"I just talked to my wife," he turned to me abruptly. "She was tucking our girls into bed, opened the closet to get something, and tore off the top of her toe. Blood everywhere. She's on her way to the hospital now."
"... Oh. Oh dear. I'm... uhh.... Sorry about that."
A mum in a long-sleeved purple shirt walks by, holding the hand of a meandering two foot munchkin. The munchkin wears a bright blue shirt with a neon orange brontosaurus plastered on. And I want it. Loudspeakers blare in the background, but I've got my earbuds in and am listening to Iron and Wine. The air conditioning is aggravating my perpetually irritable sinuses and my head throbs with the anticipation of the long journey ahead of me.
WHY didn't I keep the bottle of Aleve in my carry-on? Dammit, Bourget. You know better than that, I thought as I massaged my temples.
It's six thirty and my flight doesn't start boarding for another hour or so. I've been whiling away the time writing down ukulele tabs, working on my yoga playlists, and watching The Great British Baking Show. Like the "I spend most of my life waiting" champ I am.
"Final boarding call for Karen Lane!"
Three hour flight to Houston. Then a nine and a half hour layover. Then a three hour flight to Guatemala City. Then a two and a half hour wait for my shuttle. Then a two hour shuttle ride to Antigua.
Why do I do this to myself? I could have a cozy bed in Grand Junction to crawl into. A kitchen of my own. A consistent supply of bacon. Hot showers. And yet...
And yet, here I am. Missing family, friends, Boy, my oil paints, my bed with the soft penguin pillowcases.
I've mentioned it before, but I'll mention it again. Because it's relevant and most of this blog is an exercise in slightly restructured redundancy anyway.
Ahem.
My first trip back in 2011 felt a bit like jumping out of a frying pan into a fire. As the macabre saying goes. And you know what? It was easy to say goodbye. To leave that life behind. Because no one likes being in a frying pan.
This trip feels a bit like jumping from the loveliest, fluffiest feather bed of all time ever... into the fire. Which is not how the saying goes, because no one does that. It's stupid. So it doesn't get a saying.
"Are you excited about your trip?" friend after friend asked me.
"Well... no, actually. Mostly nervous and scared."
"What are you scared of?" Boy asked me.
"I'm scared that I'll get sick again... I'm scared that I won't be the kind of yoga teacher they need... I'm scared that I won't make meaningful connections, and that I'll be fucking lonely. I'm so, so tired of all the lonely."
I had the best set up in Grand Junction. Holy bananas. I had slow, but affordable healthcare through Medicaid. I lived with Boy and two other delightful roommates. I baked and painted to my heart's (and stomach's) delight. So many dinner parties. So much wine. And I had just started to make money -- good money -- giving Thai massages. Oh, and I had at least two Irish coffees a week with Judy.
That was my feather bed. My lovely, fluffy feather bed. And now I'm giving it up... for what?
That's been the question echoing through my mind for the past few weeks.
Is it instinct now? Is it as necessary for me to move as it for birds and butterflies and wildebeest to migrate? Am I on autopilot? Doing this because I simply don't know how to live any other way?
I've decided to incessantly practice self-awareness on this trip... to check in with myself all the bloody time. Ask myself questions like, "Why am I doing this?" "How is this helping me grow?" "Am I living with meaning?"
"Boarding for the 8:15 flight from Denver to Houston, boarding Group One!"
The flight was fully booked. I popped in my earbuds and tried to tune out, plastering my cheek against the cold window and feeling terribly conflicted and immensely sorry for myself.
"What's your name?" a large, affable, mustached man interrupted my music.
"Aimee, yours?"
"Ray. I can't believe this flight lands in Houston at midnight. Phew. I have two daughters. Twins. It's their birthday. I'm going to visit them."
"Oh. Where are you from?"
"Well, I'm from Louisiana," the fellow slid his arm onto the middle armrest. "But I've been living in North Dakota with my son for a few years. We have an oil business up there, yup, had some pretty good luck. But I don't like oil. I'm going to build a hotel in Peru."
"Peru?"
"Did you know that potatoes are from Peru? Four thousand different kinds of potatoes. And I'm dagum crazy about potatoes. And meat. Did you know that Peru has some of the best beef in the world? Well, Argentina has the best beef in the world, and most beef in Peru comes from Argentina."
"That's pretty convenient."
"I just broke up with my girlfriend," the man continued. "We didn't have anything in common, so I finally -- "
This fellow is awfully comfortable talking about everything...
-- it's hard to be so tall on these flights," he slowed down for a breath.
"Yeah, I'm glad I have such short legs," I motioned to the ample space between my knees and the seat in front of me.
