Mummies! -- Guanajuato, Mexico

I'm starting this post from a small, pleasant room not so far from Mercado Hidalgo. The floor is a red tile, the walls are white and the curtains are striped baby and navy blue. The tiny refrigerator to the left of my bed grumbles periodically, like he's having trouble with his sinuses and is switching between snoring, blowing out his ears, and clearing phlegm from his refrigerator throat. 

My fourth day in Mexico is drawing to a close. Only three more full days and then I fly home to Boy. Back to a job (or five) and back to a life of being grounded. A life that doesn't quite harmonize with my heart, but a life that's necessary for the time being. 

This brief adventure has been an excellent reset for me. To get me back to writing. To get me back to listening. To get me back to a state of innocent fascination. 

How can I carry this home to Grand Junction? 

It helps that I'm finally getting my feet back into doors that bring me fulfillment. I'll be substitute teaching yoga at Movement Therapies, teaching every Tuesday and Thursday at Yoga West and teaching at the local university starting in January. I hope to get my license in massage therapy this spring and perhaps do an acro yoga teacher training in the not-so-distant future. 

That's all well and good. But how will I maintain this deep connection to the present when I'm so desperate for the future? That time when I'm gallivanting the world with Boy? 

Boy and I have decided to stay in Colorado another year. Our original plan was to quit our jobs in February and hop on over to Iceland in March. But we were both offered incredibly rewarding positions at the homeless shelter for teens where we work -- under the condition that we stay for a year -- so, we, uh... chose to postpone our adventure/life. 

I think that last statement is a very telltale sign about why I'm struggling so much to be present. 

Postpone LIFE?

That's impossible.  But... but allowing myself to be happy whilst grounded in Grand Junction, even if everything I'm doing for work is in harmony with who I am, just feels like I'm betraying that other life. Like I'm pushing it away. It's like the wounded phase of a horrible break up -- that part where you find it impossible to let that lover go because you can't comprehend life without him/her.  

If there's one thing I've learned from traveling, it's that the world doesn't wait. It keeps moving, with or without me. I can't expect my traveling life to stay put where I left it, just as I couldn't expect my Grand Junction life to pick up where it left off. So my only choice is to be happy now. I'm not betraying anything, because that life I had doesn't even exist anymore. Not really. Being with Boy for nearly a year has changed the way I view and interact with the world, and the world has certainly not kept still. So I can stop feeling like I'm missing out on or am betraying that other life and I can just let myself be where I am.  

That other life. Doesn't exist anymore. 

So let yourself be happy. 

My second day in Guanajuato started off with coffee. 

The way all good days start. 

There are only a few cafes in Guanajuato, but Cafe Tal is so sublime that I care nary a lick about this preposterous deficit. Tal has tiny tables in windows overlooking cobbled streets. The coffee is delicious (even when the waitress gets my order wrong) and they have a striped cat. A striped cat who analyzes the room for the lap that looks a) the softest and b) owned by the person who appears to be the busiest (so to distract them from what they're doing), and hops on up.

As I'm usually wearing my Mexican comfy pants and am busily working away on this blog, my lap fulfills both criteria quite nicely.

I bought a couple of tamales for breakfast as we headed down the already familiar path to the historic district.

Jardin de la Union. 

There's always live music happening here. 

I just. Don't get it. Um...?

A view of El Pipila from the ground. People either take the bus or the funicular up to this monument to watch the sunset over Guanajuato. A very few walk. As it's bloody steep and there are enough stairs in this city without putting oneself through the drudgery of ascending an unmentionable amount of extra. 

As it was halloween we thought it was the opportune time to take a gander at the 100+ mummified corpses on display at the famous Museo de las Momias..

Walking in Guanajuato is incredibly pleasant (when not climbing an unmentionable amount of stairs). The streets are occasionally crowded and shuffling shoulders can be tiresome, but for the most part, I could happily stroll Guanajuato for hours on end.

Admiring the colors...

Lusting after the chicharron...

