No More Toilets -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I'm starting this post from Grano Cafe in the Zocalo of San Cristobal de las Casas.

I'm ordering a latte. It'll set me back about a dollar fifty.

(BTW, lattes and cappuccinos taste exactly the same in this part of the world. When I order a cappuccino, I get perhaps an eighth of an inch of foam dolloped on the top. When I order a latte....I get perhaps an eighth of an inch of foam dolloped on the top)

"I Shot the Sheriff" plays in the background.

I sometimes forget I'm out of the US when the little customs remain the same.

Coffee. Alcohol. Music. Film. Soda. Hamburgesas.

Fucking Arizona Tea.

Hey there, globalization. 

"Put a Little Love in Your Heart" has taken over where "I Shot the Sheriff" left off.

I remember I'm in a different country when I feel the all too familiar awkwardness of ordering the latte.

Should I say... solo un latte? Or... por favor un latte? Or... is it uno latte? 

I usually just end up pointing to the thing I want on the menu, sputtering its name with an apologetic smile and handing the menu back to the server with an embarrassed, "Gracias..."

The last time I struggled so deeply with not speaking the local language was when I BlaBlaCar-ed my way down to Reggio Calabria to visit Giuseppe. And unhappily discovered that just about no one in Southern Italy speaks English. And that if you happen to be fortunate enough to chance upon someone with a smattering of English in their vocabulary, they genuinely hate speaking English. Passionately hate it. Fervently hate it. They don't understand why they should have to speak English (fair enough -- they are in Italy) and in my experience of Southern Italians, many consider the English language a tremendously ugly, disagreeable one (they must never have heard the word "lugubrious." Or "higgler." Or perhaps "crepuscular" would win over a reluctant Italian).

However, what all this serves to do to me, is create a world of isolation and invisibility. In Italy, Giuseppe and his friends would chat away in Italian, and I'd just shift weight from foot to foot, doing my best to pick out pieces of conversation, but never feeling included.

"Do you even want me to be here?" I'd asked Giuseppe on more than one occasion.

And if the invisible feeling became too overwhelming, I'd ask for a translation. I'd get a quick, reluctant few words and then the conversation would return to animated Italian.

And I'd return to shifting weight from foot to foot.

All the other volunteers here are friendly, funny, smart, generous and everything else that contributes to general awesomeness. But unless there's another English speaker around, they usually speak to each other in Spanish. And if I want something translated for me, I have to butt into their conversation and ask what the hell is going on.

Which makes me feel like my two options are a) invisibility and b) impoliteness.

Perhaps my own insecurity about not knowing the local language is making me unassertive, though. I definitely could try to engage in English more often instead of just waiting to be included, but I'm disarmed by the shame of not speaking Spanish. I'm in Mexico, after all. I'm not going to ask a group of people happily conversing in Spanish to switch to English simply for my sake.

I get the incredulous question over and over and over again -- 

"But why don't you speak Spanish?"

A question I'm starting to get a bit defensive about.

"Well, my volunteer work is usually in English. I teach English and I teach yoga to English speakers. So for the most part, my hosts require that I only speak English in their homes. Also, I'm never in a country long enough to learn a language. I'm in Mexico for 23 more days. And it's more important for me to have meaningful connections with people than to try to learn a few words of a language I won't master anyway because I'm leaving in 23 days. And for the most part, English is the common language, so that's the language through which the most meaningful connections can take place. So. That's why I don't speak Spanish."

I don't want to put myself into a situation like this again. A situation wherein I don't speak the language and I'm not staying long enough to learn it.

It's just too isolating.

I'm changing. The flow of my life is changing. And more dramatically than it has over the last few years. I'm leaving Puerta Vieja Hostel today because it wasn't a good fit for me -- and I'm leaving Puerta Vieja not simply because I suddenly realized that, "Crap, volunteering at a hostel and scrubbing toilets totally sucks... I'm gonna go try something else that maybe I'll like better. Hmm... how about teaching English? I could work as an au-pair... I could garden! Horses! I DO OTHER STUFF TOO!"

I'm leaving because I already know what I'm meant to be doing.

And I'm leaving because of the feeling of knowing what I'm meant to be doing and not doing it.

Isn't the BEST feeling ever...

