7/31/2019 Livingston Guatemala Angela Her Love Story
1/1
Angela of Livingston Guatemala - Part 1
In Livingston Guatemala lives a woman who's face is full of
heaven and who has been randomly set down to work in a small
economy hotel in this island town elbowed between the Rio Dulce and
the Guatemala Caribbean.
Our heroine is not conscious of her rightful place in a parallel
universe, or that some hiccup of gamma rays, a cheat of magic
realism or just God up to His usual tricks has intercepted her
noble life and detoured her here.
This soft and benevolent creature has been cartwheeled into a
life of scouring bathrooms, laundering limitless piles of bedding
and towels and sweeping the endless and unavailing sand from the
hotel floors. All the while she is silently incanting mantras of
good wishes to all, the side effects of which keep her hands assoft
as a princess' and her heart as nourishing as bread. Sometimes
God's tricksare okay.
She works 12 hours a day doing the work of three people: all
duties, from changing linen to flipping and serving banana pancakes
and cappuccinos in the morning. Later in the afternoon she's sent
to cast her fine light further when she servesat the hotel's sister
restaurant up the street.
She's not tall but she has long bones that framework a skin of
luminous mocha, sometimes verging on olive tones, but only when
it's about to rain. The skin thenmight fool you into thinking her
eyes have a green cast, but they are relentles
sly Madonna brown. She would be the face of Botticelli's Venus
if he had been Guatemalan. Men can only look at her grace, sigh and
forget there ever was an Italy.
Hung over backpackers may try to signal the content of their
swollen hearts as she brings soothing water and first-aid coffee to
their alcohol-ravaged imaginings. But American style flirting,
Brit-style chat up, Swiss kibitzing, Aussie stumblings, all these
have the same result. She shines compassion on all, not favoring
one or the other guest. The young men are maddened by her
democratic courtesies. Each receives the brief touch of her cool
hand on scorched brow after nights of
too much Gallo and local Gifiti, taken uselessly to forget
her.
It seems that Saint Monica channels to her a full serving of
compassion and forbearance. Meanwhile the young men pray to St Jude
the patron of lost causes for whatever scraps he may toss. Monica
radiates over Angela. Jude is busy and distracted looking for keys
and change that have slipped under the couch cushions back
inMilwaukee. No use, dues. None of you is the one.
A miracle is sought here. Gentle goddesses cannot rely on the
ardor of tattooed traveling lunkheads, dating sites or the meddling
of local matchmakers.
Clearly a man whose virtues match hers is not possible. However,
the river mightfetch up an honorable suitor. A man of courage who
can find?
