Where am I, Lake Como? 

That is my first thought as I set eyes on the beautiful scene passing by the window of my private speedboat. 

It feels like I am uncovering a secret—that this mystically magical water is not, in fact a ten-hour flight away Italy. It is only a few hours south in the same time zone.  

In Guatemala. 

While the villa-lined misty hills and towering mountains-meets-water setting certainly confuses my internal map, I quickly learn that is where the similarities between the two famous lakes stop. For this deep and dreamy lake in Central America holds something much more sacred. The Maya people have lived here since 2000 BC, after all, and continue to cling to their traditions that span millennia.

Mist lingers on the surface, and the only sounds are the soft dip of my paddle, the chorus of cicadas in the trees, and the distant rhythm of village life waking up along the shore. Locals say the lake holds secrets—ancient spirits beneath the surface, towns swallowed by its depths. But I jump into the water from my kayak anyway and immediately feel relief. There’s something deeply grounding about experiencing the lake this way, cradled between sky and water, surrounded by stories older than memory. 

Later, I trade the kayak for hiking shoes and follow one of the narrow, timeworn footpaths that connect the towns around the lake. These are the same trails the Maya have used for centuries, and they wind through avocado orchards and high ridges that offer sweeping views of the lake below. The path feels both challenging and sacred, not in a ceremonial way, but in the simple continuity of footsteps that have shaped this landscape for generations. As I huff and puff, Maya men and women effortlessly pass by carrying loads of wood in their tumpline, the strap secured to their forehead and the nearly 100-pound load supported on their back.

Around the lake, a collection of villages highlights the diversity, industry, and devotion of the Maya people. No roads circle the lake, so the only way to reach most of them is by boat. 

First, I disembark in San Juan la Laguna. Wandering through its vibrant streets feels like stepping into a living canvas where every wall is a mural and every street is a mosaic. One moment I am admiring the detail of the iconic birds-eye-view paintings in a tucked-away gallery; the next, I’m sipping freshly brewed coffee at a surprise street expo, the local growers sharing their bean-to-cup process with such joy and reverence. 

At a small women’s collective, Casa Flor Ixcaco, I sit beside master weaver Ana who shows me how to beat the cotton to make it soft, pull the cotton into threads of yarn, dye it by hand with natural dye made from gardenias, and work a traditional backstrap loom. As she wraps the strap around her waist and begins to weave, she explains the symbolism in each thread, each color, each pattern. It isn’t just textile—it’s memory, identity, and legacy woven into cloth, and a way for her to support herself through talent and tradition. 

I zip through the town's meandering streets in a cherry red tuk-tuk and arrive at a modest room heavy with incense and significance, where I am invited to visit Maximón, a cigar-smoking, rum-sipping folk saint cared for by a brotherhood of local devoted religious. Bedecked in layers of scarves, a suit, and a mask, Maximón takes my rum offering willingly and challenges me to see both light and dark, good and evil, all in one baffling entity.  

A complete departure from noncommercial Santiago, the village of Santa Catarina Palopó shimmers in shades of Mykonos blue—from the iconic cobalt-painted homes (an initiative to give women more of a say in the home) to the hand-thrown pottery that lines local workshops. This signature blue-and-white ceramic style is both functional and deeply artistic, with intricate motifs inspired by nature and Mayan heritage. 

Just beyond the bustle, the cemetery of Chichicastenango also reflects the town's hue. I meander past the patchwork of painted tombs—turquoise, coral, emerald—each color holding meaning about the life and role of the person laid to rest. Here, in "Chichi", it seems every shade tells a story. 

I leave Lake Atitlán deeply moved, carrying the quiet power of its people, the warmth of their traditions, and the sacredness of the water itself. This isn’t a place you simply visit; it’s a place that imprints and invites you to breathe. From the women who weave stories into cloth to the volcanoes that stand as timeless guardians, the lake has a way of holding onto you long after you depart.