Last of Mexico -- Cancun, Mexico

I'm starting this post from Main Street Bagels on the corner of sixth and Main. I blissfully munch on a gluten-free banana coconut cream muffin and Boy logs into his Macbook to finish some work for The House (the homeless shelter where he works as volunteer coordinator). 

Boy is sitting next to me. Right now. 

Whoa. 

I would drink a cuban cremosa instead of my small decaf, but it's Tuesday. And Tuesday is a special day at Main Street Bagels. Tuesday is the day you get two for one punches on your yellow punch cards. 

(Which is almost as good as Wednesday. The special day you can challenge the barista to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to win at life + a free cookie)

So even though cuban cremosas are sublime and I want them all the time, my vagabond brain demands that I take advantage of the opportunity to get two punches on Boy's yellow punch cards. 

Fill up the punch cards on two dollar coffees and then order the most expensive thing on the menu. 

This is one of the most valuable lessons I've learned in my years of vagabonding. 

My last few days in Mexico were colorful and chaotic. A most days in Mexico are. 

Ignacio and I caught the colectivo down to the beach on my final evening in Tulum. The epic amount of sargassum deterred us from enjoying the water, but the sensation of the sand between my toes was more than enough for me. 

Tulum is a town overrun by tourists, but at least it's a town where the tourists live in cabanas like this instead of the enormous resort hotel eyesores in places like Cancun.

There was no live music or flamenco to be found that Tuesday night, but the sunset more than made up for it.

I left Ignacio's at 10:30 the next morning and boarded my ADO bus for Cancun at 11:55. Because I wasn't so interested in exploring Cancun and was 120% peopled-out (I'm quite the introvert, believe it or not), I chose to stay in a hostel instead of using couchsurfing.

When I couchsurf, I try to have a lot of time and enthusiasm to dedicate to my host and my host's city. Otherwise the experience is negative for both parties -- the host feels used and the surfer feels pressured into engaging the world when retreating inwards is actually what's needed.

In a hostel, I can choose to ignore everyone around me and retreat into my introvert shell.

Now is the time for me to retreat. I feel totally depleted. 

So I said a few words to the owner of the hostel (an Italian woman from Ancona), dropped off my luggage and then went on a walk through Cancun.

I wasn't as disappointed as I thought I'd be in this touristic city. I guess that since my expectations of Cancun were so low to begin with, the little parks filled with playing children and the cleanliness (when compared to other Mexican cities) surprised me. In a very pleasant way.

Cancun's two markets are bland and boring. Each stall sells the same trinkets and there are no tamale ladies to be found. NONE. Which I found particularly devastating. Market 23 and 28 are where tourists go to purchase their "my girlfriend went to Cancun and all she bought me was this stupid mug," souvenirs.

I engaged no one in the hostel that night and limited my human contact to a Skype conversation with Boy.

God, I'm tired. 

Most people visit hostels in order to experience the hostel vibe. To meet people and go out drinking and find tours and tour buddies.

I visit hostels because they're some of the only places I can recharge my introvert batteries.

I only had one full day in Cancun.

It was spent alone, exploring Isla Mujeres.

A small island just off the coast of Cancun which Lau and Jose had recommended I visit.

"Amiga! Welcome, welcome amiga," the vendors called to me as I breezed past their shops. "Don't you need something for your boyfriend?"

I ignored them and continued my stroll through the blistering roads of Isla Mujeres.

"What? You don't have a boyfriend?" the vendors' voices drifted after me.

I finally found my way to a deserted beach.

And spent hours walking.

Silently.

Alone.

Happily.

Alone.

Simply.

Alone.

Thoughtfully picking out strange looking stones to take back to Boy.

Loving how much I knew he would freak out about these strange looking stones.




I love people who are able to love life's little things...

Where the locals live. 

Where the... umm... nonlocals live. 

The beaches of Tulum were challenging to walk due to all the mountains of sargassum, and the beaches of Isla Mujeres were difficult to walk because they were littered with rocks that looked like this:

Which did not feel spectacular on my toes.

By the time I boarded the ferry back for Cancun, I felt almost human again. Almost ready to engage. Almost excited about sharing a room with ten people.

Also, I was sunburnt red as a pepperoni. As Laura would say (the Italian chef I volunteered for who lives in Taglio di Po).

