This is Love -- Grand Junction, CO

I'm starting this post from Main Street Bagels at the corner of 6th and Main. An empty brown ceramic mug rests on my black laptop case to the left of me. It was full of cuban cremosa about an hour ago, but is now reduced to sticky foam clinging to the sides and brown sugar sediment settled on the bottom.

Things I wish could last forever. Buh. 

Boy saved all his filled-out coffee punch-cards for me during my three months in Mexico. He'd come into Bagels, order a small drip coffee, get his card stamped and sit down to schedule volunteers for The House (the teenage homeless shelter where he works as volunteer coordinator). As he visits this cafe... err... not infrequently, he had a veritable stack of yellow punch cards waiting for me upon my return.

This is love. 

Now I can order cuban cremosas until the stack is depleted. If I continue to work through each lusciously creamy coffee drink with the same dedication as I have for the past two weeks, I believe I might conquer the stack before I leave for Guatemala next month.

A redhead teenage boy sullenly sits with a matronly figure on the couch across from me, staring out the window and sipping his coffee with palpable irritation. My little sister flits about the cheerful space (excepting the sullen redhead, of course), busing tables and beaming her Pixar quality sunshine smile.

My family. My coffee shop. My town. 

I flew into Denver on March 5th.

It still feels bizarre to be back.

Clunky.

Clumsy.

Transitioning between Mexico and Colorado has provided me with the most intense culture shock thus far.   Well, perhaps "shock" is a strong word -- I mean, it isn't as if I've just returned from Mars --  but so many simple activities have tremors of unfamiliarity that life feels like I'm wearing in new shoes.

Tremors include:

• Even after nearly three weeks in Colorado, my first impulse is to say "hola" instead of "hello". 
• I catch myself rationing my clothes because I don't want to pay 14 pesos a kilo for washing.
•  I toss avocados into my shopping basket with reckless abandon. Then have a moment of incredulity and despair when the self-checkout machine informs me that my ten avocados cost nearly twenty dollars. 
• I pine for plantain. And wonder where all the fresh coconuts have gone. And spend many an hour daydreaming about Puebla's lardaceous chalupas. 
• I flinch whenever I see a speed bump. The "topes" in Mexico were the breed of bump that gave my seat at least a foot of air and sent my teeth clanking madly against each other. 
• Nothing is spicy enough.  
• Dogs that look fed and wormed and loved catch me off guard. "Where are your ribs?" I ask the abnormally satisfied looking beasts. "And what have you gone and done with all your fleas? What is this tail wagging business, how come I didn't smell you coming from a km away and why aren't you charging me with bared teeth? WHAT MANNER OF CREATURE ARE YOU?" 
• When people ask me to be at a certain place at a certain time, I have to take a moment to remember that they actually mean it. 
• I expect to see the blue covered colectivos whizzing past when I walk down the road... and quite often make plans as if public transportation were actually a thing in Grand Junction. "Sure, I can see you at 12:00 on Wednesday," I 'd told my old gardening boss last week, forgetting that I have no vehicle at my disposal and a Boy who can't always drive me around. Bourget... you're not in Mexico anymore. You're in America. Where people drive. And you're the American without a car or a license. Good luck with that.
• I turn on the kitchen sink and have a moment of surprise and gratitude when the water is immediately hot. Same goes for the shower. But even more gratitude.   

Part of me still hasn't grasped the bigness of the decision to fly back to Colorado for Boy. I think I'm in a place wherein I'm trying so hard to live spontaneously and naturally that I don't recognize "big" as clearly as I used to. Nothing is small. Nothing is big. Things just come and are and be and I accept and explore. Boy and I have spent many hours over Skype discussing my return and the "moving away from my sweet spot" aspect of it... but in the end of each frustrating conversation, I'd always say, "well, what else is there? this is the only thing."

But this "only thing" is going to actively impact my life in a way the "only thing" for Janet and Dave and the "only thing" for Jason and Chelsea didn't. Because this time, I'm flying back for a boy I hope to take to Europe with me next March. And to South America after. And to Asia after that. And to --

Boy has made returning to Colorado much easier by giving me the March deadline, by purchasing a map to put on the wall to make our dreaming more solid and by ordering our first home in the mail.