And noticing how incredibly full the city is. Every street corner occupied by a man or woman selling his/her wares. All the interesting hands and faces and fruits and vegetables and paint peeling from walls centuries old.

A n unmentionable amount of stairs. 

The view from the top of an unmentionable amount of stairs. 

Most of the people whose bodies are now displayed at the Mummy's Museum in Guanajuato died in a cholera outbreak in 1833. Their bodies stayed in their wall vault coffins until the 1860s, when a tax was placed on their space. If the families of the deceased didn't pay the grave tax for three years straight, the bodies were immediately disinterred and the wall vaults were made available for other corpses. This tax lasted for nearly a hundred years, and during that time, hundreds of mummies were...umm... evicted.

The first mummy discovered. A French doctor named Remigio Leroy. 

In 1900, the cemetery workers began charging visitors a few pesos to view the mummies. Because the mummies had little (no) protection, many of them lost pieces to tourists who wanted to take home a souvenir.

Because these people were buried very quickly during a cholera outbreak (to prevent the further spread of disease), it is a popular belief that many of them were buried alive.

Expressions like this is why.

I found the babies particularly haunting.

This 6 month-old fetus is the smallest mummy in the world. His mother died in childbirth and was standing next to him in the display.

I couldn't bring myself to take her picture.

The museum was full of broken mirrors. Which were very effective at emphasizing the fascinating, horrifying ambience.

I've seldom been more disturbed in my life. Disturbed, fascinated, saddened -- I found myself experiencing a whole gamut of mostly negative emotions.

"Let's go get ice cream now," I suggested to Bee.

I ate two ice cream cones that day.

Bee ate four.

A couple of times a day, there are short parades down the walking street. Men in masks pound drums, clearing the way for boys in large painted skulls and girls with painted faces.

Fueled up on ice cream and with many ghastly images to stomp out of our minds, Bee and I thundered up the unmentionable amount of stairs to El Pipila.

(We would have taken the funicular, but it was closed for the day)

El Pipilo's real name was Juan Jose de los Reyes Martinez Amaro (what the hell were his parents thinking?).  Juan Jose de los Reyes Martinez Amaro was a miner who courageously burnt down the wooden door of a stone storehouse in which the indigenous peoples' Spanish oppressors were taking refuge. 

View from the top.

Bee and I took some photographs, did a bit of shopping, and moseyed back into the historic district to see what the evening had in store.

An altar. These are built to remember and celebrate beloved friends and family members who've passed. The belief is that during the 1st and 2nd of November, the deceased make a long, tedious journey back to the land of the living. Hence, the altars are laden with offrendes such as favorite foods, alcohols and candies (spirits have to be ravenous after such a long trek). Candles are lit to welcome the spirit to the altar. Also, marigolds. A truckload of marigolds. These flowers represent death and it's said that their smell helps guide the spirits to the altars. Each altar is also decorated with sugar skulls and Bread of the Dead (Pan de Muerto). To... umm... again, symbolize death. 

This person must have played the ukulele. 

We happened upon a free acrobatics performance in the middle of one of the plazas.

Why don't I happen upon these more often? 

Tired, full of ice-cream and still processing the images of disinterred corpses, we stumbled back to Kay's.

Boy Flies Girl to Mexico -- Guanajuato, Mexico

I'm starting this post from the downstairs apartment of Kay, my couchsurfing host in Guanajuato. The floor is light blue tile, the walls are painted white and the doorways and windows are painted dark blue. I recline on a brown and white checkered couch and Bee (a Thai couchsurfer) sits in the dining room, working on her iPhone. Never before have I had my own apartment whilst couchsurfing, and while the space is delightful, I feel a bit awkward. I usually couchsurf with people I'd like to get to know, but in this situation, Kay lives upstairs and Bee and I share this totally separate space. I ponder walking up the stairs to the right, knocking on the door, and timidly inquiring, "Hey! Can we hang out?" but for some reason, this just doesn't seem natural. 

Perhaps it's because I haven't consistently couchsurfed in over three months and I'm a little out of touch.

I'm in Mexico.

Whoa. 

