If you live in a country with strict building codes, you’re probably used to trusting infrastructure. You expect the next stair you step on to be solid, the electrical wiring to be safe (see Tip #2), or a balcony railing to hold your weight. I'm here to tell you — that’s not always the case.
In many ways, the developed world has too many rules. In my opinion, we’ve gone a bit overboard in the name of “safety.” But if you’re traveling in a less regulated part of the world, just remember: always look before you leap.
Lake Atitlán, Guatemala
The fire spinning was my favorite part. Beautiful, half-naked women and men in complete control, manipulating flaming objects across the beach to the rhythmic beat of house music. Sublime Bar sits on the shores of Lake Atitlán — a 1,000-ft crater lake in western Guatemala, which the Mayan people consider the center of the universe. A magical place. Sublime is in San Pedro, one of more than a dozen towns around the lake, all named after Catholic saints — a true convergence of powerful spiritual energy.
In 2010, during a month-long stay in San Pedro, I found myself almost every night following locals and travelers alike to Sublime to dance, drink, take drugs, and be merry. It’s still there today (though much more modern) and definitely a must-visit if you're in the area.
While staying at Atitlán, I managed a small five-bedroom motel in the center of town. It was super basic, and in exchange for half-heartedly collecting money from guests and changing sheets, I got the fifth bedroom for free. We were usually busy, and through my role I met so many fascinating people from all walks of life and all corners of the world. One of those guests was a 20-something named Katie.
Katie was from North Carolina and traveling alone. Sweet, quick to laugh, and super cute. We clicked right away. On her first night, I took her to Sublime. Luckily, some of my closest friends were also traveling through Central America at the time, and we had all converged in San Pedro. I was stoked to see them already at the bar when we walked in. They hit it off with Katie instantly, and the next few hours were a blur of dancing and fun. So. Much. Fun.
Eventually, Katie and I took our beers and stepped out onto the club’s large wooden balcony — a great place to feel the cool night air, smoke, make out, etc. A few people were scattered around, silhouettes against the dim light from inside.
Joking and laughing, Katie and I found our way to the edge, overlooking the lake. The night sky was packed with stars, shining over the volcanoes that form Atitlán’s edge. I turned, leaning back on the railing, and gently pulled Katie toward me.
Two things happened at once:
We kissed.
And the railing behind me snapped.
Suddenly, we were free-falling. My feet flew over my head as I fell backwards. Time slowed. Later I’d see the fall was about 15 feet — onto a mix of gravel, grass, and dirt.
My head hit first. My body crumpled, and then kept rotating, tumbling down a 20-foot decline of boulders toward the lake. I was rag-dolling, completely out of control. After a couple rotations, I hit the water — shallow. Then everything went still.
My first thought was disbelief. Then came panic: Katie must be dead.
I started to hear my own breathing, distant bass from Sublime’s speakers, and nothing else.
I opened my eyes. The same stars still hung overhead. I began to check myself — fingers, toes — all moved. Good sign. I touched my head and face. No major injuries.
I turned to my right, instinctively, and saw Katie — moving slowly. She looked like she was doing the same mental inventory.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She turned to me, eyes wide with disbelief that mirrored my own.
“I think so,” she said.
We slowly got to our feet, the ankle-deep water lapping at our legs. As the adrenaline wore off, the pain kicked in. Head, neck, shoulders, legs… everything hurt.
We climbed back toward the club, one boulder at a time, helping each other. When we reached the point of impact, we looked up and saw the shattered railing dangling above. Katie spotted a narrow path along the side of the club, and we used it to climb up and around. I boosted her up the last few feet to the far end of the balcony.
Standing side-by-side, soaked and trembling, we looked around. Besides the broken railing, it was like nothing had happened.
People were still laughing, smoking, having a great time.
We walked back inside. The dance floor was packed, music thumping. My friends spotted us and stopped dancing. We must’ve looked like hell — soaked, scraped, and pale. We tried to explain what had happened over the music, but gave up. I walked Katie home and then collapsed into bed, completely unaware of any proper concussion protocol.
The morning was rough. Everything hurt. But truthfully? I was just grateful to be alive.
I checked on Katie. Same deal — sore, shaken, grateful.
And it’s safe to say: I’ve never fully trusted a balcony again — anywhere in the world.
The moral of the story? When it comes to infrastructure: Always look before you leap.