The rest of the night was spent in the square.

Watching people snack.

Watching children play.

Watching old men and women salsa dance under the fronds of palms as the sun set behind them. 

I slept poorly that night. 

I always sleep poorly the night before a transition. Especially when I have to make it to the bus station by 4:00 in the morning in order to catch my ADO bus for the airport.

Cancun Airport Terminal 3. 

Cancun --> Houston --> Denver. 

I. Hate. Airports. 

Checking my bag took so long that I missed my opportunity to see Laura before she flew to Miami (and then home to Argentina). 

I arrived in Houston and handed the large, burly fellow at immigration control my passport. He squinted at the photo page. 

"You still live in California?" 

"No, I live in Colorado now." 

Sort of... I sort of live in Colorado now. 

"So you went from liberal to more liberal," the Texan grunted his disapproval and returned my passport. 

Clearly you've never been to Grand Junction, I thought as I walked away. 

"Who you gonna vote for this election?" another immigration officer asked my grunting Texan. 

"Donald Trump." 

"Yeah, me too." 

God, I wish that Harriet's aliens would come and abduct the whole damn state of Texas. Forget that whole channeling positive energy through the world's 18 holy mountains to heal the damaged ionosphere. Just take Texas far, far away. 

When entering the country via Houston, you have to claim your luggage, recheck your luggage and go through that security nonsense all over again. 

REALLY? 

Dear Master Aetherius, 

Please take Texas. 

In return, I will hike your holy mountain (Castle Peak) in Aspen, Colorado. I will have a picnic with triple cream brie, noosa yogurt and the finest Malbec I can afford. This will fill the earth with more than enough positive energy for years to come. 

Sincerely, 

A very irritated earth dweller who would rather not go through security seventeen times. 

I landed in DIA at about 14:20 on Thursday afternoon. 

Boy was waiting for me at arrivals with his soccer ball. Over which we had a very sappy, "I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU IN 77 DAYS LET'S NEVER DO THAT AGAIN, OKAY?" reunion. 

We had hoped to spend our two nights in Denver with my old school friend and her husband, but due to family illnesses, her spare room was occupied. Our second bet was to spend our first two nights in Troy's brother's spare bedroom, but the brother's roommate had come back to town earlier than anticipated. 

Strike two. 

Have I really been able to couchsurf and volunteer all over Europe and Mexico with no problem... but can't find a place to sleep in Denver? My home state? 

As a last resort, I posted the following on my Facebook page: 

Do I have any friends in Denver who would be willing to host me and my Boy this Thursday and Friday? We thought we had a place to stay, but it fell through kind of last minute. We would bring wine and cheese to share (CHEESE!). And I have lots of stories. And can put you upside-down and give you acro yoga massages.

Two days before my flight to the states, the mother of an old friend contacted me via Facebook. Telling me that she lives in Arvada and that I'm always welcome to stay. 

I haven't seen this person in... umm... almost ten years? That's incredible. And now she's offering her home. God, I love people. Also, Facebook. Regardless of how time consuming and annoying it can become, it is pretty amazing at keeping people in touch. 

So Troy drove us straight to Georgi's cute little home, complete with cat (Lucy) and a gorgeous kitchen Georgi had designed herself (Boy and I freaked out about it a little). 

We shared wine, cheese and stories with Georgi. Then took a much needed nap. Boy had just driven six hours over mountain passes in his Geo (named Cummerbund) with three cylinders and Girl had just traveled over twelve (and gone through security seventeen times), so neither were full of energy. So we curled up into the childhood bed of my childhood friend and passed out like pineapples. 

Then Boy took Girl to Bistro Vendome. 

The meal was divine and it was beautifully refreshing to not see a single corn tortilla on the table. 

I love Mexico. I love Mexican food. But I could happily go the next eight years without seeing a single corn tortilla. 

We spent the night in the childhood bed of my childhood friend. As cosy as the tiny bed was, it was not built to support the weight of two average sized adults. So we woke up in the middle of the night to what felt like an earthquake, but was actually just a side of the bed collapsing under the onus of our weight. 

Too. Much. French. Food.

Too exhausted to be bothered to fix our mini-earthquake, we just fell back asleep, slowly drifting into the crack between the slanted bed and the wall. 

