Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going. – Paul Theroux
The next morning is bittersweet, as our group is beginning to lose two more wheels, and the remaining trike of Tim, Char, and myself are departing for Coban with anticipated aspirations of visiting the enthusiastically bragged about, Semuc Champey. The typical hugs and farewells are exchanged, verbal hopes of reuniting with Eva in Antigua, Lago de Atitlan, or even El Salvdaor, as she is still in the first stages of her year long travels that are taking her round the world as well. Staying behind to enjoy a few more days in Flores before David has a bus to catch on Sunday for Mexico before flying back to Prague, they stand on the uneven cobblestone street in front of the Mesa De Los Mayas, and wave at our shuttle as it pulls away.
Walking towards the Mercado Central, a large cathedral stands as a giant protecting the plaza, the streets are busy with a mix of crowds and constant traffic of automobiles. Seeking to avoid the nuisances of the bustling commotion, we duck down one of the side streets that offers a gorgeous panoramic view of the lush green hillside. A steep decline works our calf muscles as our feet bounce along the rough stone ridden street. Hunger is again dismissed with an uneventful lunch of pizza, before stopping at the pharmacy, which awards us with an exciting afternoon of entertainment and a new story.