reached camp, a few of my colleagues suddenly looked up and gasped. I turned around just as the sound of an explosion hit us to see one of the most awe-inspiring sights of my 31 years; where during the day, Volcan de Fuego's eruption had looked like puffs of grey ash and ejecta, a plume of lava, flying red-hot rocks, and smoke lit orange from the crater below was blasting into the sky behind us and cascading down the slopes below. I stared slack-jawed as the orange light faded away, unable to find words in my head to encompass the display of absolute natural power I'd just witnessed. If someone had said that J.R.R. Tolkien had taken his inspiration for the setting of Mount Doom from the volcano I was watching while writing The Lord of the Rings, I'd have believed it without a second thought. 

Our guides told us that Fuego seemed to be more active at night, and the volcano was certainly doing all it could to back up that assertion; throughout our dinner of pasta and mulled wine the guides had made (including 2.5 liters of frozen spaghetti sauce that had been weighing my pack down all day), Fuego continued to erupt regularly, snapping all of our heads around every time to watch yet another explosion of lava bombs. I'd never been remotely close to an active volcano in my life, and it was bringing up flashbacks of a temporary obsession with volcanoes and geology I'd enjoyed as a young child. I'd set up my camera and tripod to try to capture some photos of the eruptions, and though I only caught a scarce few, it was worth the effort and near-frozen hands.

If you'd told me prior to leaving Nashville that I'd be spending the one-month mark from my departure camping at nearly 13,000 feet of elevation watching a volcano blowing lava into the sky, I'd probably have laughed it off, but here I was, there it was, and once again I couldn't help but marvel at my fortune in having the opportunity to witness the sight I was seeing at all. We retired to our tents, cold, weary, and sore, but with Fuego emitting loud explosions at regular intervals, sleep wasn't always easy to come by; sometime around midnight, we were all awakened by an eruption so powerful it shook the ground beneath us and echoed off the neighboring mountains. Better than being rudely awoken by the 2 A.M. emergency tones I'd grown accustomed to in my professional life, though!

We were awakened for real at 4:30 AM for the 90-minute climb to the summit of Acatenango. To say I wasn't 100% would be an understatement; my feet were still hurting thanks to hiking much of the way up with shoes full of rocks, my legs were sore, and despite having acclimated to Antigua's relatively high altitude above sea level, I was getting rapidly short of breath with even moderate exertion. Still, I hadn't come this far just to bow out just below the peak. The hike to the summit felt like a constant test of will; the closer we got, the steeper the trail became, and the deeper our feet sank into the volcanic gravel and ash. With only a few hundred meters to go, I felt like I was running out of energy entirely; I could barely lift my legs enough to put one in front of the other and I was having major trouble controlling my breathing enough to not hyperventilate. Just as I was wondering if I had anything left in the tank, the trail abruptly flattened out and our guide called to me to look up.

We had made it.

The shallow, dormant crater of Acatenango lay in front of our feet, while behind us, lit by the rising sun, the valley in which Antigua lay unfolded 13,045 feet below, Volcan de Agua in the background and Lake Atitlan barely visible in the distance on the opposite side of Acatenango. Volcan de Fuego lay just to the side, surprisingly quiet after the furious eruptions during the night. It was the first time I'd ever stood at the summit of an actual mountain, and I was starting to understand why people pushed themselves to the absolute limit in the pursuit of other mountains. 

We still had to get down, though; the deep, loose gravel we'd slogged through to get to the summit made it almost impossible to walk steadily, so following our guide's lead, we half-ran, half-slid down in a way that almost resembled skiing. After slipping and sliding up the mountain with my complete lack of traction, I found it a welcome, entertaining relief. The rest of the descent wasn't so great, however; once our packs were loaded back up, I found myself at a disadvantage to my peers; they would be leaving the sleeping bags and camping gear we'd brought up the mountain for the next group of hikiers, while I had to take all of mine back down with me. As if it sensed our departure, Volcán de Fuego gave us one final, spectacular burst as we prepared to leave from base camp.

