Free Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman Page A

the kids than the officials anyway. What time are we leaving in the morning?”
    “I haven’t finished,” says Amy. “Brigitte doesn’t want you on the project at all. I’m sorry.”
    I cannot believe what I am hearing. This can’t be happening. Just like that, I have been discarded. No apology. No thank you. No effort to be gentle. The tears well up in my eyes and I feel as though I am going to faint. I turn and walk home in a daze. That is the last I ever see of Amy or Brigitte or Gary.
    The minute I enter my room, I begin to sob. I cannot stop. I do not come out of my room for dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch.
    My hostess is worried. She knocks on my door and I tell her I’m OK. I am not feeling well and want to rest. No, I don’t want to eat, thank you.
    Actually, I am not OK. I have been working on this project for more than two months. It has filled every minute of my time in Guatemala. It has also filled my psyche. I love Brigitte and Amy and Gary; and the project has given new meaning to my life. I also know how good I am with kids. They haven’t even seen that part of me. I am devastated.
    When I recover enough to reflect on what happened, I see Brigitte’s side of it. There is something about a preponderance of foreigners that reeks of colonialism and sends out a message of superiority. Of course it is better to have a staff of Guatemalans. I do understand. But her way of telling me, and her timing, were painfully insensitive. Over the next years I will meet other people whose lives are devoted to great causes but whose sensitivity to individuals, including their families, is defective. I applaud their work and their commitment, but after my Brigitte experience, I am wary of their friendship.

    When I am ready to join the world again, I decide to rent an apartment for six months. I check out the bulletin boards in the center of town and put a deposit on a great two-bedroom place. Doña Lina, the owner, a wealthy Guatemalan woman of Spanish extraction whose family has owned the house for generations, lives with her husband in the back part of the property; there is a central courtyard between us. Doña Lina is a small woman but she stands tall; her presence is a bit haughty. She promises me hot water and quiet.
    I carry my bags over and move in. Now I need some friends. I’m going back to my initial plan of making friends in the ex-pat community. There are several dozen ex-Americans who own homes and businesses in Antigua. I haven’t met them, but I know they are here; I’ve seen them congregating in Doña Luisa’s restaurant for breakfast.
    Doña Luisa’s is two blocks from the main plaza. The restaurant is in the covered courtyard of an old colonial mansion. The day after I move into my own place, I arrive early at Doña Luisa’s for breakfast and take a seat near the door, where everyone who comes in or out has to pass by my table. I want to be noticed.
    I sit without a newspaper or a book and people-watch, nodding and smiling (a small smile accompanied by a short nod) at anyone who looks in my direction. The table for eight in the middle of the room is where the in-group sits. They arrive one by one and greet each other like old friends. I eat my scrambled eggs and toast and sip the wonderful, rich coffee and wonder if I will be sitting with them a week or so from now. That’s my plan. Step number one is to get them to notice me, so I sit at my table for more than an hour with a friendly expression on my face.
    The next day I take the same table and smile the same smile, this time with a hint of greater familiarity, justified by the fact that I’d seen them the day before and I know they saw me.
    Day three I say, “Hi.” And I get nods and Hi’s back. By now they must be wondering who I am.
    Finally, on the fourth day, a chunky fiftyish guy with a big black beard asks me where I’m from. I tell him Los Angeles and ask him how long he’s been here. Years, he answers.
    “How long are you in