We met with Troy's friend for coffee the next morning. The latte was lovely and and the cafe itself had more quotes than my yoga journal. 

I felt right at home. 

But I was still catching up on lost sleep, so we spent the rest of the morning napping at the home of Troy's friend's in-laws.

You have slept in almost twenty beds during the last three months. That's the most movement since hitchhiking through the Balkans. 

When we woke, Troy's friend had left to attend a wedding, but had placed a note on the stairs by the kitchen. A note telling us that there were leftovers on the stove we were welcome to eat.

Leftovers = a pot of obscenely tender beef with mushrooms.

We emptied the pot into a plastic cup and put it in our picnic basket next to the triple cream brie.

Then we found a park and had our first picnic together in 77 days. 

It was idyllic. Geese and ducks foot-footing everywhere. Children scampering about, climbing statues and giggling themselves silly. We crossed over a tiny bridge to reach a tiny island with a gigantic tree in whose roots we sat to escape the gentle drops of rain. Gentle drops of rain splish-splashing in our island's pond, creating mesmerizing ripples.

We met with Troy's brother for dinner and spent the evening strolling through downtown Denver.

One of the most bizarre parts of being back in Colorado was noticing the stark differences between beggars on the streets.

Mexico and Guatemala are full of beggars. Children, adults, men, women, blind, crippled, sick.

And they all beg saying something similar to the following:

"Please, I have children."

"Please, my mother is sick."

"Please, I am hungry."

"Please, I am blind. I can't work. I need help."

In Colorado?

I see beggars with signs saying something similar to the following:

"I could use a beer."

"I'd rather beg than steal."

"Would you give me a dollar for absolutely no good reason? How about five dollars? Give me your money and I'll make some art."

This is just an observation. I don't have any conjectures as to what it could mean... it's just something that caught me totally off-guard.

It's good to be back in Colorado. I never thought I'd say that, but... but I'm only here until March 7th, and that lets being back be easier. I have my out. The plane tickets are bought. And these next few months are going to be spent doing life with a person I love. In a state that's really not ALL bad. I'm going to learn to make kombucha and chèvre and bacon and butter and maybe experiment with wine... I'm going to visit Yellowstone and Yosemite and hike Conundrum with Boy. We're going to THOROUGHLY break in Mrs. Peterson (our tent) and actually SHARE adventures. 

I'm tired of having to ask him how his day was. 

I want to be there for his day. 

We cooked an early breakfast for Georgi the next morning. Walnut flour crepes topped with triple cream brie, eggs, mushrooms and zucchini.

Georgi gave me a hug, a card, and a little globe as we said goodbye.

"You're always welcome here."

The rest of our Denver experience was spent meeting with my old friends, Troy's family, and being introduced to my new niece.

Chelsea, Cosette, and baby Celestine. 

We passed the night with Roy and Laura, the outgoing couple from Boulder with whom I'd toured Hierve del Agua in Oaxaca last March. Even though they'd only met Troy once and me twice, they happily opened up their home to us for the second time. We drank Roy's homemade wine that evening, ate bacon and eggs (prepared by Roy) the next morning, and said goodbye shortly after breakfast.

And Laura said, "See you next time," as we climbed into Cummerbund.

I still can't believe people are so good to me. 

Cummerbund made it over the mountains.

Which is always a pleasant surprise. I'm almost as surprised by Cummerbund making it over the mountains as I am when I don't encounter roadblocks in Mexico. 

Living Life Off-Balance

This is a post about money. 

A post about money, how I don't have a lot of it, and how that's changing the way I view the world in a way that encourages me to actively invest more life and love in the people around me. 

Money has always felt unnatural to me. Something about it has always made me feel disconnected, especially when it's used between friends. I've never been able to rationalize charging friends and relatives for massages and have felt tremendously awkward whenever I received money for yoga classes. I was never comfortable taking money from my gardening boss, Judy. It wasn't because I felt I hadn't worked hard or "earned" the money -- it was because I felt like I wanted my gardening to be an investment in Judy as a person and not in my personal bank account. 

What I've discovered over the past few years is that money seems to create distance between people. Because my life has so little money, I live in the homes of families instead of staying in hotels. I either cook with my hosts or I go eat cheap street food in noisy markets surrounded by throngs of people. 