About a month ago, I mentioned in passing to Boy that I really wanted to experience Day of the Dead. And that I'd been incredibly disappointed that I'd arrived in Mexico three weeks too late for the holiday last year.

"Well, why don't you go this year?"

"Umm... because I have a job?"

"Put in your request tonight. Ask for a week off."

"Umm... Because it costs too much money?"

"I'll pay for it. It won't come out of savings. Listen, we haven't had weekend adventures in a long time. This would be a really good opportunity for you to get away. Be in your element."

"But traveling short term isn't my element. It's everything about travel that I hate. Airports. Not staying long enough in a place to get comfortable or build relationships. Airports. Feeling rushed. Airports."

But when Boy has his mind set on how he can show Girl he loves her, he's... err... not easily swayed. I, on the other hand, remained stalwartly pessimistic about the trip until I arrived in Guanajuato yesterday morning.

Of course, I had a myriad of sound reasons supporting my pessimism.

Sound Reason for Pessimism #1

I'd originally planned to stay in Oaxaca. But the couchsurfing host I'd had such a fabulous experience with last March was unable to host me because he had a girlfriend. He wasn't even willing to meet up for one of Oaxaca's famous hot chocolates (which I've been craving like a madwoman ever since my departure last March).

This. This hurts. It makes me feel like the friendship we built last spring just... doesn't matter. Doesn't mean anything. Certainly doesn't mean what I thought it meant, anyway. 

Couchsurfing host after couchsurfing host in Oaxaca told me no. And even though I know that this is the nature of couchsurfing, I still felt unbelievably discouraged.

What do I do now? Boy already bought the tickets, so I'm going to Mexico. But where? The only hostel still available in Oaxaca is the one that made me so tremendously ill last time... I'd rather not stay there. Umm...where would my Mexican friends go? 

During my five months in Mexico, six or seven people had told me that their favorite city in all of Mexico was Guanajuato. They exclaimed about the beautiful walking streets, the fabulous theatre and the well... fact that it's a UNESCO heritage city with ridiculous amounts of culture.

Yes. I'll go there. That sounds nice. 

Sound Reason for Pessimism #2

Then there was Hurricane Patricia.

I was out gardening for Cathy the week before my flight, and when I went inside to wash my hands and rehydrate, her daughter greeted me with, "So Aimee, is that hurricane in Mexico changing your plans at all?"

"errr... what hurricane?"

"Only the biggest hurricane to hit North America."

"Maybe it'll be finished by the time I arrive?"

"It's a Category Five."

"Oof. Well, I'll look it up."

Google informed me that the hurricane had mostly petered out, but that the danger of catastrophic mudslides was still very real.

Delightful. 

Sound Reason for Pessimism #3

I didn't want to go alone. I know that traveling solo has been my modus operandi for three years, but being by myself for a weeklong holiday didn't make a lot of sense to me. Traveling alone as a lifestyle is a totally different animal. It's like the difference between going to a wedding party of people you don't know all alone and going on trek through nature all alone. One makes sense and is a glorious way to experience the world. The other is just... awkward. I tried to get a couple of different people to make the hop to Mexico with me, but no one was able to.

Guess not everyone has boyfriends who send them to Mexico to celebrate dead people. 

Sound Reason for Pessimism #4

Three days before I left, I came down with a horrible, ghastly, dreadful, worstthingevermakeitstopnow UTI (TMI?).

I don't have a doctor in the states

I don't have insurance.

So after doing some googling, I pretty much inhaled a veritable truckload of cranberry products, ate a pineapple and crawled into bed, desperately hoping all would be well in the morning.

I was awake all night. Sobbing. Running to the bathroom. Crying. Stumbling back to bed. Cursing.

These infections. Are from the 9th circle of hell. 

The next day was worse.

Welcome to a whole new circle of hell. Dante couldn't even contrive something this mind-blowingly awful. 

I managed to get through the first eight hours of my work day, but in the middle of my ninth, I collapsed.

Not even a truckload of cranberry juice and a pineapple can save me. 

So I started calling around. I tried a clinic for low-income patients first.

