I'm starting this post from Tulum's main square. A large white building sits in front of me with the words "Palacio Municipal" written across the top and Q.ROO on the sides
If I ever had the opportunity to name a sate, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't name it Q.ROO.
The Q stands for Quintana, of course, but we don't need to worry about that.
The square is littered with benches (in varying stages of dilapidation), jungle animal statues and verdant jungle shrubbery. Birds foot-foot-foot across the rocks and bricks. Grey/brown birds that resemble mini turtle doves and black birds that look like mini ravens (but with yellow tinted faces).
I'm Sure Boy could tell me exactly what type of bid they are (Boy went through a birding phase in his youth), but Boy is still (unfortunately) living and working in Colorado.
Where I will be too. In four days.
The square is abandoned by human beings except for me and a hispanic chap sitting on a green bench between the statue of a wild cat with an owlish face and the statue of a rather squashed looking crocodile. People occasionally march through the square on their way to work, but for the most part, the square belongs to me.
Me and the mini something-or-others.
7:00 am is early for Mexico.
Yesterday was exquisite. I'm immensely grateful to everyone (and the 8 street dogs living in front of their houses) who emphatically told me to visit Tulum.
After a relatively short, unentertaining four hour bus ride (ADO bus have TVs inside. They played The Hobbit. In Spanish. For the second bloody time. I believe I'm the only American in the world who has seen The Hobbit twice in Spanish but never in English), I arrived in the small, tourist town of Tulum.
My new host, a Mayan shaman, traditional healer, massage therapist, temazcaleros and musician was waiting for me with his bicycle at ADO's entrance.
"Are you Ignacio?" I kissed his right cheek. As one does in Mexico (I generally disagree with Europe for many of the things it did to Latin America. Tearing down Mayan temples, killing and enslaving millions of people, stealing vast amounts of natural resources and inflicting its absurd manner of greeting onto perfectly sensible people).
"Yes," answered my host for three nights. "Aimee?"
"Yup, thanks for meeting me."
And we ambled to his apartment, a good three blocks away from the bus station.
"You want water?" asked Ignacio as I heaved Ellie off my back and onto the white tile floor.
"Please," I sighed. The tropical climate has really been getting to me, as of late. I've found myself uncharacteristically guzzling liters of water on the daily.
We sat around his small wooden table in the main room and talked about massage, herbal things and all manner of hippie, healing goodness. Then we wandered through Tulum to the corner where the colectives depart for the beach.
For those of you who ever might find yourself in Tulum -- there appear to be three different Tulums. FYI.
Ruinas Tulum.
Pueblo Tulum.
Playa Tulum.
All of these Tulums are within biking distance of each other, but would make for rather long (incredibly hot) walks. So most tourists a) rent bikes or b) take the colectivo.
Alas, the colectivo for Playa Tulum only leaves once every half hour, and we'd missed the last van by seconds. So instead of languish in the heat for another half an hour, we decided to walk to the main intersection and try out luck at hitchhiking to the playa.
Let's jus say I've had better luck hitching.
"It's because now is the low season and there are only Mexican tourists," explained Ignacio. "No nice Americans to give us rides."
So we waited at the main intersection another twenty minutes until the colectivo with the red stripe down the side finally creaked to a stop in front of us and whisked us away on a bumpy ride down to the shore.
Ignacio stopped the colectivo just before the beach so that we could wander into the restaurant area in search of a coco frio.
Tulum.
I like you. I like you a lot.
But really?
There are signs like this everywhere in Tulum.
Stay Present.
Love Yourself.
Be Here.
You're Beautiful.
There are more spas and yoga retreats than in San Marcos and the stereotypical yoga slang is abundant. Which I normally don't mind at all (and happen to utter the odd phrase myself, whenever I'm not stuffing my face with cheese, bacon and cochinita), but it seems a wee bit excessive here. Like it's just catering to the expectations of tourists who're looking for that perfect yoga holiday.
Ignacio and I found ourselves a mountain of jagged rocks on which to sit as we watched the sun sink behind an impenetrable wall of clouds.
We hitched back into town with a Canadian couple. The wife worked in the field of medicinal marijuana, and was rapaciously curious about the changes in Colorado since recreational use was legalized.
"Err.... I really don't know much," I admitted. "I haven't done an awful lot of living in Colorado, as of late."
The Canadians dropped us off in front of the main square (whee I now sit with my journal) and said goodbye with a friendly, "It was so nice to meet you!"
There happened to be a free concert in the square. A children's orchestra was adeptly playing tunes from Titanic, Lion King and Pirates of the Caribbean. So Ignacio and I scampered off to hunt down the closest tamale lady and then scurried back to enjoy dinner and a show.
"Want to get a drink?" Ignacio asked after the orchestra had played their finale and taken their final bow.
"Sure, why not."
The cafe/bar Ignacio chose happened to have live flamenco music that night. To which a live flamenco dancer danced.
She kind of rocked my world a little.
But I found myself drifting off (it was about midnight. WAY past this abuela's bedtime), so I asked my host if we could head out.
We walked back to his apartment and set up my bed for the next three nights. An air mattress in the main room that I used my foot to inflate (this is a thing, believe it or not). Then I managed to send a few Facebook messages to Boy before I passed out like a pineapple.
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