I've discovered that money is a medium we use to restore balance and to keep us from feeling indebted to or invested in those around us. We go to a cafe, pay two bucks for a drip coffee, and no longer feel the need to do anything for or with the person who just handed us our coffee. 

Bill be paid.   

In a book called "The Moneyless Manifesto," the author tells a story about a father who, on the day of his son's graduation from college, sent his son a bill for his entire life up to that day. A bill that included his son's diapers, his son's daycare, his son's education. 

The son eventually paid the bill and never talked to the father again. The balance had been restored and there was no longer an investment in the relationship. 

Money puts a price tag on the priceless. 

Back in the day when I wore uncomfortable pants and actually actively amassed money, my daydreams included the things I could use my money to purchase. I'd browse amazon, the clymb, steep and cheap and campsaver as if I'd just won the lottery and had millions to spend. I'd lust after items that I didn't really need and concoct crazy schemes as to how I could amass more money to buy more things. And the fact that there were all these goodies that I wanted but didn't quite know how to get filled me with anxiety. Insecurity. Jealousy of the people who were able to make more money to buy the things that I wanted (why the hell does Prana charge a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans?) but couldn't afford. 

Now? I have thirty dollars in my paypal account. Instead of daydreaming about how I can find jobs to make more money (to buy things I don't really need to survive), I daydream about how I can invest in people and community in order to meet all my actual needs. 

And I have no anxiety. I have no jealousy. I have heaps of trust and loads of ideas. I'm also more than okay with not wearing a pair of hundred dollar Prana jeans. I wear whatever I'm given, and I'm always given enough. 

The shirt I'm wearing was given to me by Janet in Colorado. 

The shorts I'm wearing were given to me by Jo in Mexico. 

(I think underwear is silly, so don't bother)

My friend Janet (whose shirt I currently wear) taught me an invaluable lesson in investment. When I lost my apartment in 2012, she invited me to share her home for eight months, rent free. She invited me because she loves me, supports me and wanted to invest in my life. 

And I would pretty much do anything in the world for Janet. If she called and asked for a massage, I'd be all over it. If she wanted yoga lessons every day all summer, I'd be down. If I was ever in the position to share my home with her for eight months, there wouldn't be a single millisecond of "well, I don't know..." 

It would be an immediate, "get your ranger butt over here and make yourself at home. I have cheese. Come eat cheese with me." 

These are the investments I want to make in people. Relationships wherein trust such as this is cultivated. Now, this isn't me saying that I want to be a "mooch." I don't want to be someone who always absorbs the energy and resources of those around me without giving back. 

But here's the thing. I do give back. I give back in the form of yoga, massage, cooking, listening, storytelling... 

And I don't understand why money became more valuable than a homemade dinner or a massage. I don't understand why cold cash became the best way to show appreciation and care. 

Sure, money is the most efficient way to complete transactions. 

But there's a vast difference between living an efficient life and living an optimum life. Unfortunately, I think this difference is lost on a lot of people. 

I want my "transactions" to be beautifully unbalanced, as a sign of my trust and investment in my loved ones and community. I want to love so deeply that I give without thinking about receiving. I want to trust so deeply that I receive without thinking about giving. I want that feeling of "indebtedness." 

I want my daydreams to include fantasies about how to better give to loved ones and community and not about how to work harder and make better money. 

Since I'm not walking the Colorado Trail and will spend the majority of this fall and winter in Grand Junction, I have a new challenge for myself. 

To learn to meet my local needs locally. 

And to meet them without money. 

I'm going to be brazen. Bold. Unapologetic. I'm going to walk right up to farmers at Grand Junction's weekly open market and say, "I'm trying to become more connected to my community and I'm experimenting living life through investing in people and not accumulating money. I volunteered on organic farms in Ireland for a few months and learned that most farmers compost the fruits and vegetables that aren't aesthetically pleasing enough to sell. I was wondering if you'd be open to an exchange. I'm a yoga teacher who's got heaps of experiencing harvesting veg. So if you'd like, I could come over on your harvesting day, help you harvest for a couple of hours, give the workers a free yoga class, and then take home some of the fruit and veg you were going to compost anyway. What do you think?" 