As we descended back into the cloud forest and retraced the steep, winding trails, I also made the unpleasant discovery that my Keens had even less grip going down than they had coming up; where I'd slipped and recovered the previous day, I now found myself unceremoniously falling all over the place. The only way I could avoid doing so was to take the slopes at a run, hoping that the next turn in the trail would arrest my momentum. It helped me stay upright, but did nothing for the constant stream of rocks entering my shoes and abrading my feet, necessitating even more frequent stops to empty them out. By the time we made it to the final stretch through the farmlands, I was outright miserable; I'd scraped both arms, badly scraped and twisted my left ankle, my feet were blistered and painful, and my leg muscles were practically screaming at me to find flat ground. I was tired, angry, and in my adrenaline-addled state, was regretting having ever even thought about making the climb; I wanted nothing more than to be as far away from Acatenango as possible, and once I reached our van at the bottom, could scarcely do more than mumble congratulations to the rest of my group for having completed the hike and collapse into a seat.

By the time we returned to Antigua and I was able to drop my things back at Mototours and shower off, I'd calmed down enough to admit that even if the last hour and a half had been pure hell, I'd just had one of the most incredible and unique experiences of my entire life. Over dinner with a couple of my fellow hikers that night, we reflected on how amazing it had been and how, although we were all beaten down and sore, those of us who hadn't previously summited a mountain weren't ruling out the possibility of doing so again...just not quite yet.

For my part, I was reflecting on a famous quote by one of my personal heroes, the late Brazilian F1 champion Ayrton Senna:

"On a given day, a given circumstance, you think you have a limit. And you then go for this limit and you touch this limit, and you think, 'Okay, this is the limit.' As soon as you touch this limit, something happens and you suddenly can go a little bit further. With your mind power, your determination, your instinct, and the experience as well, you can fly very high."

I had found what I thought was my limit; I'd touched it, told myself I couldn't go beyond it, and then I'd done so anyway. In a way, it felt like a metaphor for the entire trip; every mile I'd ridden other than my short time in Mexico City was somewhere new, somewhere further than I'd ever gone on a motorcycle before. Sure, there had been times where I wondered if I could or should keep going, but curiosity, determination, and trust in myself and my motorcycle had pushed me through. My circumstance was one of perpetually testing the limit, and I was beginning to embrace it in a way I never thought I would. And it only took 13,045 feet of volcano for me to really do so. 

One Week in Antigua, Pt. 1: Friends, Camionetas, and Ruins

As I wound down the Carretera Panamericana from Atitlan, I realized that I absolutely was not going to make it to Antigua by nightfall, thus violating one of my ironclad rules of the trip: don't ride at night in Latin America.

"Why, why, why didn't I add more lights?" I groaned to myself; even with the hi-beam on, the undulations in the road made it hard to see very far, and with the Panamericana's numerous intersections, it made for a hair-raising ride. I also couldn't see much of Antigua as I made my way in, but two things were obvious: lots of detours, and god-awful roads. It turned out that part of Antigua's designation as a UNESCO World Heritage site mandated that the cobblestone road be maintained as is; as-is, in this case, meaning some of the roughest "pavement" I'd ever seen. There were construction crews working on every other surrounding road by night, plus two different detours for downed power lines, and by the time I made it to my hostel for the night, I was so turned around that even with my GPS track, I'm not sure I could have found my way out.

Daylight on Monday morning, 8/26, showed me the sights I'd missed by night, and once again I was left gobsmacked at the sheer natural beauty visible at every turn in Guatemala. Antigua is overlooked by three volcanoes, Volcán de Agua to the south, and the twin peaks of Acatenango and Volcán de Fuego to the east. Fuego in particular is a sight to behold; one of the more active volcanoes in Central America, it regularly erupts throughout the day and night, with strong explosions that can be heard and felt throughout the city, and pillars of ash blowing high into the sky. Five major eruptions since 2004 have caused evacuations, problems due to ash falls, and in the most recent eruption of June 2018, nearly 200 deaths and the near-destruction of villages below the volcano.

Volcán de Agua to the left, Acetenango & Volcán de Fuego to the right, with Antigua in between

I'd ridden to Antigua earlier than expected in order to meet up with a friend before she left for the month. Chelsea and I had first contacted each other through Instagram via several posts about her own travels through Mexico and Guatemala, collaborating with and documenting the work of local artists in many different communities along the way, all under the aegis of what she calls her Unus Mundus Project. She'd already given me lots of advice on travels in Guatemala and things to do in Antigua, where she's been based for the past six months, and I was excited to see her latest project: a concrete and metal temezcal, a pre-Colombian sweat lodge commissioned by one of the nearby communities. Though it's still under construction and the intricate metal accents and blown-glass facade aren't in place yet, I loved seeing this project I'd been following for months in person and hearing about the whole process of creating it.

