Day 1-Peachy

August, 2011 § Leave a comment

Well, I didn’t offer the boys any cookies. It’s not like I took them out and ate them without offering. I still haven’t had a cookie myself. Plus, I think if they had known at all that I had cookies to offer and why I didn’t, I think they’d understand completely.

When I wasn’t sharing and caring it’s merely because I was enraptured in themes of war, love, soldiers, death, hope, and honor. Louis de Berniêres had me fully engaged in the story of Cephalonia, a beautiful Greek island that Italians ignorantly occupied and Germans maliciously tried to conquer. The story, on all accounts, was at its climax. I don’t think anyone would disagree when I say it would have been an injustice to pull away when so invested in accordance with the author’s intentions. And so, the stars (or clouds) aligned and when I came to a good stopping place, I put my bookmark (a boarding pass) in its place, just as the passengers moved forward to exit the plane.

I don’t like the Miami airport, I prefer Atlanta. It’s easier and more familiar. But, lo, I arrived at my gate on time and even had time to grab a cup of water and a Cuban sandwich at an establishment inappropriately named, “Cafe Versailles” where all of the employees speak Spanish. Then, who am I kidding? This is Miami, after all. Call a spade a spade.

As I was standing in line to board, I found Louis. More appropriately, he found me and walked up behind me, his first words: “Rachel Paul.” He has always been one for eloquence!

People say my name sometimes as though it explains everything. I’ve been told that, for that reason, I shouldn’t get married. Because if I’m not Rachel Paul, who am I? I would love to have a different last name. I imagine that will be, if my day does come, the easiest transition to make into married life.

Louis came with his sister, Hannah. Who I know, thus far, is a better packer than I, very sweet, and, based on my first impression, will fare beautifully in the land of Honduras.

He also came with a couple from his church, the Peaches. They introduced themselves with their first names but, because of my previous knowledge of their name, combined with my love for that glorious fruit (fruit, in general), I don’t plan on remembering the names they gave me.

Mr. & Mrs. Peach first came to Honduras to help with Hurricane Mitch relief. This translates into another kind of relief for me. Someone who comes back to Honduras is someone with whom I can find common ground on at least one account.

They are coming to see about putting an air strip near Hospital Loma de Luz. It seems to me, like so many missionaries, they know more about why they’re doing what they’re doing than what they’re actually doing. Take it how you want, it’s not an insult.

I hope that half of a Cuban sandwich doesn’t make me sick.


The Cuban sandwich was, in fact, quite nauseating. My stomach is turning and until I threw it away, it was leaving a grotesque smell in our row.

I offered cookies to two people but have only given away one cookie so far. Naturally, I don’t want to eat more cookies than I give away so I only ate one myself.

The plane is landing. I’ve slept the majority of this flight as well. By dictations of tradition, I awoke for my cran-apple juice and filled out my immigration forms. Bleh, I can still smell that stinky Cuban sandwich.

Angus & Julia Stone, As Tall as Lions, and Baby Walrus have been keeping me company as I ponder and approach more pondering.

I’m stuck with this thought, “Am I a coward for loving something deeply and not wanting to commit to it?” As things become more serious and concrete I find my inner bird pulling back and wondering where her freedom will land her.

WANT-should I want to stay in Honduras? Or, is the point of being called that it is something separate from desire?

I wrote that and then I picked up my book. Somewhere mid-sentence, I glanced out the window. I’m reconsidering. Not much can pull me away from a good book. But, when I look out my window, do you know what I see? Land, vast & green. I see potential. I see all the hope, adventure, and lust of the world wrapped in luscious trees and grass. Is this what I want? How will I ever know?

The desires of a woman’s heart are fickle. She desires freedom and captivity in the same breath.

Is this place real? Have I a different set of eyes? Has love cleared my vision? These colors are those that I attempt to put on canvas and they give me words that I exhale in a poem.

I lost a suitcase in San Pedro, which means I missed getting to see the man waiting with a sign that said, “Lunsford”. Even though it’s not my name, I have very big dreams of one day landing in an airport and having someone waiting for me like that, a sign, with my name. But, I missed out on it because I was talking with an American Airlines representatives (in Spanish?) about my lost bag.

We got on a taxi and headed to La Ceiba. I slept nearly the whole way.


We have navigated our way through La Ceiba and are on our way down the road that seems to never end but in itself feels like a destination. I wish I could travel this road everyday and that it would never take me anywhere. The chicken, street vendors, dust, crops, and curves all have a story to tell, an endless story filled with suspense, romance, family, and, if you look closely enough, hope. A redefined hope.

A hope I cannot know because it is hope that inhabits the soul, shines through the eyes, but never communicates itself. Stuck in the dreams of its captor.

I am filled with a peaceful suspense as we pass acres and acres of banana trees. Louis slows down for herds of cows in the road and the farther we go, the more familiar things get. I’ve gone from one home to another.

I am lost in my thoughts and hardly realize we have reached San Luis and are parking behind the car in front of us. We are at Christine’s house and, at 5pm, 12 hours after I woke up, it’s hard to believe my travel has come to a close.


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