Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman

hoping that dust will cover the car, nick its sleek exterior, and hide its identity; but that Mercedes symbol proudly precedes us wherever we go. The dust seems to slide off the car as if the finish has been done in ScotchGuard.
    Above the road on both sides of us are terraced fields of beans and corn. The women working in the fields look like paintings, each wearing nearly identical splashes of color. Like the women from many indigenous villages in Guatemala, the Chichi women wear matching
huipiles,
blouses made from rectangular weavings with openings for the head and the arms. You can know a woman’s village by the
huipil
she wears. The Chichi
huipiles
are decorated with brilliantly colored flowers.
    Chichicastenango sits in a valley; its buildings are whitewashed adobe; its streets, cobblestone; its roofs, red tile. The steps of Santo Tomás church, which is the focus of the plaza, are filled with women selling flowers and lighting incense. Eric buys me a lily, paying nearly as much for one as the seller was asking for the whole bunch. The village smells of sweet wood, burning in the cooking stalls, of incense from the religious ceremony that is taking place on the church steps. The streets and alleys are a huge palette of oranges, bananas, melons, papayas, and flowers in every imaginable color.
    Eric and I wander in and out of the fruits and vegetables, along a passageway of weavings, down alleys of leather and woodcrafts. I buy some candles and a wrought iron candle holder. Eric buys a wool blanket for himself and a floppy hat for me. Then we wander over to the Mayan Inn for a lunch of grilled meats, cheese, black beans,
salsa
, and fried plantains. Eric is easy to be with, relaxed, bright, comfortable with himself. It’s a great day; I like this man.
    In the car going home we talk about ourselves. He tells me that he plans to live the rest of his life in Guatemala. He lives in a big house in the outskirts of Guatemala City, surrounded by a tall fence. He has a pool, a maid, and a Mercedes. He says he’s discovered paradise.
    He has been here for three years without ever going back to the United States. “And I never will,” he says.
    “How can you be so sure?” I ask, surprised at the conviction in his voice.
    He looks at me with a smile on his lips but not in his eyes, “I am wanted for bank robbery in Texas.”

    The following Sunday is my forty-ninth birthday. It will be the first time in my life that I’ve been away from family on my birthday. There are no cards in the mail, no gifts, no one to give me a birthday hug or take me out to dinner. I feel empty and sad. I don’t want to be alone on my birthday.
    I think about telling some of my ex-pat friends, but they’ve only known me a few months. Besides, I am spending less time with them and more with María and her family these days. It is not a surprise that I feel more comfortable with the indigenous community; the privileged life of the ex-pats feels lofty and too exclusive for me, though they are quite willing to include me in their world. When I am with them, I find myself recreating a persona that is reminiscent of the me I no longer want to be.
    I decide that on my birthday, I will invite María and her large family to my apartment for hot dogs and beans; but I do not tell them that it is my birthday. Fifteen people show up, twelve kids and three moms. When they arrive, I see Doña Lina, my landlady, peering across the yard at us, disapprovingly.
    I have bought a small gift for each guest. No one has a clue what the party is all about . . . but we eat and sing (not “Happy Birthday”). And they open presents. When they leave, María reminds me of her daughter’s birthday party on Wednesday.
    As soon as the gang walks out the door, my landlady knocks. She is not happy with my having filled her house with indigenous people, but she doesn’t say so. Instead, she asks me how I know them and if I have ever been to their home. She offers a gratuitous