A lightweight, two-person tent we've named Mrs. Peterson.

I left Erick's climbing gym home on March 5th at 6:00 am. I packed Ellie, said goodbye to Patroncita (who'd slept between my legs and farted all night long) and took one last look at the quick painting I'd done for Erick while he coached his students one afternoon. 

Goodbye, Mexico. You've been such a wonderful surprise, consistently cold showers, shitty internet, thieving hoodlums and all. The friendliness of your down-to-earth people, the unabashedly vibrant colors of your homes, sunsets and art, the nonstop festivals, the spectacular nature and the food I'll be fantasizing about for the foreseeable future... these have left their mark. And will most certainly bring me back. 

I locked the door behind me (after sweeping the room half a dozen times for stray socks and paintbrushes), listened the the "clink, clank" of finality, felt Ellie's solid weight on my shoulders (I may or may not have bought nearly twenty dollars worth of Oaxacan hot chocolate to bring home) and put one foot in front of the other towards the dark main street.

Here I am. Oof. Here I go. 

I waved down a taxi and asked for the airport.

Thirty minutes later and a hundred and fifty pesos less, I entered the small terminal, checked my bag and headed through the gate.

An uneventful three hour flight to Houston.

A quiet three hour layover in Houston.

An uneventful three hour flight to Phoenix.

A quiet one hour layover in Phoenix.

An uneventful two hour flight to Denver.

Here I am. Oof. Here I go. 

Boy was waiting for me at arrivals (where he'd been drinking coffee and journaling for over two hours. Boy was fairly excited to see me). He stood directly in front of the arrival gate (complete with trademark soccer ball resting at his feet), but it still took me approximately twenty-seven minutes to notice him leaning against the metal rail, and I managed to walk past at least five time whilst frenziedly searching for Ellie's baggage belt.
           
"Hey, where you goin'?" Boy asked after the fifth time I'd walked back and forth in front of him.

I gargled something more surprised than romantic and fell into Boy's arms. Which is usually how I do. Awkward-awkward-awkward-LOVE-YOU.

"I need to find Ellie," I reluctantly extricated myself from Boy.

"She's on belt ten."

"Of course you'd have everything figured out."

Boy had also booked a charming room on Airbnb for our first night together. So we met our hosts and  settled into our new space before we moseyed into Downtown Denver for our first date in Colorado. In honor of the occasion, Boy had gone all fancy-pants and reserved a table at Bistro Vendome, one of the city's best French restaurants. Which we had nearly to ourselves, our amused waitress and our unabashedly comfortable pants/Mexican ponchos.

I don't think I remember a time wherein I just felt so loved... 

But regardless of how loved I felt, how exquisite the cheese plate, the lamb shanks or the company was, all that quiet/uneventful travel fatigue caught up with me in short order and we had to stumble out of Bistro Vendome before I fell asleep on Boy's shoulder.

We spent the next morning strolling around Downtown Denver.

"Hello, beautiful couple!" a magazine seller called out to us. "Have a beautiful day, beautiful couple!"

I'm in a COUPLE. Wow. 

I missed the smell of fresh tamales and spicy hot chocolate, but I loved the smell of Boy's sweater (the one he was wearing and the one I was wearing). I missed the view of all the green palm trees and the rippling blue ocean in the horizon, but I loved being able to see Boy's face without a zillion pixels distorting it. I missed feeling the sand between my toes and the refreshing Pacific Ocean rushing over my ankles, but loved the way Boy's hand felt between my fingers and the slightly out of sync way we walked as we relearned how to move together through Downtown Denver.

We drank coffee at a bookstore together alone.

Coffee at a coffeeshop together with Boy's friend.

Chai at a Persian place together with Boy's friend.

So. Much. Caffeine. 

We ate dinner at an Italian restaurant in Fort Collins with nearly all of Boy's family.