(I may also try dumpster diving. Don't tell anyone) 

I'm going to create a Facebook page for the Grand Valley wherein people can share their time and skills with others in the community. 

For instance. 

I want to learn how to make kombucha. My mom ferments some killer delicious kombucha. I'd post on the Facebook page (with my mom's permission -- what do you think, Mom?), "Want to learn to make kombucha? I'm making loads this weekend. I'll probably start around three o'clock on Saturday. Bring food if you want to share. Bring some music if you want to have a post-kombucha dance party. Dress code = comfortable pants." 

I plan to offer free yoga classes on this Facebook page. Maybe the occasional massage. When I start experimenting more with making my own cheese, I want to invite anyone and everyone to join in (a cheesy community = an awesome community). 

I want to create a space where people can become more comfortable simply giving and receiving without the use of money. 

How I hope to incorporate this system into my life (realistically) as a vagabond who spends four years creating community in a city and then two years traipsing about the globe, is to have my capitalist price and my community price. 

Let's hypothesize that I'm living in Bordeaux with Boy. I would go to all the farmer's markets and find ways to exchange yoga and massage for cheese, wine, meat and produce (yes, this is listed in order of importance). This would a) connect me with the community in which I live and b) provide for my physical need of consuming large amounts of exquisite French food. Probably less doable (but still achievable) is figuring out how to find moneyless accommodation. I don't have Janets all over France, but France is positively rife with hostels that are very happy to host yoga teachers. So I'd contact a hostel and ask if I could exchange a yoga class every morning for a room where I could live with Boy. Then I'd spend a few months building community and I'd keep my eyes and ears open for my French Janet. 

My capitalist price would come from charging guests at hostels and hotels for yoga classes and massages. This money would go towards plane tickets, travel gear, and all other things used outside the Bordeaux community. 

It's a dream, anyway. 

 

Sea of Sargassum -- Tulum, Mexico

I'm starting this post from the main room of my host's apartment in Tulum, Mexico. A song by Sigur Ros plays on my computer (I discovered that this Icelandic musician is an artist we both enjoy) and Ignacio makes himself a Spanish omelette while I write.

I don't think I've ever witnessed someone whip their eggs quite so thoroughly. Ignacio has made the four huevos look like a glass of delicious, frothy orange juice using a fork alone. And he's still beating them.

Today has been a quiet day. I went for my morning walk, accompanied my champion egg whipping host on a couple of errands and then walked around Pueblo Tulum in search of a pair of light, comfy pants for Boy.

And found none. No comfy pants. Zilch. Nada.

So I ate a chicharon quesadilla and drank a coconut milkshake to console myself.

But yesterday... yesterday was phenomenally full.

"We will start off in the ruins. Then we can go to the beach. Then we can swim in a cenote. Then we can go to a different beach. Then we can bike to the reserve and see the lagoon."

"WHOA," I exhaled. "Are you sure we can fit all that adventure into one day?"

"We can do it all. If you have the energy to bike. You sure you can go without your nap?"

Even though we'd only spent a single day together, Ignacio was already well informed of my napping habits.

"I can forgo my afternoon nap if it's for the sake of cenotes and beaches and lagoons,"

So Sunday began with my morning walk (like many need coffee to wake up and feel human, I need morning walks. Morning walks, morning yoga and morning cheese(s) make me a very happy, very productive lady), grabbed a couple pieces of fruit, a cup of shitty coffee and shared the main square with the miniature turtle doves.

Then Ignacio and I commenced our tour of the three Tulums.

"First, we have to rent your bike. Do you have your passport?" Ignacio asked. "You'll have to leave it with them as a deposit for the bike."

We rented a single-speed purple bicycle, complete with precarious basket and zero suspension. Then we biked to the ruins of Tulum.

"THERE ARE SO MANY TOURISTS!" I exclaimed to Ignacio. "Why are there so many of them? I mean, the ruins in Palenque are significantly more epic, and I pretty much had them to myself. Myself and some exceedingly friendly, incessantly apologizing Canadians."

"The beach. People come here for the beach and then visit the ruins because they're close by."

"Yup. Guess that explains it."

