DC Blogs is hosting a and asked for submissions of photos that inspire you. There are many things that inspire me in this world: catching a great baseball game; listening to my girlfriend recite entire passages from her favorite books; saving ungrateful baby birds.

But if I had to choose two things — and photos — that reflect my inspirations, I’d have to go with traveling and writing.

I took this photo of the pier in San Marcos, Guatemala, during my trip to El Pais de la Eterna Primavera this summer. We stayed for three days in Lago Atitlan, a truly amazing place where we rode horses, stayed in an apartment built into the side of a mountain, and kayaked in this beautifully clear and stoic lake.

I took this photo while visiting my girlfriend’s parents during Easter. Her dad owns this old, barely functional typewriter that sparked memories of my favorite Hemingway stories. I still type on my laptop like I did when I was 7 and my uncle taught me how to type on his old typewriter, one that looked much like this one, pounding away loudly at the keys and infuriating my co-workers.

El Guapo earlier this month. He hung up his famous Guatemalan mustache and became a civilian. Some of his former blog readers are not taking it well:

UberSchatz said…
Yeah. Why?? Damn it! This always happens to me. I find a good blogger and then they quit after a short time of me having discovered them. Curse you Gods of the Bloggers.

AZ :o( said…
My heart aches, a little more laughter taken from me…

taotechuck said…
I have shaved my vastly inferior mustache in honor of your decision.

Still, EG has come out of retirement to do the one thing he has done best since becoming my virtual hermano — make fun of Argentina. Here is an e-mail he sent me that he graciously allowed me to convert to a guest blog post. At least he didn’t steal my wallet.

“So, I’m in Seattle for a couple of days. I’m walking with a colleague who is new to Seattle and showing him around. I know that he is a fan of steak and happened to be walking by an Argentinean steak house, so I figured, why not?

You know that I try to not do anything that helps the Argentine economy in any way. You know this. The only reason that I ate there was a sign that said they proudly served Nebraska beef. I figured if I stayed away from any Argentine wines, I was actually giving money to the waiter. If the owners were even from your little country, they may send some back home, but I figured that if I paid by credit card, they would at least be taxed. So, as you can see, my thought process was very much against helping your country.

Ok, I’ll get out of the way that the steak I ordered was good. I knew it would be. It is Nebraska beef, but I did enjoy the presentation. It came out on a grill thing [ed. This is called a parillada] and I ate off of wooden dishes. Very good. En serio, very good.

The reason for this e-mail was the dessert. I ordered flan. It was the worst flan I’ve ever had in my entire life. I don’t even think that it was flan. Argentina should have its flan card pulled because of this damn restaurant. It had the consistency of papaya that was left out in the sun and drenched in urine.

Credit.

Don’t get me wrong, I ate the entire thing, but only so that I could write to you prior to my food poisoning.

Tell your people to stay away from flan.”

This e-mail, naturally, spurred a few replies.

Arjewtino: “On behalf of mi gente, I apologize for this restaurant’s flan. It’s only fair as long as you apologize for the guy who stole my wallet while I was coming back from Pane to Antigua.”

El Guapo: “Look, I can say, with 100 percent certainty that I was in an Argentine restaurant, and, can therefore place the blame on your people. You, on the other hand, assume because you were in Guatemala that a Guatemalan stole your wallet. It could have just as easily been a Honduran or even an Argie… My people don’t do that… Not always.
Not usually. Not really. Actually, were you wearing your Argentina shirt?”

Arjewtino: “I was wearing my dark blue, tougher-to-recognize Argentina “road” jersey. Your specious reasoning isn’t convincing.”

El Guapo: “I found it as convincing as it gets. specious… showoff.”

Chicks love to blog. They also love to meet other chicks who love to blog.

This was never more apparent than last month when hundreds of them showed up in Chicago for BlogHer ’07, the 3rd annual conference where chicks meet up to talk about boys and have naked pillow fights.

What? They don’t? Damn it.

This nascent conference has grown since 2005 and has solidified women as the leading gender in blogging (men come in second). This year, BlogHer hosted workshops on nudity (not kidding), privacy, the state of the “momosphere”, and the art of foodblogging.

By all accounts, BlogHer ‘07 was a success. My friend, who likes to call me “Mike”, was even a speaker. But I couldn’t help wonder if other specialized groups couldn’t pull off their own conferences like BlogHer. Would they work? What would they talk about? How would they market themselves? Here are some ideas:

BlogHim

A three-day bender in Las Vegas where male bloggers get together to go to strip clubs, get wasted in every casino, and hit on chicks by bragging about their blogs. Panel discussions include “Can Our Blogs Get Us Laid?”, “Our Dicks, Our Blogs”, and “Fuck You, Asshole, I’ll Blog About You if I Want To”. Conference starts at 2pm and ends whenever, dude, relax.

