GPS, Ubers, and online booking have changed travel. In many ways, for the better. After a long international flight, the last thing I want to do is decipher a shuttle schedule or negotiate with a taxi driver. Call me bougie, but I'll happily open Uber and let someone else worry about the route. Twenty-three-year-old Hilary would probably roll her eyes at me. Apparently growing up comes with appreciating convenience.
But somewhere along the way, we've lost a little bit of the adventure.
There was a time when travel meant unfolding a paper map, asking strangers for directions, trying to decipher a bus schedule in another language, and hoping you were standing in the right place. I can't believe I'm nostalgic for waiting an hour at a bus stop only to discover I'd been on the wrong side of the street the entire time.
Lake Atitlán brought a little of that magic back.
We arrived in Panajachel before breakfast. As soon as we climbed out of our Uber (bougie, remember?), locals surrounded us offering rides to the docks, boat tickets, drinks, tours, and just about anything else a traveler might need. On limited caffeine, it was...a lot.
So we did what every good decision-maker should do before making decisions: we found breakfast. Over eggs, a Coke, and a chance to reset, we learned the public water taxis left about every fifteen minutes. There was no rush.
Eventually we wandered down to the dock. We kept repeating, "San Juan," and were confidently told to get in the blue boat.
The only problem? There were at least five blue boats. Did they all go to San Juan? How did you pay? Would someone tell us when we arrived? We had no idea. We picked the closest one, climbed aboard, and hoped for the best.
As soon as the boat pulled away from shore, none of those questions seemed to matter.
The wind whipped through my hair as we skipped across the water. The volcanoes towered above the lake, equal parts peaceful and intimidating, while colorful villages dotted the shoreline. My backpack had been casually tossed onto the roof of the boat—not tied down or secured in any visible way—but somehow I wasn't worried.
This was what travel used to feel like.
About thirty minutes later, everyone started getting off the boat, so we did too. I never actually saw a sign that said "San Juan." I just trusted the process. Thankfully, my backpack had survived the journey.
Finding our hotel was another adventure. Google Maps insisted we walk straight across the lake. Waze wasn't any more helpful, and even Apple Maps seemed convinced that walking on water was the fastest route.
We needed a new plan.
We flagged down a tuk-tuk, and with my very limited Spanish, I negotiated a price. Moments later we were weaving through narrow streets, passing colorful murals, shops, and locals going about their day. Somehow, despite every navigation app failing us, our driver knew exactly where we were going.
By a small miracle that did not involve walking on water, we arrived at our hotel.
Over the next few days, I fell in love with both Lake Atitlán and its transportation system. In many ways, they're inseparable. The public boats bounce from town to town, sometimes calling out the next stop, other times too busy collecting fares or chatting with passengers to bother. You learn to pay attention, ask questions, and trust that someone will point you in the right direction.
Places where GPS and Uber don't have all the answers are becoming increasingly rare. And while I wouldn't trade modern conveniences entirely, I'm grateful there are still corners of the world where travel requires a little uncertainty.
Because sometimes the best part of the journey is not knowing exactly how you'll get there. (And for the record, I managed to get off at the correct dock about 90% of the time. I'll call that a win.)