Girl was slightly overwhelmed to meet the whole lot in one go. As welcoming as they were.

Goodness. This is so for real. I haven't been introduced to family as the girlfriend since I got serious with Alex five years ago. I feel somewhat out of practice with stakes this high. I've gotten so comfortable with vagabond human interactions which operate along the lines of, "if we don't get along, I'm out of the country in three weeks. If we do get along, wanna visit me in Guatemala?" But now? I'm here to stay, because I love Boy. They're here to stay, because they love Boy. Even when we're gallivanting in Europe together, they'll be a big part of our lives just like my family is a big part of mine. 

Oof. Like me? 

The first couple of weeks in an English speaking country after several months in non-English countries are always awkward.

First off, the bizarre amalgamation of accents I accumulated whilst gallivanting in Europe and Africa is strong enough to be noticeable. By everyone.

"Where are you originally from?" comes the inevitable question between ten to fifteen minutes into the conversation. "You have an accent."

"Well..." I smile wryly at Boy and he laughs out loud. "I'm from Colorado, but I've been traveling for the better part of three years, and most of my work has been in non-English speaking countries as an English teacher. So I had to lose my American accent because glottal stops and weird Rs are difficult to understand. Then I spent five months in Ireland, two months in England and hitchhiked through the Balkans with a kiwi. I don't meet a lot of Americans and I never watch TV... so my Colorado accent doesn't get a lot of practice while I'm on the road."

Secondly, the fact that I can understand everything in the room is very distracting. When in a country wherein the people at the table over are speak in an unfamiliar language, the TVs blare in an unfamiliar language and the servers chat in an unfamiliar language, it's very easy to focus on the one person/group you do understand. The first few weeks make conversation in public places challenging, because the conversations of others dominate my thoughts instead of settling into the background hum.

We spent the night at Boy's brother's house in Fort Collins and had a gorgeous breakfast prepared by Boy's sister-in-law the next morning.

I'm in Colorado. Eating breakfast with Boy's family. I still don't believe this is real. 

My brother and his wife hosted a party at their home in Boulder that evening. A "gender curious" party wherein they planned to reveal the sex of their new baby to friends and family.

My niece with her godfather

The gender-curious cake. 

Before I was allowed to know whether there would be a new niece or nephew in my future, we were all subjected to a series of baby themed games. Like building cribs out of marshmallows and toothpicks.

All of which I took very seriously.

As did my sisters.

Then the cake was cut and Celestine Ruth was announced as the newest addition to the Bourget/Sullivan family.

We spent two more days hobnobbing around Denver/Boulder/Fort Collins and then drove through the mountains to Grand Junction.

Where Cathy was waiting for us. I gave her the piece of art I'd picked up in Mexico --

-- and she gave me a pomelo cocktail.

I drank the cocktail and wore the peel.

Being back in Grand Junction means that I get to participate in themed dinner parties again. Our first theme was Spanish and this was my contribution:

Peaches poached in schnapps and vanilla, filled with a schnapps custard and topped with lemon meringue. 

It felt wonderful to be able to cook again. Really cook. Not just whip up a bowl of guacamole and fry some plantains. Regardless of how delicious guacamole and plantains are.

I am also more than a little thrilled to be in a country where wine is drunk more often than mezcal and tequila.

Boy took Girl on a date the first Wednesday back in Grand Junction. 

"Let's go to the monument for a night view of the city lights and then I have reservations for dinner at nine." 

"Where do you have reservations?"

"Not telling." 

Of course. 

We sat on sandstone slabs in the chilly March air and looked at the city sparking in the valley below us. I wrapped Boy's arms around me and relished the sensation of touch which I'd gone so long without. 

A single dog barked. 

The rest of the city seemed silent. 

Boy understands my need for quiet. 

"There's another view I want you to see," Boy helped me to my feet after we'd enjoyed the silence for long enough. "This way." 

I followed Boy for a minute or two and stopped to take in the view from the other side of a rather large rock. I stood behind Boy and put my arms around his neck, smelling his sweater and wondering how on earth we were going to make our nine o-clock reservation in time. 

