El ultimo dia

Viernes, viernes, viernes! (Friday, Friday, Friday!) I will post in the next few hours some of the photos I took while waiting for Abe to arrive on Friday morning, as that is how I spent my time pre-work day. When I arrived at ASJ, I was immediately introduced to la abogada (lawyer) Gilda, who gave me what Abe likes to call a “brief presentation”—a two-hour rundown of ASJ’s labor rights project. Being the arm of ASJ that I understand the least, it was valuable to receive the additional details, but I also felt extremely tired after listening to un montón (a mountain) of legal terms and drinking poco café (a little coffee). Regardless, I quickly left the cool environment of the offices to visit one of the sites where the labor rights project was being implemented. I will talk more about the visit in a later blog posting, but I do need to admit that it was the first legitimate Honduran bus ride I experienced while staying here. Abe (and Dennis, on one occasion) was nice enough to chauffeur me around the city during my visit, so I had not had the chance to listen to Reggaeton, smell ungodly amounts of exhaust, and wish for shorter legs while being transported prior to yesterday. The visit also presented the first opportunity to see the downtown area, since none of the previous site visits had been anywhere near el centro (downtown). It was more or less what I remembered—minor chaos, a huge fútbol stadium, and stall after stall of vendors selling lots of bootleg DVDs, cheap pharmaceutical goods, and poor Hollister knock-offs (is it just me, or has Hollister changed the spelling of its name to Holistar?)

I could have returned to ASJ after the visit and blogged for the rest of the afternoon, but I needed to pasear (walk around, see the sites). With only 2 hours until Abe and I needed to head back to la casa Cerrato, I chose la colonia Miraflores as my destination, which is where I lived and went to school the last time I came here. My plan was to a. order and enjoy a granita de café, b. purchase a few Honduran delights at Páiz (the neighborhood supermarket), and c. walk the familiar (ruta) route to la casa Páiz (the community daycare and Calvin College student drop-off). I accomplished the first meta (goal) immediately; the second goal was not accomplished until I walked all the way around Plaza Miraflores (same old, same old….except for an improved movie theater and a Pizza Hut that replaced a Sbarro’s) and then located the various items I wanted to comprar (buy) (refried red beans, Horchata-flavored Tang packets, and the miraculous dish soap that everyone uses around here); and the third goal was easier than I thought. I arrived on the street where I used to live pretty quickly, stopping only to read the pro-resistencia graffiti and to admire the new buildings that have been constructed since my departure in 2006 (un restaurante chino (a Chinese restaurant) and una farmacia (pharmacy)). I knocked at the portón (gate), heard the familiar demanding tone of my mamá hondureña (“¿Y QUIÉN ESTÁ?” (Who’s there?)), and confidently responded “Tito.” Same booming voice, same question: “¿QUIÉN ESTÁ?” “Tito!” I yelled. When it was clear that she had forgotten my nickname while I was living in Honduras, I exclaimed, “Tyler Petrini está, Doña Miriam!” (Tyler Petrini is here…). I heard the sound of shuffling feet and the door opened to reveal…lots of little children who wanted nothing but to hug me and say their names. After my sixth hug, I had advanced to the doorway of the house where Doña Miriam gave me my first “real hug”—the kind where you are squeezed within an inch of your life and then released at just the right moment. We then spent the next 30 minutes going over all of the details both of us wanted to know: she wanted to hear if I was still in the serious relationship that had apparently given her guerra (war) when I was living in her house, and I wanted to know if her oldest son had finally married (Negative followed by affirmative.); she wanted to hear about my trabajo (work), and I wanted to hear about her most recent Calvin students. It was a pleasant visit, and I left feeling satisfied. It was obvious that our personalities still conflicted, but we could at least relate positively to one another for a rato (short time).

As the sun started to set, I was waiting at the entrada (entrance) to Plaza Miraflores, where Abe was supposed to pick me up at 5:00 p.m. Having lived here so long he had adjusted to Honduran time, he swung by at around 5:30 p.m., just before I was about to commence Plan B. As I was waiting, I could have sworn I crossed paths with one of my Honduran professors from my last trip here, but apart from an awkward glance in her direction, I did not confirm my suspicions.

My goodbye dinner was both bountiful and beautiful. Like I mentioned before, the baleadas were laid out in large numbers…or quizás (perhaps) I was simply saying “sí” every time I was asked if I wanted another. Hehe. Abe, Dennis, and I talked about what our upbringings were like (we all survived without videogames), how our teachers had treated us as kids, the size of our panzas (bellies), and what differentiated the baile de gelatina (jello dance) from the baile de pudín (pudding dance). The latter discussion was inspired by an earlier conversation I had with Abe about how little I care for jello because of texture issues (the jello dance is so awkward!). Dennis was kind enough to show us his version of the jello dance, which involved a lot of stomach shaking. Abe left not too long after dinner, at which time I accompanied Celeste, Isaac, Karlyn, Doña Leslie, and María to the home of one of Karlyn’s friends. Before even making it to the intersecting street, I was spooked by the group when they turned the corner and immediately halted. Frightened out of my wits, I had no idea what the older women were raving about when they kept saying cartera (wallet); María, still laughing after seeing my reaction to the group’s immediate stop, clarified the inquiry, and I immediately realized that the women wanted to know whether I had brought my wallet with me. I assured them that I had not and that I was simply carrying my camera. This created uproar, resulting in me hightailing it back to the Cerrato home to drop off whatever I was carrying that held more value than a dollar. The trip continued, and María explained to me that this was even the first time she had walked around the community after dark. This is the same community that ASJ has helped to rid the streets of violent offenders, and people there are still terrified at certain points of the day.

The evening culminated in a photo shoot. Me with Isaac. Me with Celeste. Me with María. María alone. Kevin alone. Dennis with Karlyn. Everyone wanted a turno (turn)! As I was packing my bags for the morning, I heard a knock at the door to my room and heard Celeste’s sweet little voice asking me to come out. I decided to humor her and found almost the entire family at the table making me a goodbye card. In return for the heartfelt message, I presented them with my thank-you gifs: a bottle of Petrini’s dressing (representando!) and a dozen mini-projects my students had created with simple Spanish messages and pictures. We all giggled together as we read the broken Spanish and marveled at the beautiful photographs of Maryland, but the mood turned dismal when Karlyn brought up my approaching departure. She began to cry, and I was nearly brought to tears myself as I considered just how generous they had been over the last week and just how close I had become to their humble family. La familia Cerrato is a group of people I will never forget, and it is obvious that this week was just the inicio (beginning) of our relationship.

As always, the night ended in laughter. I had found several packets of trail mix in my checked baggage that I knew I wasn’t going to eat on the return journey, so I handed them out to Jonathan, Celeste, and Isaac with specific instructions not to eat them until today (they had already brushed their teeth and I doubt their parents wanted them to consume any more sugar before bed). Being curious and perpetually-hungry cipotes (kids), they did not obey, and soon enough everybody in the family was snacking on trail mix and complaining about having to brush their teeth again. “Y se ríe,” dice Karlyn. (And he laughs, Karlyn says.)