Little girl's feet just visible from the garbage storage

Rather than deal with the same winding route back from the hot springs, I asked directions from a local, who kindly offered to walk with me. He was a construction worker but came here to collect cans from the pools and from various people along the route, which he then cashed in for 50 cents per can. At one house, a little girl dove headfirst into their stone trash cave and started chucking cans out for him to pick up.

Eventually a mototaxi came by and I discovered it only cost 15 lemps (79 cents) to ride back to Gracias. Maybe it was because I had already walked partway, or that the driver was heading back to Gracias anyway, but either way, I swallowed my pride and waved goodbye to my kind guide.

La Merced

Back in town I spotted a couple obvious travelers sitting on a stoop chatting. Gurpreet, an Indian-Canadian, was in town with a Canadian volunteer program for disadvantaged kids, living with a local family. The program was only for young volunteers, so at 21, Gurpreet was the oldest.

The other Canadian was mind-numbingly boring. With the kind of hick accent that I think of as a "Kids in the Hall" parody, he prattled endlessly about his bus ride from Copán, no matter how many times I told him with forced cheerfulness that yes, I recall, I just took that exact same ride yesterday. He insisted on showing me all his overexposed blurry photos. I'm not sure he even took the time out from talking to breathe.

We marveled about this off-the-beaten track spot that didn't seem to have any other tourists. Gurpreet was mystified by our sentiments, however, and affirmed he met tourists every single day.

La Iglesia de San Marcos

I'd already checked out the beautiful colonial churches around town before meeting the Canadians, but as darkness fell, I decided to take another stroll. I couldn't shake the hick, but I figured it couldn't hurt to have a tall guy at my side. The three of us planned to meet up for drinks at Guancascos the next night. I hadn't planned on staying another night until that point.

La Iglesia de San Marcos glowed softly as the crowds streamed in. It was a Thursday, so I was surprised to see a service was underway. We walked around the courtyard a bit, until the Canadian wondered if we should go in. I wasn't sure...the sermon hadn't started yet but the congregation was singing and we didn't belong there.

"Don't worry, I'm Catholic," he said. "I'm sure it's OK to go in."

So we entered, and to my horror, he never stopped talking. He talked as we walked down the aisle, ignoring people's stares; he raised his voice over the singing as we settled into the pews; he continued to chat as every other person in the church bowed their heads for prayer. The minute an elder got up to speak, he yawned and loudly proclaimed:

"Wow, I'm tired, gosh! I think I'm going to take off, are ya gonna stay?"

It was definitely time for dinner and I needed to get away. As ashamed as I felt slinking out with him, I didn't want to be left in the church alone.

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