Something glinted in front of me. 

A signpost? No... wait. That's a wine bottle. A picnic! Oh my goodness. We've stumbled across someone's picnic.

I looked around, expecting to see a romantic couple emerging from the rocks behind us. 

Wait a minute. We're a romantic couple. And I'm on a date. This must be my picnic. Oh my goodness. OH MY GOODNESS. 

"Reservations at nine?" I could feel myself start to cry. 

Whoa. I don't know what to do with all this love. Whoa. 

Boy had brought back three different kinds of cheese from France. And saved them. For FOUR months. Boy had prepared a menu with my favorite ingredients -- scallops in a beurre blanc sauce, poached eggs with red wine, mushrooms and bacon, panini with poached pears, blue cheese and honey... 

I sat at the table and sobbed. 

"You... finally made me cry," I told Boy. As if he'd been unable to guess.  

The breeze blew out the candles, but that was the only part of the evening that was slightly discordant in a veritable symphony of a ridiculously perfect show of love. 

Then there was a long ski weekend wherein I met the rest of Boy's family. 

Boy asked if I could ski. 

"Well, I can make it down the mountain alive. And you're an awesome skier, aren't you?"

"Well... I mean, I can't do backflips." 

Of course. 

I made it down the mountain alive. Boy didn't do backflips, but did many other things that had I attempted, would have made the previous statement significantly less true. 

And last weekend was the trip to Oregon. A desolate, sixteen hour drive through Utah and Nevada to my grandparents' home in Keno. A small town that boasts a liquor store, a library, a feed store and a shop that specializes in archery and piano repair. 

We arrived late on Friday night and spent sunny Saturday playing beanbags --

My father and grandmother 

my mother

my cousin

-- throwing balls and smaller balls --

Family. 

I am almost as terrible at throwing bean bags as I am at swimming. 

-- paddling about in the sluggish Klamath River --

-- kicking a soccer ball back and forth --

-- sinking into epic chairs at Klamath Falls' fabulous cafe --

-- drinking wine and eating triple cream brie whilst paddling around the Klamath --

-- and getting introduced to electric card shufflers for the first time.

I've been back for nearly three weeks and have felt loved on by my family, my friends and Boy in more ways than I could have imagined. From Boy's thoughtful dates, to my family's generosity in buying my plane tickets and taking me roadtripping to Oregon, to Cathy opening up her home to me or the umpteenth time.

I'm glad I don't believe in "deserving" or "earning" things. 'Cos there's just no way I could have earned this. 

In the very vulnerable situation of leaving my dream life in Mexico and returning to my hometown with no money and only a haphazard plan of traveling the world with Boy next March, this love has been so needed. It's helped me to let go of the identity of the "independent vagabond" I clung to so fiercely. It's helped me to realize that I'm loved regardless of whether the path I'm following is intrepid and chaotic or relaxed and simple.

Feeling loved so unconditionally whilst in this vulnerable place wherein the identity I've clung to for the last three years doesn't and can't factor into the equation at all has helped me relinquish my need for that identity entirely.

Or begin to, at least.

The more I cling to that identity, the less space I leave for the spontaneity. The more focused I am on NEEDING to travel and NEEDING to write, the more deaf and blind I become to new lessons, opportunities, loves. 

The Month in Which I May or May Not Shave My Armpits -- Oaxaca, Mexico

This is the month.

The month in which I may or may not shave my armpits.

"Tomorrow makes one year," I told Erick a few nights ago as we sat around the kitchen table, eating a delicious coconut curry he'd whipped up whilst I guiltily lingered in one of Mexico's rare hot showers.

"What do you mean?" my couchsurfing host asked between mouthfuls.

"I year ago today, I made the decision to experiment living life without vanity. Not shaving my armpits or my legs, not wearing makeup, not buying clothes for the sake of impressing other people. The purpose of this experiment was to understand where these decisions came from -- if they came from a place of shame or fear or if they came from a place of personal expression. I like to know why I do things. I like to know that I'm living my own script and not something written for me by someone else."