My season of zealous discovery is shifting, transitioning into something else... something less dramatic and over-the-top. Something deeper. Softer. Something more grounded.

It's transitioning into a season of delving deeper into what I've spent the last four years zealously discovering.

What is the point of all that discovery -- all those questions -- if I don't actually implement any of the discoveries in my life? At this moment, I know sharing yoga is my path... What's the point of searching if I don't allow myself to explore what I find? 

Part of me is afraid to claim to know anything. I feel like "knowing" interferes with my ability to be open and receptive and spontaneous. Interferes with my ability to explore new paths.

"Knowing" takes away a bit of freedom.

(I'm rather fond of freedom)

The spontaneous flow of my life is changing so much... I'm in a committed relationship for the first time in... umm... three years. And... and I feel GOOD about it. I'm no longer open to exploring paths that end up with me holding a mop or a toilet brush. And that also feels... right. I'm feeling... grounded. Grounded in a person (hey there, Boy) and grounded in a passion. 

Freedom is compromised for harmony.

This... this is the way I can interact with the world and create the most beauty. The sweetest sounds. The best impact on the lives of people I love. 

Gabi, from the Yoga Forest. She uploaded this photo to Facebook the other day with the caption, "More new friends! This amazing lady helped me further my practice so much I'll forever be grateful for the time we got to spend together. She also gave cheese a new meaning to me!"

This is the footprint I want to leave on the lives of people with whom I'm lucky enough to meet. Greater appreciation of the lovely things in life (cheese!) and a deeper connection and love for themselves through yoga. 

But I still struggle accepting this new kind of flow. Accepting the new grounded nature of my life and the compromises I've made to my freedom.

My fear of "knowing" leads me to beat myself up for being inflexible, for having an inflated ego that just doesn't like cleaning toilets. I beat myself up for being ungrateful.... but... I also beat myself up for... well... for being an adult.

Am I an adult? Fuck, how did this happen to me? 

What does being an adult even mean?

Living a life that's mine. Making choices that are mine. 

To me, I guess growing up means letting go of the scripts society has given me, finding my unique path and having the strength and determination to walk it.

I'm just afraid of all the life I'll miss out on if I stick to walking this one path...

I know that this path will evolve as I continue to walk. There will be erosion, tree trunks blocking the way and all sorts of ups and downs. But... in the end, I think that through the last few years of ardent exploration, I've managed to let go of scripts and find my path.

And the transition I'm experiencing now... is the transition between the excitement of discovering and the fulfillment of WALKING. 

And a lot of this discovery has been made through abandoning paths that didn't feel right. I don't leave placements because they're hard (umm... Yoga Forest?) -- I leave placements because they don't create that harmony.

Erin (PUPUSA BUDDY) came to visit me this weekend. We'd spent a good deal of time fantasizing about all the delicious Mexican food things we'd eat together in San Cristobal, so it was quite the disappointment that when she arrived, she immediately started feeling sick in her stomach.

Christ. Central America. You are the worst. Can't you leave stomachs alone long enough for them to enjoy a freaking quesadilla? Must you be so cruel? 

I was scheduled to work during Erin's visit, so she went to explore San Cristobal (and not eat delicious Mexican food things) while I cleaned.

I think one of the most frustrating parts for me about my volunteer work at Puerta Vieja is the communication. For the first week of my stay, I didn't even really know if I'd be working the next day, let alone what I'd be doing. Then one of the owners told me he'd schedule me for work in the bar, yoga and cooking.

And that would be my exchange. Which would have fit like a glove.

He finally got the schedule together more than a week after I arrived.

Lo and behold, I was only scheduled to clean. Five days a week. No bar. No cooking. No yoga. Just cleaning.

"If there's nothing to do at 9:00, you can do yoga..." one of the hostel owners had told me.

There was always something to do at 9:00.

Another place wherein the communication was poor was with the actual cleaning. I don't speak Spanish and none of the three locals hired to cook and clean spoke English. And as I was supposed to help them with the cleaning part of their job, this became a real problem. When they wanted me to take all the trash out of the bathrooms and put in new toilet paper, they either had to show me exactly what they wanted me to do, or we had to hunt down someone who could translate for us. When I'd finished task number one, I would return to the kitchen and just wait until they told me something else to do.