Tulum (the Yucatan word for "fence") was a port city for the ancient Mayans. It was occupied from the 1200s to the 1600s -- when the 1000 + inhabitants perished from European diseases.

But even though the ruins were gorgeous, the best part of my experience wandering Ruinas Tulum wasn't getting to see the ancient structures or feel the Caribbean breezes. It was getting to listen to Ignacio talk about Mayan medicine.

"This tree is poison. And you see that tree over there? With the peeling bark? That tree is the cure for this one."

This is what happens when your couchsurfing host is a shaman. 

The first time I saw an iguana, I lost my bananas and pointed out the creature to Ignacio with as much enthusiasm and pride as if I'd just chanced upon a unicorn.

The 907th time time I saw an iguana, I calmly took a picture.

"He looks like a grandfather. Abuelo iguana."

As usual, it was hellishly hot out.

If you have even moderate difficulties tolerating heat, I don't advise visiting Tulum in July.

I have more than moderate difficulties tolerating heat, so after we left the ruins, we biked to a quiet spot on the beach to rehydrate in the shade.

Refreshed, we continued our journey to an eco friendly campsite with a cenote.

I was terribly confused when Ignacio said that this was the cenote.

"But aren't cenotes supposed to form when limestone collapses and the groundwater makes a pool?" I spouted off what wikipedia had taught me a day or two before.

"No, this is a cenote. It's still groundwater."

If I understand correctly, everything can be a cenote as long as the water is from some manner of spring.

If anyone knows anything about cenotes, you should post a comment and help me understand what makes a cenote a cenote. Because this just seemed like a really pleasant pond surrounded by mangroves. And crocodiles.

My skin started sizzling after about an hour in and out of the water, so we clamored back onto our bikes and plopped ourselves down in the shade of palm tree by the beach.

Where Ignacio proceeded to go on a coconut hunt.

And then proceeded to crack open the coconut using only his pocket knife.

Ignacio.

Is a real man.

We didn't do an awful lot of swimming because the sea was positively TEEMING with sargassum seaweed and the idyllically sandy beach was covered in drifts of smelly, rotting weed. Sargassum is a brown algae that can reach several meters in length and was discovered by a Portuguese sailor in the Sargasso Sea. From the Sargasso Sea, it drifts on over to the Mayan Riviera -- and decides that the Riviera is just the place for it to retire from its life of aimless drifting through the Caribbean.

In Chinese medicine, .5 grams can be made into tea to help rid the body of phlegm.

However, Tulum has a good deal more than .5 grams of sargassum, at the moment.

Sargassum that scratches ALL the mosquito bites on my feet and legs and drives me a little crazy.

Tulum. You're beautiful. But July is not your best month. 

After a quick stop at the lagoon, we headed back to Pueblo Tulum.

"I had plenty of energy to do all those things," I collapsed into a pool of sweat in the kitchen chair in Ignacio's apartment.

"I was afraid that you'd fall asleep on the bike. That you wouldn't be able to go without your nap."

"Ha. No. All those ridiculous topes kept me very much awake," I ruefully rubbed my aching backside, cursing my cute purple bike with zero suspension.

Free Concerts and Flamenco -- Tulum, Mexico

I'm starting this post from Tulum's main square. A large white building sits in front of me with the words "Palacio Municipal" written across the top and Q.ROO on the sides

If I ever had the opportunity to name a sate, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't name it Q.ROO. 

The Q stands for Quintana, of course, but we don't need to worry about that. 

The square is littered with benches (in varying stages of dilapidation), jungle animal statues and verdant jungle shrubbery. Birds foot-foot-foot across the rocks and bricks. Grey/brown birds that resemble mini turtle doves and black birds that look like mini ravens (but with yellow tinted faces). 

I'm Sure Boy could tell me exactly what type of bid they are (Boy went through a birding phase in his youth), but Boy is still (unfortunately) living and working in Colorado. 

Where I will be too. In four days. 

The square is abandoned by human beings except for me and a hispanic chap sitting on a green bench between the statue of a wild cat with an owlish face and the statue of a rather squashed looking crocodile. People occasionally march through the square on their way to work, but for the most part, the square belongs to me. 

Me and the mini something-or-others. 

7:00 am is early for Mexico. 

