Yesterday we drove from upstate NY to DC. Mapquest said it was supposed to be a five and a half hour drive, but it lasted over eight hours, thanks to fog, inept map-reading (or map note-taking) skills, and a confusingly built road. When we pulled into our Super Eight hotel, it was after nine. The youngest one walked through the lobby door and promptly collapsed on the floor, fast asleep.

We woke up at 2:30, drug the children from their beds and headed to the airport. Everything, the whole day, really, went as smooth as could be. Sure, my older son had a little battle with his chocolate milk (and ended up wearing some of it) and my younger son’s backpack ripped (a little) and my younger daughter came fairly close to having a panic attack, but we did our deep breathing and soldiered on.

Despite her extreme anxiety, at the point of departure my youngest daughter was nearly shouting with excitement. She didn’t even seem to notice when the plane got tossed around for a bit. The sun came up and the kids ate their bagels and drank their juice and ate the candy and gum their cousin had packed up for them.

For the second flight, our seats were spread out all over the plane. My husband talked to the people at the desk and made arrangements so that we could each sit with one of the younger children. We gave the older kids their boarding passes and told them they’d have to sit by themselves. (And then a kind gentleman swapped seats with my daughter so she wouldn’t have to sit between strangers, bless his heart.)

I sat with my youngest. He talked the entire time. About the wings, about crash landings, about soda, about his seat, about his candy, about Guatemala—it was intense. He’d alternate between studiously peering out the window and then suddenly panicking at the height and slamming the window blind shut. “It freaks me out, Mom!” he’d squeal, burrowing his head into my arm and squeezing his eyes tight. 

And then we were flying over Guatemala’s distinctive, patchwork mountains. My son was enthralled. “There are gardens down there!” and, “It’s like a pattern!”

We whipped through customs (once we filled out all the paper work)—they didn’t even check our bags—and then we were outside in the warm air, greeting our country reps, getting (mildly) harangued by vendors (my younger daughter was smitten with the constant opportunity to buy, buy, buy, oh dear) and piling into the van.

We ended up at a guest house. The hospitable owners—one speaks English but the others don’t—fixed us a fabulous lunch of soup, tacos, rice, and fresh papaya and then worried when some of the children didn’t eat too well.

We crashed on our beds for a couple hours (some slept harder than others), and then some of the kids and I went on a little walk around the block (and through the grocery store). We had a brief meeting with one of our reps and a future non-English speaking childcare helper (for these next couple days when we’re in the city), and now it’s almost time for supper.

Right now, my older son is playing chess with a Guatemalan boy. Neither speaks the other’s language and both seem happy as larks.

We’re here! Can you believe it? WE ARE IN GUATEMALA!!!

One morning last week during orientation, we got the kids up a little earlier than usual so we could head over to a local pretzel factory before the morning’s first session was due to start.

When we pulled up across the street from the beat-up looking factory, loud singing was pouring out through the vents and open windows. The workers, mostly old order Mennonite and Amish, often sing hymns while they work.

We made our way around to the back of the factory and entered a dingy room filled with ratty sofas and chairs. Along one side was a large plate-glass window through which we could see the whole operation. One of the workers came out to see if we were there to buy or watch. I said, Both, and is it okay to take pictures? She said yes. Another worker brought us pamphlets describing the pretzel-making process, and another brought us pretzels fresh from the oven and not yet hard. Then we were pretty much left alone to observe.

Soon the workers poured into our little room for their 8 am break.  While they ate giant slices of cheesecake (out of hand, like we eat pizza), they quizzed us on our names, whereabouts, Guatemala, etc. In turn, I found out that someone picks them up in the morning and drives them to the factory and that some of them have church connections in Mexico.

Their break over, I resumed my camera clicking. Soon, one of the workers stepped back in to see if I wanted to come into the room to get better pictures. The man running the oven came over to chat and I asked a few questions about the process. The pretzels get a bath in sodium chloride, bake in a 550 degree oven for 10 minutes and then move into a 200 degree oven for another hour.

One of the women hand rolling the pretzels asked if I’d like to give it a go.

“I’d love to,” I said, “but my hands aren’t clean so I better not.”

“There’s a sink over there,” she said, and just like that I found myself in the line of workers, struggling to master the art of pretzel twisting.

It’s a lot harder than it looks! Most of my pretzels had to be touched up by the professionals.

Before I knew it, the whole family was in the work room. My husband had taken over photography duties and two of the kids were attempting the roll and twist.

Before we left, we bought a four-pound bag of broken pieces for just six bucks—some of the best pretzels ever.

On Monday, we zipped into Akron an hour and a half late. We missed supper (the kids were perfectly happy with their cheeseburgers, except for one daughter who is haunted by the Upton Sinclair stories that we read in Chew On This), but got to MCC headquarters just in time for the first session. Not until bedtime did we get our packet of information and figure out where we were sleeping.

My mom says that when I was little, I was intrigued by public restrooms. The soap dispensers, the hot air dryers, the toilet flusher thingies—it was all fascinating to Little Jennifer. Apparently, I still get a thrill over that type of thing because while my kids were rushing around our little house exclaiming over the amenities—the bowl sinks! the squeagie for the shower! the rolling barn doors! the window seats!, etc!—I found myself giving little squeals of happiness inside my head. I did, though let loose with a few real-deal squeals of my own when I found the kitchen stocked with drinks, lunch meats and cheeses, apples, popcorn, crackers. Yay for thoughtful people!

Last time we were in orientation, fifteen years ago, the accommodations were, um, rather…rustic. Since then, the place has undergone a total redo. Instead of staying in a little upstairs bedroom with twin beds, we have an entire wing of one of the four or five southwestern style cottages. The red concrete floors are warm, thanks to the radiant heat. The walls are textured, the window sills deep, the sitting arrangements cozy.

It’s so cheerie, hospitable, and deeply restful—and the food delicious and days peppered with snacks and coffee breaks, oo-la-la!—that I’ve suggested we skip out on Guatemala all together and just stay here for the next nine months.

Last night we took a tour of the material resource center.

Despite their exhaustion, the kids made it through the hour-long tour and talking session and then dove right into the volunteer work—dismantling plastic hospital supplies for recycling and checking and repackaging school kits.

This morning my oldest son (who has found the child-focused activities to be a bit boring) went back to the center for a morning of volunteering. He returned at lunchtime with two “new”(and much needed) pairs of shoes. Now we don’t have to worry about buying him shoes between now and Monday. Moral of the story? Why that it pays to volunteer, of course!