Which was all kinds of awkward. They were working. I knew I was supposed to help them with the work. But we couldn't communicate well enough for my help to even be worthwhile.

So as soon as Erin returned to Guatemala this morning, I packed my bags and left.

Before Erin returned to Guatemala however, there was a feast. An Israeli guest turned volunteer prepared a dozen or so salads and meat dishes to share (at cost) with the guests and other volunteers.

(this was the job I was told I could have. Which I would have loved to have)

Even though I was slightly bitter about not being able to prepare the feast myself, I wasn't bitter enough to be unappreciative of this Israeli's home cooking.

All the volunteers gathered in the kitchen to help prepare the mint, parsley, basil and cilantro.

We happily passed around a jar of "jam."

And by "jam," I mean some incredibly potent alcohol mixed with whole black raspberries.

And we may or may not have have hijacked the Israeli's tasteful playlist and spent three + hours rocking out to Michael Jackson and the soundtrack of The Little Mermaid.

Erin's stomach was feeling markedly less perfidious by Monday morning, so after I finished my last (very awkward) shift of cleaning at Puerta Vieja, we set off to explore together. My Guatemalan/American friend had mentioned an interest in consuming quesadillas earlier during her visit, so I spent approximately seventeen seconds googling "best quesadillas in San Cristobal," and came up with this place:

No Name Quesadillas.

It only opens at night. And the above picture is what it looks like during the day.

You really have to know what you're looking for if you want to eat at No Name.

We decided to return later that evening for our dinner of gourmet quesadillas (they are a thing, believe it or not), and continued to amble through the center of San Cristobal, Erin occasionally popping into various stores to purchase things like handmade postcards --

 -- pox --

 -- coconut oil for herself and Mexican candies for her coworkers.

If I weren't saving all my money for coffee, tamales and comfortable pants... I would totally be in on that pox and those candies... alas, I have my priorities. 

We paused here for a moment, wondering what elektrovoodoo could possibly be. 

And Monday night was the loveliest community night I've had since I left San Marcos.

Three of the other volunteers joined Erin and me for wine and tapas on Real de Guadalupe.

Erin purchased an adorable stuffed zebra for 15 pesos.

If I had room in my bag, I'd bring back a dozen of these for Cosette, my perpetually suspicious little niece in Colorado.  

Then we watched an hour long documentary in the cinema room of a cafe on Real de Guadalupe. As it was a documentary about Zapata and his rebellion in Chiapas, it wasn't the most uplifting film... but it was pretty powerful. The more time I spend in Mexico and Central America, the more I understand just how much these countries have been exploited and devastated by Europe -- and now, by America.

It's an understanding that leaves me with profound respect for the strength and resiliency of these people. It's an understanding that leaves me speechless at how mindbogglingly violent and greedy human beings are capable of being.

How? Why? It's just... it's something so far removed from my reality. I can read books and watch documentaries and try to understand... but violence and exploitation like this are incomprehensible to me. 

And then we returned to No Name for our quesadillas.

A plantain quesadilla with blue cheese. Oh dear. 

German, my couchsurfing host will meet me here in a few minutes. I have one week with him in San Cristobal, four days to explore the ruins in Palenque, eleven days to gorge on street food in Merida and a day and a half in Cancun to prepare for my flight back to Colorado. 

No more toilets. Just time spent with good people. And as much yoga as possible. 

Trapped Inside My Story -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I'm starting this post from Oh, La La! cafe. The menu is positively rife with luscious looking French chocolatey baked things. None of which I can eat due to their glutenous constitutions, but all of which I can enthusiastically lust after.

A waitress in white and black delicately tips shots of espresso into three tall foaming glasses. I'm distracted from the espresso melting into the milk as another waitress pours steaming chocolate into a traditional-looking clay cup.

My chocolate caliente. I've been growing increasingly bored of drinking the shitty (but dirt cheap) hot chocolate at Yik Cafe, so decided to splurge this brisk Wednesday morning and treat myself to a proper cup of chocolate. And if all I get for the extra ten pesos is the ability to cuddle that dark brown clay mug in my cold morning hands, then it's a ten pesos well spent. I want that perfectly cuddle-able mug in my cupboard for always. Preferably always filled with chocolatey goodness.

The waitress carries two of the cappuccinos to the couple eating sandwiches by the window, leaving my voluptuously shaped brown mug steaming and alone on the bar.

But... but I was here first...

...man...

I've got myself a comfortable chair, but I haven't got an outlet at my disposal. Nor have I got any internet.

So this post will probably be cut rather short.

I think I'll be leaving Puerta Vieja Hostel a week early. The people are remarkably friendly and the work is simple, but it's just not a good fit for me. I don't know why I'm here and I find myself counting down the days until I leave -- which is never a good sign.

I don't want to be counting down days. Two weeks until I move on. One of the reasons I travel is to help keep myself grounded in the present. And if I'm always counting down days (even if it's to see Boy or eat epic amounts of cheese (these often go hand in hand)), then something needs to change. 

One of my favorite quotes by Kahlil Gibran is --

"Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you as by the way your mind looks at what happens."

I could stay at Puerta Vieja. I could change the way I look at this experience in order to NOT count down the days until I leave for Palenque, Merida and Boy (29 more days until Boy). But I could also be proactive and change my situation. I know life has different offerings. I have so many options available to me... and I don't feel peace about choosing this one. 

So I think I'll be continuing my journey in about two weeks. In all honesty, part of my desire to keep moving is probably rooted in the fact that I'm not a fan of cities. Regardless of how decent the churches are.

I saw this set of stairs and seriously thought, "meh... it's just like walking to the toilet twice at The Yoga Forest." 

I thrive on the energy of big cities for a few days -- but after that, the anonymity I feel within them becomes isolating and depressing. Walking past hundreds of humans I've never seen before and will probably never see again on a daily basis makes me feel disconnected.

What are their stories? What's the story of the woman selling mango slices in front of the church? What were her dreams as a little girl? Is she saving her mango money to pay for a book she's been dying to read? Or is she desperate for the latest smartphone? What if all of the money goes to her family? What if she already has a kid of her own? I keep meeting all these teenage women who have toddlers strapped to their backs... why? 

What's the story of the man who just hit my shoulder as he rushed past or the tourists who refused to make room for me on the sidewalk?

It's hard to remember that each person on this crowded street has a story when we're all moving too quickly to share... and I don't like what happens to me when I forget that everyone has a story. When I forget that each story is as important -- as valid -- as difficult -- as beautiful -- as complex -- as frightening as my own.

When I forget that we all have stories, I get trapped inside my own.

You could have moved over, I glare at the sidewalk-hogging tourists. Like, an inch. If you'd moved over even an INCH, I wouldn't have had to step into the road and almost get hit by a bicycle. Freaking jerks. 

Wait. Bourget. You don't know this story. All you know is your story. So calm the hell down. 

I walk every morning. I walk the quiet streets and I watch the few people walking them with me.

"Tamales!" shout the shivering women in front of a nearby church. "Arroz con leche! Cafe!"

Men and women sweep the streets with palm leaves. Shoe shiners in the main square uncover their shoe shining chairs. I watch cafe employees set up tables and chairs through half closed doors, put flowers into vases and mop the floors.

I catch myself watching people more closely than usual, desperately searching for something to make me feel connected. I observed a surly toddler frowning at a vendor the other day and thought of my perpetually suspicious niece. Then the vendor whipped out a wand and blew bubbles for the frowning Mexican boy, and the chubby kid clapped his hands together (frown still firmly in place) and went galloping after the glistening bits of soap.

Cosette would probably do the exact same thing. 

Waking up every morning and seeing a new body in the bed across from my top was novel for about three days. And then became disturbing.

I don't even know who I shared this room with last night. It was a smaller body than the night before. A smaller body that didn't snore. And that's all I know. 

City life is too fast... too disconnected for me. In tiny villages like San Marcos, I actually felt like a part of the community even though I was only there for a month. 

But here? 

It's just too much. Where do I even start? 

I'm disappointed that all I have left in Mexico for this trip is big city life: two more weeks in San Cristabal, a week and a half in Merida and a couple of days in Cancun. However, as I'll be couchsurfing for my entire stay in Merida, I'll know the stories of the people with whom I share space. Connections will be more intimate. One host wants to learn yoga and the other host wants to take me to explore the nature around Merida.