Yesterday was exquisite. I'm immensely grateful to everyone (and the 8 street dogs living in front of their houses) who emphatically told me to visit Tulum. 

After a relatively short, unentertaining four hour bus ride (ADO bus have TVs inside. They played The Hobbit. In Spanish. For the second bloody time. I believe I'm the only American in the world who has seen The Hobbit twice in Spanish but never in English), I arrived in the small, tourist town of Tulum. 

My new host, a Mayan shaman, traditional healer, massage therapist, temazcaleros and musician was waiting for me with his bicycle at ADO's entrance. 

"Are you Ignacio?" I kissed his right cheek. As one does in Mexico (I generally disagree with Europe for many of the things it did to Latin America. Tearing down Mayan temples, killing and enslaving millions of people, stealing vast amounts of natural resources and inflicting its absurd manner of greeting onto perfectly sensible people). 

"Yes," answered my host for three nights. "Aimee?" 

"Yup, thanks for meeting me." 

And we ambled to his apartment, a good three blocks away from the bus station. 

"You want water?" asked Ignacio as I heaved Ellie off my back and onto the white tile floor. 

"Please," I sighed. The tropical climate has really been getting to me, as of late. I've found myself uncharacteristically guzzling liters of water on the daily. 

We sat around his small wooden table in the main room and talked about massage, herbal things and all manner of hippie, healing goodness. Then we wandered through Tulum to the corner where the colectives depart for the beach. 

For those of you who ever might find yourself in Tulum -- there appear to be three different Tulums. FYI. 

Ruinas Tulum. 

Pueblo Tulum. 

Playa Tulum. 

All of these Tulums are within biking distance of each other, but would make for rather long (incredibly hot) walks. So most tourists a) rent bikes or b) take the colectivo. 

Alas, the colectivo for Playa Tulum only leaves once every half hour, and we'd missed the last van by seconds. So instead of languish in the heat for another half an hour, we decided to walk to the main intersection and try out luck at hitchhiking to the playa. 

Let's jus say I've had better luck hitching. 

"It's because now is the low season and there are only Mexican tourists," explained Ignacio. "No nice Americans to give us rides." 

So we waited at the main intersection another twenty minutes until the colectivo with the red stripe down the side finally creaked to a stop in front of us and whisked us away on a bumpy ride down to the shore. 

Ignacio stopped the colectivo just before the beach so that we could wander into the restaurant area in search of a coco frio.

Tulum.

I like you. I like you a lot.

But really?

There are signs like this everywhere in Tulum.

Stay Present.

Love Yourself.

Be Here.

You're Beautiful.

There are more spas and yoga retreats than in San Marcos and the stereotypical yoga slang is abundant. Which I normally don't mind at all (and happen to utter the odd phrase myself, whenever I'm not stuffing my face with cheese, bacon and cochinita), but it seems a wee bit excessive here. Like it's just catering to the expectations of tourists who're looking for that perfect yoga holiday.

Ignacio and I found ourselves a mountain of jagged rocks on which to sit as we watched the sun sink behind an impenetrable wall of clouds.

We hitched back into town with a Canadian couple. The wife worked in the field of medicinal marijuana, and was rapaciously curious about the changes in Colorado since recreational use was legalized.

"Err.... I really don't know much," I admitted. "I haven't done an awful lot of living in Colorado, as of late."

The Canadians dropped us off in front of the main square (whee I now sit with my journal) and said goodbye with a friendly, "It was so nice to meet you!"

There happened to be a free concert in the square. A children's orchestra was adeptly playing tunes from Titanic, Lion King and Pirates of the Caribbean. So Ignacio and I scampered off to hunt down the closest tamale lady and then scurried back to enjoy dinner and a show.

"Want to get a drink?" Ignacio asked after the orchestra had played their finale and taken their final bow.

"Sure, why not."

The cafe/bar Ignacio chose happened to have live flamenco music that night. To which a live flamenco dancer danced.

She kind of rocked my world a little.

But I found myself drifting off (it was about midnight. WAY past this abuela's bedtime), so I asked my host if we could head out. 

We walked back to his apartment and set up my bed for the next three nights. An air mattress in the main room that I used my foot to inflate (this is a thing, believe it or not). Then I managed to send a few Facebook messages to Boy before I passed out like a pineapple.