The fisherman's boat rocked gently as dawn broke over Lake Atitlán, painting the volcanic peaks in shades of persimmon and gold. Juan handed me a cup of atol, the warm corn drink steaming in the cool highland air. "The tourists sleep through this," he said in Spanish, gesturing at the symphony of light unfolding across the water. "But this is when the lake speaks."
I'd arrived in San Pedro La Laguna three days earlier, intending to stay one night. That's how it goes with certain places—they grab hold of something inside you and won't let go. The town clings to the lake's southwestern shore, a maze of cobblestone paths too narrow for cars, where Tz'utujil Maya women sell tomatoes and onions from woven baskets, their traje tradicional a riot of purples and reds against whitewashed walls.
My guesthouse was run by Doña Maria, who'd laugh at my terrible Spanish and correct me gently while serving breakfast on her patio. She'd lost her husband to the lake twenty years ago—a storm that came up suddenly, as they do—but she spoke of him with warmth, not sorrow. "He loved this place," she told me, pouring more coffee. "He's still here, in the water, in the wind."