So at least I'll know where to start.

Fat with Knowledge -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I'm starting this post from one of the main communal areas of Puerta Vieja hostel. Natural light filters in through the glass ceiling, soft Spanish music plays in reception and a few of the guests work on laptops and smartphones. This relaxed vibe is something I've definitely been craving. The Yoga Forest was pretty stinkin' chill (proven by the fact that more than one of the guests/interns spent goodly portions of their days passing around not cigarettes), but the responsibility I'd shouldered when I volunteered to be the resident yoga teacher for the May/June lunar cycle was a heavy load.

A heavy load I no longer carry.

Which is seventeen different kinds of bittersweet.

I miss the kitties, the view from the composting toilet, the peanut butter (as predicted) and the community. As Boy would put it, I miss "doing life" with Joseph, Gaby, Gigi, Jeremy, Amanda (I mean Amelia) and Odin. I miss lusting after Amandelia's freakishly awesome haircut --

-- and seeing Odin's funky straw hat sitting on the outdoor oven. Or the coffee table. Or in the shower. Or commandeered by the kittens for a bed/super-awesome-plaything. I miss teasing Joseph about his enormous ribcage and I miss hearing Jeremy (the permaculture teacher) wax on about how his farts are the definition of entropy (chaos) and that poo is one of our most valuable resources. I miss how Gaby would complain about how sore my classes made her, but then ask for something even harder the next day.

That girl's kind of a badass.

I miss sharing meditation and yoga. I miss the communal meals and the after-dinner wine and popcorn parties.

I miss feeling so tightly bonded with such a supportive group of people. I miss the schedule we all worked together to maintain, and god, do I miss the role I played in that schedule.

But despite all this missing, I feel depleted. Like I need to step back from teaching and sharing and recharge all my spiritual batteries. Perhaps if I'd had two days a week off at the Yoga Forest... or perhaps if I'd been more consistently connected to internet and had been able to keep steady contact with Boy (he brings a lot of balance to my life)... perhaps if I'd had these things, I wouldn't have felt such a strong need to leave my home in the Forest.

But I left. And now I'm in San Cristobal, pining for my San Marcos la Laguna community and for my "yoga teacher" identity.

Am I pining for an identity? Or... or am I just missing the thing that brings me joy? Where's the balance between loving something (and missing it when it's not around) and being attached to something? Identifying with something? 

Troy brought up this conflict during our Skype date yesterday.

Troy Sides: I think there's a difference between being unhealthily attached to an identity and feeling the pain of losing an expression of something that makes you come alive. So like, maybe not being "the yoga teacher" anymore sucks and that could be an expression of being attached to an identity in an unhealthy way, or that could just be the simple pain of losing an outlet for something that is as sweet a spot as that is for you.  

I spent yesterday evening hanging out with Ida, the Swedish girl I'd met on the shuttle from Panajachel to San Cristobal early Wednesday morning (and late afternoon). I tried a shot of chocolate pox, a ceremonial Mayan drink (not the disease) at Revolucion Cafe/Bar.

And we spent the entire course of our dinner and drinks fending off small children who were not only trying to sell us their trinkets, but would actually cheekily charge the table and just say, "Money!"

If we refused the demands of these precocious little people, they would switch their attention to Ida's plate and say, "pollo!"

They were actually demanding that she give them her chicken.

Whoa. WHOA. This is a whole new level of cheek. 

And when we weren't distracted defending our food (feeling torn between emotions of annoyance and just... sadness. Oof. San Cristobal has so many child beggars), our eardrums were bombarding by various political parties playing their music as they paraded down the walking street.

Elections for Chiapas are in two weeks, so it's a very musically monotonous time to be in the city.

We left Revolucion and turned left at the Zocalo, heading up Real de Guadelupe and stopping for a glass (or two) of malbec  at a charming, inexpensive wine and tapas place.

We were invited to sit with a group of musicians, so spent the next couple of hours soaking in Rolling Stones, Jim Morrison, and loads of other songs by artists I should know but don't.

"What's your name?" the musician named Nigel asked a middle-aged man leaning against a barrel table and enjoying the music.

"Billy the Kid!" the white-haired man laughed.

"And where are you from?"

"Mars!"

