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!" |
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. |
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. |
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment