Las Lisas

It was another dismal rainy weekend in the Guatemalan capital. Or so we hear, as your correspondent had decamped to the sunny beaches of the Pacific Coast. We stayed at a place called "Isleta la Gaia" which sounds new-agey, but it turns out is actually just run by a French guy. I practiced my best bon jours and mercis over lunch, but they were willing to describe the "salade exotique" in Spanish, so I didn't need to dip into the deeper well of savoir faire française that I'm sure rests within, untapped.

The Isleta of the name is actually a long skinny island separated from the mainland by a canal whose primary functions are first to provide a living for the many motor-boat owners of the tiny village of Las Lisas who charge to cross it, and second to collect deisel runoff from said motor-boats. The beach is famously hot. Its sand is made of black crushed volcanic rock, and is thus quite good at absorbing the sun's energy. Rumors of its unpleasant warmness had reached the Holla offices, but we scoffed. After suffering what I contend were second-degree burns on the soles of my feet, this correspondent scoffs no more. The staff photographer was afraid to venture out too much, and returned with only a meager collection of less-than-photojournalistic shots of wood.

Other than that, the weekend was a fairly typical beach-bungalow affair. We lazed, we read, we drank, we boogie-boarded. The Pacific surf in Guatemala is known to be unfriendly to swimmers, but with free French planches du boogie, we gave it a go, despite our antipathy to the term "boogie board." I suggested that we cast off the term, with its 1980's connotations, and rechristen the activity with a somewhat less embarrassing name, like "weenie surfing." We'll see if it catches on.