Spending three months in fashion oriented Istanbul last winter/spring revealed to me the "appearance" scripts in my life. In that Turkish city, so much of a person's value was determined by cleanliness and style that I felt poked, in a way. All subtlety of the script was lost in the glaringly apparent way appearance was pedestaled as what makes a person"nice" (also a clean house. Clean houses with nice couches and good coffee make you "nice"). I was pushed so hard to conform that I was able to sense that this appearance oriented script was most definitely not mine. Just like I learned that Christianity was a script given to me by my family and community and that my radical love of Bubbies pickles dipped in peanut butter was inflicted on me by my mother.

(thanks, mom)

Peanut butter with Bubbies pickles, I'll deal with later. That's a deep rooted addiction which probably represents equally deep psychological (or physiological) problems and I'll tackle this issue when I'm a stronger, more mature individual. I anticipate it will take years to sort out.

But vanity and religion?

Easy, peasy.

As my general method for exploring the emotional, mental and physical obstacles I find in myself is... err.... giving myself no choice but to explore, I chose to leave every article of clothing and every piece of makeup in my green rolling bag in the closet of the spare room of my Turkish family's home in Beylikduzu.

And I'm poor. So I can't just go and buy more mascara or another sexy bra. Something fabulous about being poor is that I just don't have the resources to realistically support physical vanity. God, being poor is the best. Sometimes. Other times, I want to buy a piece of delicious cheese. And can't. And then being poor is not the best. Then being poor is something else entirely. 

As for religion, I'm floating in a cloud of curiosity above all that. Buddhism is currently catching my fancy, but I'm not allowing myself to be grounded in any system of belief.

As for peanut butter with Bubbies pickles? Eh, I'll get to it one of these days. And maybe the dire pain of its absence will drive me back to Jesus.  

(btw, if you've never eaten peanut butter with Bubbies pickles, take off your judging boots)

I'd like to stress that these experiments aren't meant to prove that Christianity or vanity or peanut butter with Bubbies pickles are inherently wrong or even that I don't agree with them/love to munch on them always. I just want to know that the important decisions I make in this life are originating as much as possible from within and as little as possible from without. I want this life to be a manifestation of my script -- an expression of my curiosities and passions and not just a funky cover of a popular song.

If I follow Jesus because my family follows Jesus, it's meaningless. If I ever return to Christianity, I want it to be from a blank, yet whole place wherein I know without a doubt that the faith is mine. I refuse to allow something as profound as the spirituality I live to be a direct product of my upbringing. When I interviewed people across Spain, Italy and Ireland, the most common response to "what is your religion/spirituality?" was, "Catholic, not practicing." Which is dandy, but personally, I want practice. And I want active practice driven by passion and not routine. Right now, I am actively, passionately practicing curiosity.

If I cake my face with various powders and dyes, shave my body hair and wear uncomfortable pants merely because this manner of self-presentation is so valued by today's society, it's equally meaningless. This is either living life on auto-pilot, nary a question, nary a qualm, or it's shame, fear and manipulation. Which doesn't even qualify as a funky cover of a popular song. It's just lip-syncing along because you never took the time to learn to sing.

(Again, I'll leave the peanut butter and Bubbies pickles for later)

The first few months of loosening my stranglehold on Christianity and curiously opening up my mind hurt. Like HELL (which I don't believe exists, but is still incredibly useful for comparisons and such). There was confusion. There was a crushing sense of insignificance and debilitating hopelessness. There was me. Alone. Without the Jesus I'd spent the last decade of my life crying to, pleading with and all other manner of "laying burdens at the foot of the cross".

After eight years of actively practicing curiosity, I've found that if I use my confusion to inspire questions instead of panic, I'll live a life of constant discovery. I've found joy and awe in my insignificance and am neither hopeful or hopeless. As I kind of stopped believing in a future after I let go of the concept of being allowed to live after I die. And now there is me. Without Jesus, but more at peace and less alone than I've ever been.  Able to connect with people in a more loving, intimate, meaningful way than I could have ever imagined. A kind of connection not possible across the devastating divide of "I'm right, so you must be wrong."

