Angela of Livingston Guatemala - Part 1 In Livingston Guatemala lives a woman who's face is full of heaven and who has

b een randomly set down to work in a small economy hotel in this island town elbow ed between the Rio Dulce and the Guatemala Caribbean.

Our heroine is not conscious of her rightful place in a parallel universe, or th at some hiccup of gamma rays, a cheat of magic realism or just God up to His usu al tricks has intercepted her noble life and detoured her here. This soft and benevolent creature has been cartwheeled into a life of scouring b athrooms, laundering limitless piles of bedding and towels and sweeping the endl ess and unavailing sand from the hotel floors. All the while she is silently inca nting mantras of good wishes to all, the side effects of which keep her hands as soft as a princess' and her heart as nourishing as bread. Sometimes God's tricks are okay. She works 12 hours a day doing the work of three people: all duties, from changin g linen to flipping and serving banana pancakes and cappuccinos in the morning. L ater in the afternoon she's sent to cast her fine light further when she serves at the hotel's sister restaurant up the street. She's not tall but she has long bones that framework a skin of luminous mocha, s ometimes verging on olive tones, but only when it's about to rain. The skin then might fool you into thinking her eyes have a green cast, but they are relentles sly Madonna brown. She would be the face of Botticelli's Venus if he had been Gua temalan. Men can only look at her grace, sigh and forget there ever was an Italy . Hung over backpackers may try to signal the content of their swollen hearts as s he brings soothing water and first-aid coffee to their alcohol-ravaged imagining s. But American style flirting, Brit-style chat up, Swiss kibitzing, Aussie stum blings, all these have the same result. She shines compassion on all, not favorin g one or the other guest. The young men are maddened by her democratic courtesies . Each receives the brief touch of her cool hand on scorched brow after nights of too much Gallo and local Gifiti, taken uselessly to forget her. It seems that Saint Monica channels to her a full serving of compassion and forb earance. Meanwhile the young men pray to St Jude the patron of lost causes for wh atever scraps he may toss. Monica radiates over Angela. Jude is busy and distracte d looking for keys and change that have slipped under the couch cushions back in Milwaukee. No use, dues. None of you is the one. A miracle is sought here. Gentle goddesses cannot rely on the ardor of tattooed t raveling lunkheads, dating sites or the meddling of local matchmakers. Clearly a man whose virtues match hers is not possible. However, the river might fetch up an honorable suitor. A man of courage who can find?