One thing about expats – we are shameless about pursuing friendships when we intuit it might work out. And nothing forces a friendship to cement or break like traveling together. As the philosophic movie “Anchorman” taught us, 60% of the time, it works every time.

Within three weeks of meeting each other here in the middle of nowhere, there was a core group of us who had decided to take a weekender to Antigua. ‘Twas on the carsick-inducing ride through foggy mountain ranges, passing goats and horses and chickens and car wrecks, one brave soul floated the idea of spending our upcoming four-day Thanksgiving weekend in El Salvador. 

“Uhhh…. Should we wait and see how this weekend goes before making such big promises to each other?” I wondered privately in my head and then accidentally out loud. 

Luckily, that weekend was a success – we visited Hobbitenango and got PSL’s at the world’s most beautiful Starbucks, watched folk dancing at a McDonalds, clapped at every parade, dodged fireworks, danced to salsa on the streets, picked avocados off the ground, and slammed unicorn shots at a gay bar on Independence Day. We got along like a house on fire.

It was an effort to arrange this next trip, but we settled on El Tunco, a surf town in El Salvador. We booked a private car for the 6-9 hour journey (depending on traffic/the border/which company you spoke with) and found an airbnb with a tiny pool and four beds within walking distance to beaches. Now. . . none of us surf, but for me, just to be on the ocean with the promise of a sunset is enough. I’m past the age where I’m willing to pay for surfing lessons again, sure I’d immediately break an arm or step on a jellyfish. I am happy as a clam to sit on any beach and drink lukewarm local beer and get my shoulders close enough to crispy to feel like we really went on a vacation. 

I’ve spent the last few years hosting a massive Friendsgiving party – photo booth, decorations, catered meals plus family recipes, themes, extensive playlists, competitive trivia, teaching the world flip cup and beer pong in my unofficial role as American Ambassador of Goodness, etc. So there was a hole in my heart approaching the holiday, missing all the friends I normally spent the day with, missing my grandma’s potatoes, the organised fun, the forcing of my friends to reveal their highs and lows of the year.

Plus – these new friends were vegetarian! Le sigh.

Obviously, Guatemala doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but we did our best to scavenge some key food groups for the holiday – stuffing, pumpkin bread, roasted carrots, mashed potatoes, cornbread, macaroni and cheese, unsure if we’d find them in El Salvador on the day we arrived. 

The trip started on a hectic note – I apparently shut off my 3:30am alarm for the 4am pick-up, and only woke to the sound of my friends knocking on my door AT 4am. I skipped face-washing and teeth-brushing and shoved things together, sweating and cursing the whole time, and then we went out to wait for the driver. He ended up being half an hour late, and in that time we saw dozens of workers and families walking in to town in the morning mist. It was a different world.

Roads in Guatemala operate quite differently from, say, the anywhere else. It’s a very volcano-y, mountain-y, foggy, lots of animals and people in the road kind of place. Seatbelts are a quaint suggestion. At one point I asked if anyone had ever seen a speed limit sign? It was a no.

Eight hours after pick up, we reached our all-that-we-needed Airbnb, with its enthusiastic ex-cop host, dripping with sweat after a super uncomfortable ride. But we were instantly charmed by host, who had purchased an entire stove and pots and pans set for us after I’d texted to ask about cooking, since it was Thanksgiving. The humidity felt good once we could dip our feet in the pool. After we refreshed, we set out for the beach. 

Because I was leading us, of course, we got a bit lost. My whole life is just a scenic route, so. Luckily a local security guard let us through his resort hotel to walk along the shoreline, which had recently been ravaged by a hurricane. We landed upon an instagrammy restaurant and had some drinks and snacks, which lifted the collective mood. Then we returned to the bnb to begin Thanksgiving prep, which like all great beach vacations, meant we dipped in the pool, showered, then napped. This is the ultimate schedule. If there is a fluffy white robe? Oh, girls. We know how good this is. 

We assembled into the tiny, sweltering space that was the kitchen, throwing matches at and into the gas stove to light it and rotating positions to each cook our offered dishes while sweating bullets, battling mosquitoes, and trying to drink a beer before it became room temperature. A massive grasshopper flew into the kitchen and sent us all into a disarray as it landed on the table, my dress, the chairs, before Erik bravely squished the sh*t out of it. Took three tries. It was huge.

We finally managed to gather round the table, break bread and share the sacred meal. We all missed gravy, and I missed meat, and we pined for families far away, but one thing about expats – we get through it.

This seaside town caters to bougie backpackers, artsy instagrammers, old dudes (who want young girls) that are retiring on Bitcoin or something else that’s terrible for the environment. There are açai bars, coffee working stations, bespoke cocktail places that serve Asian street food amongst mason jars and lightbulb fixtures. It’s predictable but it works and it’s cute and sometimes I get my curated yoghurt dish with my hard kombucha cocktail and I hate that I love it.

The next day, we tramped to a local beach for some sun and waves. Highlights included trying to save an already very dead baby turtle, the local lifeguards repositioning their tower to be closer to us, presumably because we are dumb gringos, and everyone getting sunburned but me! Because they were out there in the waves, giving the lifeguards a reason for their jobs, and I was sipping beers with spf 50 under a hat under an umbrella. Victory.

We were stared at everywhere we went – four obvious outsiders walking along the highways in flip flops, drinking beers, laughing at each other, sweating buckets, sunburned and battling inner thigh heat rash and Birkenstock blisters as we ambled home, too cheap to figure out a taxi. We ended the weekend with açai bowls, bargaining for cheap souvenirs, surfing lessons, skinny dipping therapy sessions, playlists and chats in the dark. We ate pupusas and swang in swangs and listened to live music. The sunsets were everything I’ve ever wanted. It was magic.

On the way home, after waiting over an hour for pick-up, we got more passport stamps, happy meals at McDonalds, and got stuck in traffic behind a drunk driving accident on the mountain roads (at three in the afternoon!) which was interesting because we walked out of the car and right up to it and got to yell at the asshole with everyone else while the police carted him away. Then the people themselves pushed the cars out of the way, cleared some debris, and off we all went.

The good news? We will definitely travel together again. We got along splendidly, have a million inside jokes, and a Whatsapp group inexplicably named after Selena Gomez.

The bad news? There is none.

Until next time.