The first few months of loosening my stranglehold on physical vanity and vulnerably revealing my body hurt. Like HELL. My ego wept through its lipstick-free lips and gnashed all its ego teeth. I felt inadequate. Unprepared. Less than. I felt out of place. Frumpy. Foolish. I'd look in a mirror and never see me -- just see what was missing. The missing bit that used to make me look a bit better. I always felt uncomfortable leaving whatever home in which I happened to be living because I "wasn't ready". And when out and about town, I remember not being able to look through shop windows to see products. My gaze would inevitably stop short at my face and my form. I would sigh and think, "You only look so bad 'cos you're not wearing makeup or that pretty green dress Baris gave you in Nice."

I lived a life of incessant, maddening comparison. My current appearance against my past appearance. My body against the bodies of those around me. I would compare and I would judge. And judgment was hardly ever favorably directed towards my current self, not that the direction really matters. Judgement is judgment is judgment, and judgment of any kind seems to represent an underlying insecurity. The positive aspect of crazily excessive judging was that the past me (pre-forced vanity experiment) would have caved to the pressure and simply shaved my legs. But me during the experiment observed the feelings of awkwardness, embarrassment and inadequacy and then allowed aforementioned leg hair grow wild and free. Which taught me to mindfully observe the pressure and judgment I felt and not make my decisions from that place.

It took months to stop reacting to the reactions of others. The most common was a brief explosion of total shock followed by a blanket of forced calm. My reaction to the reactions of others was to justify my gorilla pits as soon as possible. Context wasn't really important. I just needed my hairy pits on the table pronto. 

"Have you been to India yet?" someone might ask.

"No. Right now I'm not so focused on meditation and pranayama. I'm actually doing this experiment about vanity and blablabla....and that's why my pits... gorillas...society... blablabla...."

No more justification, Bourget. If you keep justifying your body, you're never going to feel comfortable in it. Just. Let it. Be. 

So I stopped justifying myself. I acknowledged the shocked expressions and chose to treat their reactions as none of my business. If hair came up naturally in conversation (as it does, upon occasion), I'd do my best to share my reasons without justifying myself.

And now, after a year of actively practicing vulnerability and abandoning my Gillette and Maybelline, I find myself hardly ever needing to justify the way I look. I feel prepared the moment I put on my glasses (girl doesn't even really need a bra these days). I feel like I'm plenty enough, thank-you very much and who gives a damn about feeling "in place"? Out of place is perfectly delightful (I recommend a one-way ticket to Out of Place. Yesterday). I can look through windows again and I remember that pretty green dress as something I loved, but not something I needed to look beautiful.

Other results of Aimee's Year of Cavewoman Legs include the following:

a) The less I judge myself, the less I judge others.

b) The less time I spend comparing, the more time I spend understanding and appreciating.

c) The less I justify myself, the more open I am to loving myself.

d) When I don't react to the reactions of others, I allow myself to live more fully by my own script

In conclusion....

A year of vulnerably revealing my physical self to myself and the world around me, without comparison, judgement or justification has taught me how to connect with my physical self in a more loving, intimate and meaningful way. A kind of connection not possible across the devastating divide of, "this is when I am beautiful and acceptable and this is when I'm not."

We attract what we put out. I don't get whistled at nearly as often when walking down the street or hit on by strangers in bars. Instead of attracting people attracted to appearance, I've attracted people attracted to me. In all my vulnerable, hairy, comfortable plants glory. Hence, this last year has gifted me with some of the deepest, purest human connections -- romantic and platonic -- I've ever experienced.

And I think I'm going to keep my hairy legs. I rather like them. They let me feel the breezes. And I rather like breezes.

The Last Kidnapper -- Oaxaca, Mexico

I have had the most exquisite last few days. And I fully anticipate the next few days will be equally (if not more) exquisite. 

Couchsurfing has been a mixed bag for me -- a mix of about 70% fabulous and 30% absolute shit. 