BlogJew

A seven-day conference in Jerusalem moderated by our mothers who don’t understand why we can’t just call them once in a while. Workshops include “How To Meet a Nice Jewish Girl by Using Your Blog”, “Blogging on Saturdays: What Do You Think?”, and “Everyone’s an Anti-Semite But You”. Free yarmulkes and dreidels.

A totally radical and turbo weekend at Smith Point hosted by Late Night Shots members who totally want to have sex with you, get into an Ivy-league school despite a 2.0 undergrad GPA, and get totally wasted and then puke. LNSers will totally talk about shit like “Pegging is the New Blow Job”, “My Dad Totally Bought Me a New Lexus”, and “White People Only”.

BlogBlog

A neverending “conference” where bloggers who are naturally insecure attention-whores meet to talk about blogging and their feelings and how their blogs can bloggety blog their bloggers’ blogs. Blog meetups over white wine and cheese include blog subjects on “Am I Blogging About My Feelings Too Much? Nah!”, “How to Check Your Sitemeter Stats 50 Times a Day at Work”, and “Why Blogging About Your Bad Hair Day is Important”.

BlogGuatemala

A 10-minute conference in Antigua where Guatemalan bloggers pickpocket travelers and Guatemalans fail to qualify for any important soccer tournament. Panels include “Mi Bigote es Mejor Que El Tuyo”, “Is It True Argentineans Have Bigger Penises Than Us?”, and “Jesus Christ is Coming: Man, He’s Going to be Pissed”. Argentina jerseys are sold out. Guatemala jerseys, however, are still available.

They’re synonymous with “vagina bundles” in England and would protect me from evil Guatemalan thieves. But they’re still fanny packs and I’m pretty sure would stop talking to me if I ever owned one.

If I were to wear a fanny pack, though, it would be this one, recommended to me by Gen, who lives solely to see me in humiliating situations:

Aside from the Brazilian, German, and British flags, I think it’s awesome. If anyone wants to buy it for me, the Buy It Now price on eBay is $2.99 plus shipping.

How much do you know about Guatemala? I mean, how much do you really know about El Pais de la Eterna Primavera?

Sure, you might be smart enough to remember that it’s in Central America, but could you pick it out on a blank map? You know Guatemalans speak Spanish, but can you name one of the dozens of Mayan languages still spoken there today?

You know they love soccer and Jesus (not necessarily in that order) but do you remember a time when the national team ever played in the World Cup or the Son of God did NOT molest Scott Bakula?

You might have heard that but do you know that often this feeling is merely envy masquerading as hate because mi gente have been known to ?

It’s ok to admit you don’t know much about Guatemala. I didn’t either until I spent an entire week traveling within its borders. I spent time in Quetzaltenango, also known as Xela (“Adams Morgan Chick”, you ignorant slut, it IS pronounced SHELL-a by Spanish-speakers), visited Antigua, the country’s tourist-infested version of Disneyland, swam in the soothing waters of Lago Atitlan, and got robbed during a six-hour trek through Panajachel, Solola, and Chimaltanengo.

Here’s what I learned, in pictures:

Chilling on a hammock in a restaurant/bar is a great way to reflect on how calm your stomach is at the moment and how much it’ll hurt later after you eat seemingly safe food like bread.

Gallo Cerveza : Guatemala as Budweiser : United States. Now you can take your SATs.

Guate children learn how to ride motorcycles early.

The Guatemalan National Soccer team needs a better field if it ever wants to qualify for the World Cup.

The team also needs better players.

Watching Argentina lose 3-0 to Brazil in la Copa America final in an Antigua bar, after writing on one’s blog about how Brazil can suck it, and bragging to everyone for days about how much better el abilceleste team is, does not feel good.

Erecting a sign warning people not to litter lest they receive a Q50 fine (about $7) is a sure-fire way of ensuring the place will get littered.

Chicken buses, despite the danger of getting robbed, are fun. Especially when you squeeze seven or eight people in a row designed for four passengers.

The volcanic hot springs in Las Fuentes Georginas are soothing and warm. Unless you accidentally swallow its sulfur-laced water. Then it burns.

I didn’t know this, but Christ is coming to Guatemala.

Lake Atitlan, especially San Marcos, is a beautiful place.

Guatemalans love Jew gas.

Getting off a horse named Lucia, after galloping around Lake Atitlan for nearly two hours, makes my ass look juicy.

Hotels sell condoms and tampons for Q30 each ($4).

Bus service stations are brutally honest. This is the Guatemalan equivalent of the White House displaying our President’s likely IQ score on the South lawn.

And, finally, Guatemalan police will write up a police report for you if and when you are robbed. It might take them 11 hours and they might need to wait for the Ink Store to open, but you will get the report.

was wrong: Guatemalans love Argentines. Especially our money.

