The Magic of Antigua, Guatemala

I think that the ideal space must contain elements of magic, serenity, sorcery and mystery.
Luis Barragan


I first visited Antigua, Guatemala when I was fifteen years old. I had come to this country as part of a leadership conference for Central American Catholic youth. That experience marked me for life, in the best of ways. On our last day in Guatemala we were taken to Antigua, the spectacularly well-preserved original site of the nation’s capital. That brief visit became engraved in my memory as a magical incident, a day where ancient colonial walls spoke to me of the clashes and confluences of cultures, religions, beliefs, and people that took place here centuries ago.

I’ve just returned from my third visit to Antigua. This time, I accompanied a group of high school students from Balboa Academy to a leadership conference organized by the Association of American Schools of Central America. The experience was, once again, magical. Seeing the city through their eyes allowed me to relive a part of my life when the future was a vast ocean of possibilities, as limitless as the dreams of youth.

But what most marked me on this occasion was a trip to a state-operated home for elderly people who are destitute. I visited the institution to help supervise a group of students who went there as part of a community service project. I admit that when I first learned that I had been assigned to the old folks’ home I was quite concerned about what I would say or do with the residents. After all, I was a perfect stranger walking into their dwelling, uninvited, with the intent of becoming their friend.

My apprehension vanished, however, the moment I entered the home. While leading the students back into the dining room—our arms cradling small gifts and supplies—I said “Buenos días” to the residents seated along the long corridors of the elegant colonial home. They rewarded my greeting with warm, welcoming smiles.

That day I heard a dozen unforgettable stories: the ninety-two year old man who was grateful for his good health and for being able to have a roof over his head; the former jeweler, embittered after a car accident left him without the use of his legs and because his family, who lived only an hour away, had not visited him in over a year; the poet who had never written down a single verse yet could recite from memory all his compositions; and others.

My experience in soliciting people’s stories—part of my trade as a writer who bases his novels on actual events—came in handy. I could have spent several weeks at the home and still not heard every fascinating tale. I only wish I’d had more time to spend with these elders who so generously offered me intimate glimpses into their lives.

At the end of our visit, as we prepared to leave, my favorite resident, a small, mute woman, still not terribly aged, who communicated in sign language few could understand, held onto me, her arms around my waist, in gratitude for the time I spent trying to communicate with her. (In spite of the trouble I had understanding her, we laughed a lot together.) She didn’t want me to leave.

And as the young students filed out of the home, smiling in approval as my new friend clung to me, I knew then that I was living another moment that would become part of my reservoir of magical memories of Antigua, Guatemala.