"I live a life of extremes," I'd shared with Orange Cat during his visit. "Everything is either unbelievably wonderful or it's fucking miserable. Not a lot of happy mediums for this lady." 

(medium is translated as "middle ground"in this sentence. I do have an abundance of happy witches in my life. Or a fair amount, anyway. As far as witches go)

And even though the majority of my volunteer/couchsurfing experiences are sublime and the kind that go well beyond the generic "restoring hope in humanity", I was still tentative about couchsurfing in Oaxaca City. 

Because 30% absolute shit is enough to make the 70% sublime smell pretty questionable. 

"I hate that I'm becoming this person," I told Troy during one of our Skype conversations. "I want to be able to trust without having to analyze options first. I don't want to miss out on all the spontaneous, intense, playful interactions between strangers because of the 30%. Argh. I hate feeling so jaded. So unenthusiastic and reserved." 

But I don't believe I'm becoming a pessimist. 

I am in the middle of the confusing (but necessary) transformation between a naive optimist and a pragmatic optimist. 

And sometimes pragmatism feels disturbingly similar to pessimism. 

"I just want to know that I have a safe place to go if things don't work out with a host. I hate anticipating that things won't work out, but... I never want to be victimized again because I feel "stuck". Ever." 

This is why I slept at a hostel for the first six days of my stay in Oaxaca City. I'd planned to stay with a host named Dan after the six days in Hostal Don Miguel, but after nearly a week of not replying to my emails, Dan sent me a short message saying, "I'm sorry, but I can't host you. I'm going to Puebla." 

What? Not even an explanation? Well. Crap. At least I know my way around the city and I found this cheap place to sleep... should I not be able to find another host, that is. 

But I did. Find another host. I found Erick. 

And Erick falls solidly into the 70% fabulous category. 

I mean. This is his home. Anyone whose home is a climbing gym automatically falls into the fabulous category. 

As Erick doesn't open his home/gym until 5:00 pm, he was able to drive me to the nearby town of San Martin Tilcajete to hunt down a traditional Oaxacan carved and painted animal for Cathy. My friend from Colorado had given me a hundred dollars with which to hunt her down a piece of Mexican art, and I'd been looking forward to finding her souvenir for weeks.

Alebrijes (aforementioned carved animals) were hallucinated by a very ill Pedro Linares in the 1930s. These fantastical creatures were dancing about in his dream, screaming "Alebrijes! Alebrijes!" over and over and over again.

So when Pedro Linares decided to stop being so very ill, he, logically enough, brought the creatures of his dream into the physical world with the use of paper mache. It didn't take long before Frida Kahlo and Diego Riviera noticed his whimsical work. And shortly after that, the rest of the world followed suit, including a chap by the name of Manuel Jimenez. Jimenez was a wood carver and a great admirer of Pedro's dream animals, but somewhat less than enthusiastic about paper mache.

And now alebrijes are carved from cool wood. Derived from the native copal tree (which is becoming less and less native, as the carvings become more and more popular).

I wasn't allowed to take pictures...

I want to hallucinate rabbits like this. 

... but I managed to sneak in two snapshots on the sly.

In other news, Erick has taken me climbing --

and has introduced me to the best of the following:

a) the best tlayuda
that massive Mexican tortilla guy fried in pig fat and topped with beans, quesillo (similar to brined mozzarella) and various meats. Also, this may be my new favorite song: Las Tlayudas Song
b) the best mezcal
tequila's smokey abuelo
c) the best memelita 
OH MY GOODNESS. Thick corn tortilla. Shmeared in pig fat con cracklings. Sizzled to perfection on a clay camale and (if you make the right choice) topped with salsa, chorizo and cheese. Yes. Please
d) the best chai tea
out of this world rich chai with a shot of intense Oaxacan espresso
e) the best drink I've had in Mexico thus far. Pulque. 
Pulque is a thick, white alcohol made from agave sap that has been proudly getting people drunk for over a thousand years. The Mesoamericans made it spiritual, the Spaniards made it secular, the Jesuits made it profitable and beer made it unpopular (thanks a whole fat lot, Europe. You already squashed the religion -- can't you leave the alcohol alone?). Because the production of pulque is so delicate, many superstitions surrounded the creation of this ancient inebriant. No women or children allowed in the production room. Neither are men with canned fish breath or men wearing hats (if you wear a hat, you must immediately chug a hatful of pulque to turn the luck around). Unfortunately, Pulque can't be found far away from its source because like federweisser, it's the sort of drink that just keeps fermenting and can't be stored for long. Which is why I'm going to go out and drink more tonight.
f) the best tetela
If you ever find yourself in Oaxaca (lucky you!), go here: ITANONI Immediately order the tetela with chicharron. You will be delighted to find yourself presented with a stuffed triangular tortilla, BURSTING with flavor (and I'm still talking tortilla here -- not the insides) and filled with fried pork skin and cheese. Apply salsa. Lots of it. Enjoy. Order another.

