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." |
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.
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