VUE

I couldn't think of a better way to end the day than at Las Lagunas' spa with a mas- sage, even though aer our arduous trek I would've settled for just a cool washcloth and bottle of water. I opted out of an initial steam in the sauna due to the fact I found the daily high of 105 degrees Fahrenheit to be oppressive enough. I emerged aerwards in a bathrobe and slippers, my muscles practically melting off my bones thanks to my masseuse and I sunk into the plush, oversized couch. In front of me was a box of homemade truffles, a copy of "Shiver" by Maggie Stiefvater and a mug of mint tea—the leaves of which, I was informed, had been picked on property. e book, on the other hand, a text I've read and can say has no business being on a spa coffee table in Guatemala, seemed to have appeared unbeknownst to the staff, who I made sure to question about its origins. It was a little aer nine the next morning when we took off for Monkey Island, one of five nearby islets surrounding Las Lagu- nas. We gathered on the dock where a rather subtle caution sign nailed to a tree read "No Swimming" followed by a picture of a crocodile. In that moment, it didn't seem all that impossible that we'd see one while out on the lagoon. A short ride across the water brought us to a 30-acre reserve where our guides pulled the boat over and began whistling for the monkeys and tempting them with bananas. e long, lanky-armed Margarita showed no hesitation before jumping on board to greet us and when she wasn't taking a liking to my personal belongings, she was posing for pictures and gnawing on fruit. Later that same day we wandered into town and strolled around a small city known as Flores—not to be confused with Florence, Italy, which is what my inquisitive seat-mate on flight number two thought I meant. Although a tiny island village by nature and a place few outsiders have ever heard of, Flores is the capital of Petén and also its social and cultural hub. Next to cities like Old San Juan and Havana, Flores is brimming with just as much color and character and sits on the beautiful waterfront of Lake Petén Itzá. While some visi- tors consider Flores a stop along the way to Tikal, I could eas- ily see myself checking into one of the bright, balcony-strewn buildings that overlooks the narrow streets or hanging out and having a drink on the rooop bar above the lake. at night, which happened to be our last, we feasted on traditional Guatemalan cuisine back at the hotel consisting of beef hilachas (similar to ropa vieja), pepián (chicken braised in a pumpkin seed sauce) and pollo en jocón (a green chicken stew that Executive Chef Michael Muller explained gets its color from tomatillos). Gathered around the table, we called out our favorite moments from the trip. For the majority, it was a toss up between meeting Margarita and getting to climb the ruins of an ancient city. What stuck with me were more like internal observations I made along the way. On the road to Tikal, I watched women on the roadside toss tortilla dough back and forth between their hands with precision. I was still haunted as to what caused the Mayan civilization to collapse so abruptly, especially aer seeing its remnants up close. But most of all, what I couldn't quite shake were those damn howler monkeys and their dog bark mixed with a bear growl crossed with a lion's roar. V U E N J . C O M 130

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