And then I started chatting with Billy the Kid. The conversation moved to mindfulness, and he recommended that I read a book called "Mindsight".

"Why do you travel?" Billy asked me.

"Because it's how I can experience each moment as new."

"How old are you?"

"26."

"Noooo!!!!"

Here we go again... 

"How do you look so beautiful and young?"

"I don't do anything."

I haven't even washed my hair in four weeks. Just rinsed with water. Goodness. 

Then the conversation switched to human connections and how we can love people best.

"The most important thing is to love people. And we... we are fat with knowledge. We must love people and share this knowledge. Are you a doctor who does not prescribe medicine?" Billy looked at me over his tapas and wine.

Am I a doctor who does not prescribe medicine? 

Yes. Right now, yes. Yoga is my medicine. And I'm in a position where I'm unable to share. 

Oof. 

That. That is why this hurts.

Friday night is free cocktail night at Puerta Vieja, so Ida and I wobbled back to our hostel and partook of... more than one mojito and a generous sampling of Oaxacan cheese. And did acro yoga with whoever would join (which was one mostly drunk Italian named Gabriel).

I went walking the next morning before breakfast.

I love cities in the early morning. When roads are being swept, the streets are still glistening with dew (or puddles from last night's monsoon) and shops are just beginning to open.

I had a breakfast of fruit and yogurt at Puerta Vieja (and missed the blender bike peanut butter), and then spent the next couple of hours cleaning the kitchen and sweeping the main room. During my time in the kitchen, another volunteer breezed in.

Before I commence this tale, I want to make sure that whoever reads this post understands that I think this volunteer is great. Absolutely fabulous. I'm only sharing this story because I found it absurdly amusing.

"You don't care about your hair, do you?" the volunteer asked me, quite matter-of-factly. I'm not entirely sure whether or not he said hello first.

"Well... no. No, I don't," I replied, far more amused and curious than offended. "I haven't washed it in four weeks because I'm trying to let my hair regain its natural oil and things."

"No, no, no..." the volunteer gently reprimanded. "Here's what you must do -- wash your hair with vinegar to get rid of all the... all the... everything in it. And then I can give you some almond oil that will make your hair beautiful for a week. Let me know next time you go to take a shower and I can give it to you."

"Okay..."

"And for the skin, I mix coffee with coconut oil. It makes the skin so smooth and soft. And is all natural. And for the face... honey for the face."

I haven't used moisturizer consistently since I started traveling in 2011. I use whatever bar soap I can find to wash out my nasty bits and I don't use anything else at all. Honey sounds nice on my face... and I dig coconut oil... but all that's expensive and heavy. Doesn't seem worth it to me. 

"And I'm sure you shave -- " the volunteer carried on before I cut him off with an ear-to-ear grin and a resounding, "NOPE."

"WHAT?"

"I haven't shaved in over a year," I hiked up my comfortable trousers and proudly displayed my ample appendage hair.

"HOW CAN YOU NOT SHAVE?"

I startled to chuckle. The frenchman put his hand over his heart and sank back against the refrigerator.

I think I gave him a heart attack. New super power. The hairy legs of Aimee gives french people heart attacks. 

I leaked the hair story to a couple other volunteers while they were smoking in the area outside the kitchen.

"Don't let him make a drink for you," one of them playfully advised me. "You'll wake up the next day and have no leg hair."

Most hilarious reason of all time ever to drug a drink. 

And the rest of today was spent wandering through markets, drinking more hot chocolate and Skyping Boy. I also told him the leg hair story.

"And the best part is, I'm just not bothered by either," I wrote to Boy. "People can tell me I look like I'm 23 and people can tell me that I MUST shave my leg hair and take better care of my head hairs... and I just find it all funny. And will keep on doing exactly as I like."

No strollers in Mexico. 

I'm sorely disappointed to discover that San Cristobal mainly offers corn for street food. Gone are the days of goodnight tacos and chalupas in Puebla. And tlayudas are only a distant memory. San Cristobal has dedicated its street food nearly entirely to elotes and esquisites. Corn with mayonnaise and cheese and salsa. 

This black, HOT woolen skirt is very popular here. I don't understand. Even a little. 

It seems that only at the mercado and early in the morning can one find tamales