"I'm glad you're skinny!" the mustached man declared. "I once had to sit next to a woman for thirteen hours.... she was... Now, don't get me wrong, I love everybody, but she was so big that she kinda, well, spilled over into my seat. And I'm not small, you see? Anyway, for the first few minutes, it was fine. But then we started to sweat, and I couldn't tell which sweat was mine. At the end of the flight, the pilot thanked me for not making a fuss and gave me a 300 dollar flight voucher."
".... Oh."
We went our separate ways in Houston's international airport. Ray to baggage claim and me to a spot of thinly carpeted floor close to an outlet. Where I would remain for the next nine and a half hours.
Oh well.
I Skyped Boy and then logged into Netflix. The second season of Stranger Things had just become available, and I planned to watch every episode before I landed in Guatemala and had only shit wifi for months.
So I spent the better part of nine and a half hours curled up on the floor, watching Stranger Things and lifting my laptop cord for the tired janitors who glared at me for being so in the way.
Why are airports always so cold? I thought as I shivered on the thin carpet, feeling a crick in my neck and a bruise beginning to form on my hip.
I finally boarded Houston to Guatemala. At nine thirty am. The flight had advertised that breakfast would be included, so I hadn't bothered to eat anything in the airport. However, breakfast consisted of a single, unappetizing cookie.
I feel so cheated right now. Also, I feel hungry. I haven't eaten since yesterday at two when Boy took me for a pita.
...
The things I would do for a pita right now. Blurgh, I sighed as I drank my poor excuse of a coffee and crunched down on my crumbly cookie.
I landed in Guatemala City at 11:20. After about an hour of waiting in line to go through security, I picked up darling Fat Ellie at baggage claim. Then exited the airport to a raucous crowd of Guatemalans shouting, "Taxi!" "Antigua?" "Shuttle!"
Here we go again...
"Taxi?" a small fellow with missing teeth smiled at me.
"No, gracias. I already booked a shuttle."
"Oh, with who?"
"Tropical travel."
"Phone call?" I was offered a phone.
"No, it's okay," I demurred, knowing that this fellow was not just being friendly -- he was after a tip.
"No Quetzales," I shrugged my shoulders. "Do you know where an ATM is?"
"Only one ATM, third floor," the opportunistic chap pointed across the street to another section of the airport.
God, I hate withdrawing at airports. Withdrawal fees are bonkers. But... I'm pooped. Utterly, thoroughly wasted. And I don't want to have to walk around Antigua, looking for an ATM before I can check into my hostel. I just want to check into my hostel and pass the fuck out.
So I withdrew money.
"Taxi?" "Shuttle?" "Antigua?" the same blokes shouted the same things.
"I already booked my shuttle," I repeated to the same man with missing teeth, trying to keep the irritation out of my tone. And probably failing.
"Oh, which company?"
"Tropical travel," I said, feeling stuck inside an incredibly obnoxious loop.
"Phone call?"
"Fine," I broke the loop and gave the chap what he wanted.
Just confirmation that someone's coming to pick me up is worth paying a few cents, should he ask for a tip.
Which he immediately did.
"All I have are hundreds," I frowned, knowing that the adjustment period of having to "tip" people's friendliness would be long and leave me a bit cynical.
"It's okay, I take hundred."
"No, I'll find change," I said firmly, not enthusiastic about giving the man a thirteen dollar tip for a one minute phone call.
I bought an orange juice and gave the smiling chap a five Q note.
Beyond delirious at this point and entering a new, strange realm of calm -- one that I hadn't known existed beyond delirium -- I boarded my shuttle for Antigua. And as I'd done two years before, looked out the window at the chaotic, ugly mess of Guatemala City and felt extremely lucky to not be stepping foot outside my Tropical Travel Shuttle.
I was dropped off in front of my hostel, paid the bills and then went for a quick walk around Antigua, feeling inexplicably energetic.
How am I still moving right now?
Probably because of all the pretty. I mean... look at all this pretty.
Also... I'm feeling kinda emotional right now. Somewhere beyond and below the delirium and calm.
I don't think I can sit with all that emotion. I can walk with it. But not sit with it. Not lay down and close my eyes with it.
Give yourself a couple of months, Bourget. If you're not living a meaningful life that brings you at least some joy, if you're not making connections and learning in a healthy way, be DONE.
You're always allowed to leave. You're always allowed to move on. To say, "this isn't good for me."
If you land in a fire and can't seem to escape/discover that you're actually Targaryen and fire is AWESOME/put out the fire, you are allowed to find another feather bed.
Life has loads of suffering. But you don't have to go looking for it. You don't have to live in it when you have other options.
So feel it out. Keep an open mind.
Ask friends for support if you need. Ask family for support if you need. Don't isolate yourself. Don't cut yourself off from the loving, supportive community you have. People like Judy and Grandpa Joe.
You can feel some peace knowing that if everything in Central America goes to hell, you won't be alone to deal with it.
So here I am. Here I go. Into the fire.
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