The Gallivanting Grasshopper: 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.