When I'm not blissed out on Mexican food with Erick, I'm usually at the library studying books on mindfulness. With varying degrees of success. At this moment, I am not a remotely enlightened lady nor have I developed the ability to focus on what's in front of me regardless of what's around me. In the US, I was always taught that libraries were places where you stifled sneezes and padded down sterile hallways lined with books like a library ninja. Or Pocahontas. Else the bespectacled master of ninjas behind the counter would attack (quietly) with her ninja stars.

In Oaxaca's English Library, this is not the case. People stomp, they erupt into coughs, sneezes, hocking up yesterday's tlayudas and loud conversations between women in their late forties about their traumatizing experiences with men masturbating in front of them.

"Dear me, how long are you staying?"

"I'm stayin' 'til the end of the month."

"Well, I just wanted to warn you, there're these men upstairs... I don't know why Juan let them in. They were dirty and they smelled. Anyway, they kept asking me, "what's your name?" in a weird way. I look down and I can see what they're doing with their hands!"

"Men..."

"Why are men so crazy?"

"I don't know. I mean, when I was in the sixth grade -- "

And the stories went on.

And on.

And on.

These are the days my focus takes a nosedive into a very unpleasant place.

One thing about Oaxaca's English Library is that I'm always surprised and amused by is their rather unusual organization of books.

I go to the Occult Studies section to find books on the lunar cycle and shamanism in Mexico, and I find titles like, "Same Sex Love".

I sit at the table next to the Mythology section and glimpse titles such as, "The Intimate History of the Orgasm", "The Omnivore's Dilemma", and "Caring for Your Parents".

And when I'm not at the library, I'm walking.

an abandoned tamale/hot chocolate cart. 

When I'm not walking, at the library, or blissed out on Mexican food, I'm fighting/cuddling Erick's cat.

Erick has also made one of my all-time favorites mistakes as an intermediate English speaker.

We were sitting at the kitchen table the other evening, and he passed me a napkin to help keep the coconut curry off my face (Mexico has made me a sloppy eater).

"Here. You take the last kidnapper."

Another all-time favorite mistake was made last week while I was at the hostel. An elderly Japanese fellow approached me while I was Skyping Boy and tried to engage in conversation.

Japanese man speaks Spanish (with a Japanese accent) and Japanese.

Aimee speaks English. And understands a few words of very clearly enunciated Spanish.

Awkwardness.

"Como te llamas?" asks Japanese guy.

"Aimee."

"Ay-mi-lee?"

"Aimee."

"Ay-MI-lee?"

"Aimee."

"Aymilee."

*sigh...*

The Japanese man reached into his daybag and pulled out a jar of red candy. He twisted the lid off and handed me a single piece. I noticed a that a kiwi was painted on either end.

"You know... CorrUMba?"

"Corrumba?"

"Si, CorrUMba?"

"umm... is that a kiwi? Yeah, I love kiwi."

"No, no... CorrUMba."

"Kiwi."

"Cerca de Panama."

"OH! Colombia! No. I don't know Colombia."

For the rest of my stay at the hostel, my kiwi (but not) friend smiled broadly whenever I entered or excited the hostel, yelling a greeting or a farewell of (always), "Aymilee!"