Sometimes it pays to believe in nonexistent morning worms. Like now. When I get to enjoy this cappuccino all by myself.
It's Tuesday the 24th. I've been in Oaxaca City for just over three full days and am finally settling in. I've discovered several decent places for coffee, feel comfortable with choosing where to eat and have managed to stumble across a cemetery --
churches galore --
and even an english library. Where I can go whenever I like and hold a real book.
Swear to god, I almost collapsed into a fit of ecstatic joy when I was able to turn a page.
There was even a morning I slept in until 8:45.
"WHO AM I?" I typed to Boy. "I think I must be trying to hibernate until I see you again."
Transitioning between the quiet, sunrise/sunset driven beach life to a bustling city has been clumsy -- mostly because I haven't given myself the grace period I need to adapt. I'm not the kind of traveler who steps out of the bus and immediately feels at home and all raring to go for adventures. I'm the kind of traveler who needs to find a cafe, drink a coffee, sit in a park and take a nap before I feel at home. And big cities are never easy for this small town girl, regardless of the grace period. All the stimulation leaves me irritable and overwhelmed and I have limited patience for the endless array of street vendors approaching me with their hackneyed wares. I was sitting in the mercado the other day, minding my own business and trying to get it on with my mole negro -- but every five seconds, a vendor would approach me, touch my back and wave whatever trinket they were selling in front of my face, between girl and her mole.
NEVER. EVER. Stand between girl and something she's eating which contains chocolate.
I look past the tour guides constantly harassing me with, "Tour? Where you from? Seniorita? Monte Alban? Tour?"
"No. Gracias."
There were vendors in La Punta, but they were few and far between and they never touched me or interrupted a chocolate moment. The vendors of Oaxaca City are much more aggressive and I get this prickly sensation whenever I leave my hostel and go for a wander. They call out their wares with such fervor that they seem to think I need what they have.
"Amiga! Amiga! Tortas, amiga! TORTAS!"
I'M ALLERGIC TO SANDWICHES!
Is what I want to yell. But instead I just walk past and say, "no gracias," for the seven millionth time.
Speaking of walking and wandering, my leg has been feeling much better, as of late. The chorizo hole is healing awkwardly, but without infection and the bruises have almost disappeared. The fact that just under my kneecap is still quite numb worries me, but I'll give it another couple of weeks before I reach a panic status that requires doctors instead of peanuts.
Yesterday was the day I found my feet, and after two days of awkward zombie limbo, finding my feet felt absolutely exquisite.
I started off the day with a Skype date with Boy and then went off to hunt down some breakfast. I allowed one of the street vendors to talk me into purchasing an empanada filled with meat, onions and marinated jalapeños.
Which was not a bad choice.
I took my fifteen pesos prize, warm and fragrant in its pink napkin between my chilly hands, sat in the main square and watched the city wake up. I thoughtfully crunched away at my empanada and patted myself on the back for graduating from a four to a seven on the spiciness spectrum.
Three months in Mexico will do that to you. I could NOT have handled all these jalapeños when I arrived. Goodness, me.
I rubbed my greasy fingers on my comfortable pants and then meandered down the walking street to meet a couchsurfer in front of the Santo Domingo Church.
As I was sitting on the steps, a well dressed Mexican fellow with his hair slicked back approached me.
"Hola," he stopped in front of me.
"Buenas dias," I smiled with as much reservation as I could muster. I still like people, so smiling with reservation is hard for me. But I rather dislike people starting "innocent" conversations and then asking me to visit their riad in the Atlas Mountains "for making oogie-boogie" or sharing a pleasant conversation and then suddenly finding something in my hands that I'm expected to buy.
"Where are you from?" asked Slicked Hair.
"Colorado."
"You been in Oaxaca long?"
"No, just three days. But I spent a couple of months teaching yoga in Puerto Escondido."
"Oh, yoga! Yeah, my sister does the yoga. And so does my mother. My mother is seventy years old and she loves the yoga. Also, she loves the zumba. Me, I don't do the yoga, but I try to be healthy. I try to eat healthy. And I run. Sometimes."