Even though I was only able to meet up with Chelsea and her boyfriend for an afternoon, I was grateful for the opportunity to do so at all. Social media and our internet-centric world may have its downfalls, but the ability to connect based on shared interests, and to turn that into an in-person meeting and genuine friendship, is something I'll always be grateful for. After all, this journey is all about new experiences with new people in new places, and were it not for a few chance messages on Instagram, I'd have never had this particular experience at all. You can follow Chelsea's work and travels, and learn more about the philosophy behind her work and travels, at http://unusmundusproject.com and on Instagram @unusmundusproject.

My last order of business for Monday was to move my things into the hostel at Mototours Antigua, my home for the week while I waited on a new windshield and associated parts to be shipped from Miami. Combining a motorcycle rental company, bar, maintenance shop, hostel, and tour guide service under one roof, Mototours should be THE first stop for anyone traveling through Antigua by motorcycle; besides lots of local advice, a place to work on your bike, and lodging, Jose and Marlo, the two guys who run the business, are all-around fantastic, super friendly, and always up for helping travelers. If I was going to be "stuck" in Antigua for the week, I could hardly have picked a better place! 

Not that Antigua as a whole is a bad place to spend a week. The former capital of Guatemala before a series of earthquakes in the 1700's destroyed most of the major structures, Antigua is now a major tourist and expat destination, and it's full of excellent restaurants and bars, along with a huge expat community; for the first time since crossing the Mexican border more than two weeks prior, I wasn't the only American in any given place, and it was a strange feeling at first. The guys at Mototours certainly did a great job of making me feel at home though, and I ended up spending the bulk of my evenings in Antigua with them.

I also found lots to explore during the days. Antigua, as it turns out, is one of the biggest sources of the colorful "chicken" buses mentioned in my last post, and I managed to stumble into one of the shops that turns out the rolling art pieces. Most of the buses come from American school districts after reaching mandated mileage limits, or from Mexico, and are driven down to Guatemala for conversion at one of the many shops in and around Antigua. The buses are stripped to the body and frame, completely repainted, luggage racks are added inside and out, and often the engine and transmission are swapped for more power and a manual gearbox. The shop I visited fabricated much of the metal detailing in-house, and definitely took pride in what they did. I got to see a few camionetas in various stages of production, and it was a fun look into one of my favorite little aspects of Guatemalan culture.

Antigua is a city with its history on full display in the preserved and ruined buildings throughout town. Though Antigua was founded in 1543 as the capital of Guatemala, a series of earthquakes in the 16th and 18th centuries left many of the original buildings in ruins; while the houses and other buildings were rebuilt, many of the large churches, convents, and monasteries were left in ruins that survive to this day. After being held inside by constant rain for much of my first two days in Antigua, and my subsequent mountaineering adventures (which I'll detail in a whole other post), I finally got the opportunity to explore the old ruins on my last full day in Antigua. Readers who know me in real life know that I love exploring abandoned and ruined buildings, and Antigua's many ruins did not disappoint. Some, like the Convento Capuchinas, are relatively intact and can still be used for events on occasion.

Others, like the Colegia de San Jeronimo (first two photos) and the Monasterio y Templo de la Recoleccion, were almost completely destroyed, with only walls and cell structures still standing. La Recoleccion in particular is a sight to behold, with huge chunks of brick and masonry strewn across the floor of what used to be the church and three-story walls still standing, along with a large portion of what used to be the monastery. 

Exploring the various ruins in Antigua made for a full day of walking around the city, but it was more than worth it. After spending the evening hopping around various bars in order to see the friends I'd made throughout the week one last time, I packed up the Twin for the first time in a week, now looking whole again with the new windshield installed, and set off once again. My next destination would be the Honduran border, with an overnight pitstop in Chiquimula before crossing over, but Antigua had left a lasting impression over the week I'd spent there. The city is an interesting mix of old and new, centuries-old buildings now occupied by modern restaurants and businesses, many staffed by expats from all over the world, but above all, it was an exceedingly beautiful and friendly place with something for everyone. Like Guatemala as a whole, my first visit there will certainly not be my last.