"We're not accepting new patients until the middle of November."

I dialed Docs On Call after that.

"It costs 200 dollars to be seen. All the lab tests and antibiotics are charged separately."

I called Mesa County Health Department.

"I'm sorry, we don't have any openings until November 19th."

I stopped by Urgent Care.

Closed.

Finally, I managed to set up an appointment with my family's doctor. I had to sign up as a member and pay 180 dollars. In exchange for 6 measly pills.

This is one of the reasons I will never live in the US again. I've gotten better, easier health care in every other country I've visited -- and I'm not even a citizen of those countries. 

Anyway. My antibiotics started Wednesday.

My flight left Thursday.

My itinerary looked something like this:

8:00 am -- Leave Grand Junction with Boy. Drive the 4.5 -5 hours to Denver.
3:30 pm -- Arrive at Denver Airport
5:15 pm -- Fly to Houston
8:00 pm -- Fly to Mexico City
10:30 pm -- After going through passport control, find a cab to take me to Terminal Norte
11:59 pm -- Board a bus for Guanajuato
4:30 am -- Arrive in Guanajuato. Wait in the bus station for two and a half hours until it's light enough to take a taxi to the city.
7:00 am-- Take a taxi to the city. Wander around for four hours until my host is ready to meet me.
11:00 am -- Finished.

You can probably understand why this looks extremely intimidating to someone just recovering from a UTI.

"If I'm feeling like this tomorrow, I don't want to go," I sobbed to Boy.

"We'll play it by ear," Boy hugged me.

Thursday morning brought sweet release from whatever circle of hell I'd been occupying for the last three days. I felt slightly more optimistic about the 27 hour journey in my immediate future, but I wasn't bursting with enthusiasm. I don't know if I've met anyone in my years of travel who bursts with enthusiasm at the thought of 27 hours of cars, waiting, planes, waiting, taxis, waiting, buses, waiting, taxis and waiting.

Boy drove me to Denver. Bought me some yogurt at Trader Joe's to ameliorate the antibiotics destroying the ecosystem of my gut, and waited just outside of security until I was all the way through.

So damn romantic, that one. 

Finding my gate was a breeze. Waiting wasn't terribly painful (I only had to use the restroom three times). The person sitting next to me in the back of the plane was rather pleasant. The forty minute layover in Houston was less than ideal.

Why would they schedule 40 minute layovers in a airport as massive as Houston? Do they WANT to make terminals even more annoying than they inherently are? I thought as I sped to Terminal B on the skyrail, watching the minutes wander away from me.

The plane taking me from Houston to Mexico City was dubious, at best. The tiny little aircraft was only four seats across and rattled a disturbing amount during takeoff. And for the remainder of the flight. The seats were incredibly cramped and my row-mate happened to be a fairly large fellow who possessed the impressive ability of drifting off to sleep during the rambunctious flight. And leaning into me. And passing... errr... not un-pungent gas.

But he did let me borrow his pen and helped me fill out my immigration forms (some were written only in Spanish), so achieved enough good row-mate points to absolve any previous discomfort his moody digestive tract had wrought.

I landed at 10:30 and since I'd checked no luggage, skipped through passport control and hurried over to an ATM. I withdrew a few thousand pesos and bought a taxi ticket at a kiosk for Terminal Norte.

I'm in Mexico again... I smiled as the chaos of Mexico City greeted me. The street vendors, the bloody awful traffic, the intense smells, the Spanish and the need to reincorporate, "No entiendo," back into my vocabulary.

I purchased a ticket from Primera Plus for Guanajuato and was immediately offered a complimentary bag of potato chips and a bottle of water. Although I normally detest anything potato, I hadn't eaten since 2:00 that afternoon and eagerly devoured the crisps.

The bus ride to Guanajuato was comfortable and uneventful. There were no catastrophic mudslides and no machete roadblocks. There weren't even any stops along the way. We pulled into Guanajuato terminal de autobuses at 4:30 am, and I curled up on a cold, metal seat to wait until the sun came up.