My otherwise amazing week-long trip to Guatemala with The Princess (more on that tomorrow) was capped off Friday night with the discovery that my wallet was stolen. An online check of my bank account activity confirmed my suspicions — somewhere between Panajachel, Solola, Chimaltenango, and Antigua, sometime during the six hours it took us to travel the seemingly insurmountable distance, at some point while riding four different chicken buses, someone lifted mi billetera out of my backpack.

The thieves were good, too, since my backpack was on me or near me at all times. Maybe they took advantage while I took a Dramamine-fueled nap, or when chatting with the locals about my trip, or while teaching Mayan children some English phrases.

And they were fast. By the time I was able to contact my bank and credit card companies, they had spent about $2,000 on a shopping spree of what appeared to be mostly electronics and gas.

My credit card company urged me to file a police report since they would be investigating my fraud claim.

The Princess’ guidebook to Guatemala, on page 278, gives the following advice when reporting a robbery or theft:

After a theft you may need a statement from the police for your insurance company. Tell them: ‘Yo quisiera poner una acta de robo’ (‘I’d like to report a robbery’). This should make it clear that you merely want a piece of paper and aren’t going to ask the police to do anything active.

Read that last sentence again:

This should make it clear that you merely want a piece of paper and aren’t going to ask the police to do anything active.

Of course not. Why would I want the police to help me in any way?

After canceling my bank cards, The Princess and I took a rickety tuk-tuk at 8:30pm to the “mobile police unit” in Antigua, a dingy bungalow where two police women told us to sit down and someone would come by in “diez minutos” to take my info. (Everything in Guatemala takes ten minutes.) They continued to watch telenovelas on a mini-TV, so I decided to take time to read their Jesus-themed motivational posters plastered on the wall. My favorite one read:

“If you’ve lost money, you’ve lost a little; if you’ve lost friends, you’ve lost a lot; but if you’ve lost your faith in God, you’ve lost everything.”

A police-sponsored tuk-tuk finally sputtered by and picked us up, taking us to a second police station near Antigua’s bus depot. This location was called Politur and, I was told, specialized in crime against tourists.

We walked into the stone building and met a young police officer who asked me where I was assaulted. I told him I wasn’t assaulted, that I only wanted to report a theft. He tentatively took out a nubby pencil and began taking notes on a piece of previously used scratch paper.

He asked for my passport and wrote down my name. Then he wrote down my date of birth. He stared at it for 30 seconds. What incredible police work could he be doing so soon, I thought, what astute display of crime-solving could he already be up to?

“Treinta-y-dos años!” he shouted with glee, after carefully divining my age.

“Si, tengo treinta-y-dos años,” I replied.

He continued for several minutes scribbling down information before I told him all I wanted was a police report. He called who I assumed to be his supervisor. A middle-aged man walked in and began to ask me the same questions his underling had already asked.

I asked him for his name as politely as I could. He proudly swept back his jacket to reveal his name badge barnacled on his clay-brown shirt.

“Jorge,” he replied. “Soy el Director.”

I turned to the officer taking down my information and asked him for his name. I expected him to reply with a similar, authoritarian-sounding honorific as well, like “Agente Oficial Perez” or “Señor Agente Dominguez”. Instead, he smiled broadly and answered simply, “Sebastian!”, showing the same zeal as a Boy Scout who’s cooked his first marshmallow.

I explained that all I wanted was an official-looking document showing that a theft was committed against me. They looked at me like I had requested to meet the Pope.

We need a voucher from the bank showing that this crime was committed, Jorge explained.

I don’t have a voucher from the bank, I told him. The crime happened because I’m telling you it happened.

You’ll need to come back tomorrow, Jorge said.

I can’t, I’m leaving for the U.S. All I need is a police report.

Well, Jorge answered, the printer’s out of ink.

The Princess had to stand up and walk away because she thought she was going to laugh so hard.

Out of ink, I thought, I can’t get a friggin’ police report because they’re out of ink?

We’ll have it for you tomorrow, Jorge added, come by at 8 or 9am.

It’s 10pm, I thought, is the Ink Store opening at some point in the middle of the night?

I thanked them for their time and left. A couple of police officers gave us a ride to our hotel room in the back of a police truck, eliciting some stares from passers-by near the market.

The next morning we returned at 9am. The police report wasn’t done. Jorge walked by me without even a “Buenos dias”. Sebastian, now in civilian clothes, said “Hola” and walked out, ending his shift. I sat down at the same desk as the night before, in front of a new police officer, and asked for my police report for the robbery.

Ok, he said, taking out some scratch paper. Where were you assaulted?

The police report I eventually received:

The Politur station in Antigua:

Politur’s fleet of tuk-tuks: