Antigua, Guatemala is a city of doors and walls and I want to see behind all of them.
It takes me five days to make friends with the expats in town and six days to regret it.
Tequila. Mezcal. Gin. Ron… that’s the Spanish word for Rum. Cigarettes. Drinks pile up in front of me. Somewhere between a hand crafted cocktail and a top shelf sipping spirit, a shot of fireball appears. The women are rolling dice and telling me to take my turn. I don’t understand the rules, but I play anyways, though not before protesting that I don’t have enough cash to buy everyone shots.
They don’t care. Nobody cares. There are enough older men in this bar, in this town, to pay for all the shots in all the world. Except that’s not entirely true, but after the second rooftop terrace, I don’t touch my wallet.
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