After 2.5 excruciating hours of nearly nodding off, I flagged down a taxi to take me into town. He dropped me off in front of Kay's home, asked for his 45 pesos, and then sped off down Calle Panoramica.

This. Is gorgeous. 

The colors. The way this 500 year-old mining city is built into the hillside. The churches. The theaters. The narrow, winding alleyways.

I'd told Kay I would arrive around eleven (I'd originally planned to take the 6 am bus from Mexico City because I didn't anticipate getting through passport control so quickly), so I decided to wander Guanjuato for the next few hours.

An old sandstone bridge on which there is a creperie. 

I bought two tiny tamales from a young girl standing on the corner of a park and a major street. And was not surprised to discover that they were quite inferior to their Oaxacan counterparts.

Nothing -- NOTHING -- can compare to a Oaxacan mole negro tamal. 

The name "Guanajuato" translates from the Purepecha language into "hilly place of frogs". This is not because of an overabundance of hopping amphibians. It's because people believe the hills look like... well... frogs. The Hilly Place of Frogs is an old silver mining city, and during the peak of its production, it accounted for two-thirds of the world's silver. It is also famous for the Festival Internacional Cervantino and for its mummy museum. The streets are narrow, winding, and often for pedestrians only. A good deal of the traffic is actually underground, following an old, paved riverbed, leaving the cobbled streets free for people to shop, eat ice cream, watch street performers and devour elotes.

I popped into a patisserie with wifi, ordered a hot chocolate and downloaded google maps onto my phone. This is generally how I do in new cities: wander around until I find internet. Which is how I find my way back.

I walked back up approximately 700 stairs to Kay's apartment, and found an Asian girl waiting at the door.

"Are you couchsurfing too?"

"Yes."

We rang the bell and some young men answered. They were couchsurfers from France, Australia and Holland who'd been staying in Kay's downstairs apartment for the last couple of days and were just packing up.

All I want... is to sleep. Damn, I'm tired. Pooped. Bereft of energy to do all things except snuggle exceptionally fluffy pillows. 

The previous couchsurfers finally left and I crawled into bed. However, a ghastly gnawing in my stomach kept me from falling asleep.

Man cannot live on two tiny tamales and a bag of potato chips alone... 

"Bee!" I called to my fellow couchsurfer. "You wanna go down to the Mercado and get something to eat?"

"Okay, sure!" she smiled. Bee always seemed to be smiling.

La Calavera Catrina -- The Dapper Skeleton 

Jose Guadalupe Posada's original drawing of Catrina in 1910. 

Catrina symbolizes Day of the Dead.

It symbolizes Mexico's ability to laugh at death.  

It symbolizes how death comes to everyone -- even rich people with funky, fancy hats. 

Since Guanajuato began as a mining town 500 years ago, it doesn't have much in the way of local cuisine. Everything here was introduced from somewhere else.

Everything except enchiladas mineras (miner's enchiladas).

Enchiladas Mineras is a positively gigantic plate of enchiladas topped with baked carrots, potatoes, lettuce, cheese and tomatoes. Served with a side of carne of your choice.

"Now I feel ready to nap. And to not eat for another week," I told Bee as I looked down at my mostly empty plate in exquisite exhaustion.

After climbing the 700 stairs to Kay's and falling into a more successful nap, we went out for an evening walk.

Candy shops selling sugar skulls and other Day of the Dead paraphernalia.  

Catedral de Guanajuato

More sugar skulls. 

The entrances to many of the squares are guarded by animals such as this

chocolate skulls

Mercado Hidalgo

Inside Mercado Hidaldgo

Live music everywhere. 

Juarez Theatre. Guanajuato is the only place in Mexico I've visited thus far wherein there are nearly as many theaters as churches.  

Tired, exhilarated, and finally thrilled to pieces to be in Mexico, I tumbled into bed (after climbing the 700 stairs to Kay's apartment).

Thank-you, Boy. Thanks for all your ridiculous optimism in the face of my all my sound pessimism. Thanks for sending me to Mexico. Thanks for knowing how good this would be for me.