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.