Some places stay with you long after you’ve left them. They call you back, not just with their beauty but with the stories they hold—stories of people, of connections, of unfinished chapters.
Livingston, Guatemala, is one of those places.

Tucked away on the Caribbean coast, Livingston is unlike anywhere else in Guatemala. It’s a Garifuna village where reggae beats drift through the air, where the Río Dulce spills into the sea, and where time slows down just enough for you to feel its heartbeat. Yet, despite its magic, most travelers pass it by.
Cruise ships dock once a week, their passengers stepping off for a few hours, snapping photos of the vibrant culture before sailing away again. But if you stop, even for a moment, you’ll see that Livingston is more than just a stop on an itinerary—it’s a place that welcomes you, embraces you, and, if you let it, changes you.

Years ago, Livingston was my refuge. A sanctuary where the warmth of its people wrapped around me when I needed it most.
I spent my days helping a small family-run hotel build its online presence, my laptop balanced on a table in a quiet courtyard. Evenings were spent high above town at the Garifuna Center, where the Río Dulce stretched behind me, and the waves of the Caribbean crashed ahead. It was a place of dreams, a place where I could lose myself in the breeze and the endless horizon.
But I left before I was ready.

And for years, I carried Livingston with me, unfinished in my heart.

Returning to Livingston

When I finally returned, I wasn’t sure how I’d be received. Would the people I once knew remember me? Would Livingston still feel like home?
As I stepped off the boat, my heart pounded. The walk up the hill into town felt both familiar and foreign. But the moment I stepped into that small hotel—the one where I had once spent so much time—I knew I was home.
“The lost son has returned,” they said with laughter and open arms. My old room was waiting, as if I had never left. The warmth, the love, the memories—Livingston hadn’t forgotten me.
That first day back was spent reconnecting. Familiar faces lit up with recognition, voices filled with affection. I searched for an old friend—just a street dog, but one that had meant the world to me once. It may seem silly, but those little connections, the ones that tether us to a place, matter.
And then, there was her.

Angela

Angela. The woman I had dreamed about. The woman who had been a part of my Livingston story in a way that was never romantic, yet deeper than friendship.
She was easy to find. Still breathtaking in a way that others might not have noticed. She worked tirelessly—cleaning hotel rooms by day, and serving in a restaurant by night. When she saw me, her eyes lit up, not with longing, but with warmth. There was no past between us that needed to be spoken about, no unresolved emotions. Just two people whose paths had crossed again, as if time had never passed.
We sat and talked about the old days, about the dreams we once had. And as I listened to her speak, I knew that Angela deserved more than just my memories—she deserved a future where she could thrive.

That night, back at the Garifuna Center, I looked out over the same view I had once lost myself in. But this time, my thoughts were not just of the past, not just of dreams. This time, I knew I had a purpose.
Angela’s story deserved to be told.

Not just hers, but the story of every woman who works tirelessly, who holds on to hope, who dreams of something more.
So I write this, not just as a memory of a place that once held me, but as a testament to the people who made it home. To Angela, and to the quiet, unseen strength of so many like her.

And to those of you who find yourselves in Guatemala, searching for something more than just another stop on your journey—take the time to go to Livingston. Stay longer than a few hours. Let the waves, the people, the stories pull you in.
You might just find something you didn’t know you were looking for.