This always happens to me. The moment I tell someone I teach yoga, they make sure to inform me of a) someone in their family who loves "the yoga" and b) how they're trying to keep themselves healthy without "the yoga".
"And my grandfather! My grandfather is a hundred and three. Can I -- can I sit down?"
I scooted over and invited him to sit in the sun with me.
"Here, here is a picture of my grandfather. A hundred and three! Look at him!" Slicked Hair whipped out his iPhone and proudly displayed a picture of a tiny, spry man wearing a sombrero and overalls.
"Wow, he does look pretty good. That's amazing. I don't think I've ever met anyone who's a hundred and three."
"It's because he's so healthy. If he wants to eat a chicken, he grows the chicken. If he wants to eat a vegetable, he grows the vegetable. If he wants to eat a fish, he -- well, he doesn't catch the fish. But his friends catch the fish. And you -- how old are you?"
"I'm twenty-five."
"Wow! I would say you look twenty. Nineteen, even."
"Well, I'm doing pretty okay, then. Maybe I'll live to be a hundred and three, too."
"It must be the yoga! Or that you are so happy. People who are so happy look young."
Before I could learn any more of Slicked Hair's grandfather's secrets to a long life (or mine, apparently), Erick showed up, wearing his blue jeans, grey shirt and cap.
Erick is a rock-climbing instructor who owns a gym on the north side of the city. As my planned host canceled on me for a trip to Puebla, Erick offered to let me stay in his rock-climbing gym for the last six days of my visit. This makes me happy for multiple reasons.
a) Erick is loads of fun + perpetual smiles
b) Erick has already made a beautiful pesto for my visit and has promised to take me to the best tlayuda place in Oaxaca
c) Erick has (tentatively) agreed to let me do acro with his young rock climbing students.
d) Erick will take me camping in the mountains for a night.
e) This hostel sucks.
The room in which I'm staying has ten beds. There is one electrical outlet. During my first three nights, there were only two people here -- me and a middle-aged Canadian chap -- so the single outlet was hardly a problem. Now the place is full. And it's a problem. Although, I am grateful for the extra company... the Canadian is plenty sweet and well-meaning, but I did find myself rather exhausted with explaining that I can't explain why Americans are so anti-healthcare.
"I mean, I'd love to have full coverage without all of our crazy complications. You know, it's funny... I don't travel with insurance and people ask what would happen if I got a major injury while on the road. And I say, "the same thing that would happen to me if I got a major injury in America. I'd be fucked." So. Yes. Healthcare would be nice."
Other than that, this dreary room boasts one overhead light that shines dimly down on my side of the room. One shower for ten people and two tiny stalls for the toilets (the toilets are connected to the shower, so if someone's taking a luxurious shower, you have to tell your intestines to calm the hell down). A common room with one comfortable chair, plenty of uncomfortable chairs, and a grand total of four outlets.
Which are all located at some distance from the uncomfortable chairs.
The receptionist randomly takes breaks. And locks the door when he leaves. One afternoon, I was locked out and the middle-aged Canadian chap was locked in.
And now that the bunks are bursting, the amount of sawing snoring has increased exponentially.
Hence, point e.
Girl is thrilled to pieces to be leaving Hostal Don Miguel.
Erick led me to a nearby cafe where I drank the best chai con shot of espresso I've ever had. Oaxaca City doesn't mess around when it comes to coffee, hot chocolate or tlayudas.
This chai. Was dreamy. I want it. Always.
"That picture you had on couchsurfing," Erick commented during our conversation of travel dreams. "You look so young in that picture. Much younger."
Ha... well, I guess yoga and being happy aren't doing too much for my anti-aging. It's a good thing that I'm much better at not taking anything personally. Else my poor self-esteem would have been thrown for all sorts of loops today.
"That picture was taken last July. Not even a year ago."
"Well, maybe it's just the hair."
"Maybe."
Erick and I parted ways and I danced my way back to the library.
Where I read.
And flipped real pages.
Until dark.
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