I'm starting this post from an incredibly uncomfortable wooden chair in a small cafe down one of the main walking streets in San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico. I can't remember what the walking street is called, but I'm sure I'll have all of them down pat soon.
'Cos Girl's moving from the forest to the city. Girl's moving from San Marcos La Laguna, a village populated by 2200 glassy-eyed (or creepily clear-eyed. Depending on the substance) hippies, to a city of 185,000 seemingly normal people.
For at least the next three weeks.
Boy would be so proud. But even though I tolerate cities, I don't think I'll ever come alive in them the way he does. We'll just have to find a balance somehow.
Ach. The seat of the chair is too small. The back of the chair is too straight. Even the way my legs hang off the chair feels awkward.
These are moments of profound frustration.
Why can't the outlets be adjacent to the COMFORTABLE chairs? I don't understand.
Because then people would stay forever.
And by people, I mean me. Yes, if I could sink into a comfortable chair WITH an outlet nearby, I might remain for the entire afternoon.
No. That's a lie. It's raining outside. I have hot chocolate... I WOULD remain for the entire afternoon.
Alas, this chair is tremendously uncomfortable. Were I not in such pain, I'd feel acute admiration that a simple collection of metal and wood could manage to create such a horrible sensation through my legs, my ass and the entirety of my spine.
Life is hard.
Like this stupid chair.
I said goodbye to The Yoga Forest after teaching my last class on Tuesday morning and eating my last bowl of porridge, peanut butter and papaya.
I will miss the peanut butter.
I will not miss the porridge.
I just... don't understand this porridge thing. It's gloopy. Gloopy. Who wants to eat something GLOOPY? le sigh. No amount of raisins and/or shaved coconut can ameliorate the ghastly gloop of porridge.
One day... I will find a way to incorporate bacon into every breakfast.
Yes.
New life goal.
Bacon.
Every morning.
(Hey... hey, Boy... you paying attention?)
Erin let me stay with her in Panajachel one last time. She even tolerated one more evening of pupusas (I get attached to things like pupusas very quickly) and waited with me for my shuttle the next morning. At 6:10 am.
Because Erin's kind of a wonderful person.
And she kept waiting with me until 6:45 am.
Because Guatemalan shuttles are always late.
And because Erin's kind of a wonderful person.
The tropical travel website said that the bus ride from Panajachel to San Cristobal de las Casas would take 8 hours. So I was happily surprised when we jostled into San Cristobal a little over ten hours later.
Because Guatemalan shuttles are always late.
The journey from Guatemala to Mexico wasn't only long, circuitous and heinously bumpy, it was freaking complicated. We stopped several times to pick up more passengers. We stamped our passports and filled out tourist forms at the Guatemalan border (and were given friendship bracelets for our cooperation) and then we changed buses. Which was terribly complicated because two snotty, prissy French girls refused to move their luggage. The gravel would damage the wheels and they just couldn't be bothered to carry their suitcases. So they demanded that we all pick up our luggage (which we'd already carried over to the new van) and then drive the van down to where they'd left their luggage.
I gaped at them.
Sweethearts... you're not in Paris anymore. Jesus Christ. What the hell are you pansies doing in Guatemala?
The perfectly primped girls finally coerced a nearby farmer to carry their luggage for them. I don't believe anyone in the shuttle spoke with either of the Frenchies for the remainder of the ride. We must have all been thinking something akin to, "How in the world did you manage to live this long and why are you here?"
Then we had to disembark our new bus at the Mexican border to fill out immigration forms. A dog sniffed all our bags for drugs, and I felt like the process was complete. Until thirty minutes later when we had to stop again to completely unload the shuttle and x-ray all of our luggage.
This is why moving too often is just exhausting. The tedious side of travel. God. This is why I stay in one place for at least a month and minimize actual travel time as much as my budget allows.
Every part of my body ached by the time the shuttle bumbled into the Zocalo of San Cristobal. Our driver pointed me in the direction of Puerta Vieja Hostel, and I shouldered Ellie and began to trudge down the wet roads.
Ellie... I love you, but you never seem to get any lighter. We'll have to work on this before we attempt the Colorado Trail. Oof. We'll never make it if you obstinately persist in being so stinkin' fat.
The hostel was larger than I'd anticipated, but I appreciated (greatly) the more than ample supply of toilets.
And even though Puerta Vieja is a little large for my liking, the free cocktail nights on Tuesday and Friday will probably create a decent enough community vibe.
I'd made friends with a Swedish girl during the ten hours in the shuttle, so we decided to spend our first afternoon/evening in San Cristobal wandering the colorful streets together.
Before my first shift yesterday morning, I took my journal out to the Zocalo and scribbled out my fears about this new volunteer situation. After spending a month very actively practicing my passion, I found myself meeting the transition to manual labor that feels menial with resistance and resentfulness.
Why? Why does it bother me so much to know that I'll probably spend the next few weeks sweeping floors and cleaning toilets?
Because this doesn't make me come alive. I know what makes me come alive, and this isn't it. I've found a way to share what makes me come alive, and sweeping floors feels like a waste of energy that could be spent giving thai massages.
Because I don't see how this experience is contributing to the life I want to create with Boy. Which has become incredibly important to me. Even though I'm so far away from this love of mine, I want to feel like what I'm doing here and now is helping to build a future for us to share.
But this is where I'm supposed to be because this is where I am. Now I just have to listen carefully and try to be open to the lessons life wants to teach me in this place.
My morning was positively delightful. I ended up sweeping a couple of hallways and helping two upbeat Mexican teenage boys change bedsheets. They played music and danced and sang and congratulated me every time I finished making a bed.
"Perfecto, Aimee! Muy bueno."
I spent the rest of the day writing.
Writing, drinking hot chocolate and walking alone through crowds of people in the rain.
And lusting after their umbrellas.
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