I'm starting this post in Merida's ADO bus station. There's a girl in red drinking a sweet yogurt in front of me. A fellow in red to my left seems to be staring at me, on and off... which is beginning to feel rather awkward. There are a few foreign tourists scattered about the station, but most of the people passing the time away appear to be hispanic.
Which won't be the case for much longer.
I can't believe I'm flying back to Colorado in five days. FIVE days. That's incredible. It feels like forever ago since I flew into Guatemala City and started this leg of my Latin American adventure. I believe this has been the shortest, longest leg of my traveling... errr... career? thus far.
I met with Miguel yesterday.
For the third time.
We met first in Paris at the end of my first trip. We talked about pigeons and film (his realm) and food (my realm...) and drank wine in the park by the Eiffel Tower.
We met for the second time in Buckinghamshire, near the beginning of my second trip. We talked about ducks and film (his realm) and food (my realm) and ate ice cream as we wandered through the hills.
We met for the third time at the end of my fourth trip (we'll have to somehow make up for missing number three).
And we had ourselves an adventure.
I donned my swimsuit, packed my rain jacket and left Jose and Lau's around seven that morning. As I closed the door to "my" room, I paused for a moment to bless the diligently whirling fan, bless the screens, and thank all the couchsurfing gods (one of whom is Csaba, my Hungarian friend in Budapest) that Jose and Lau had been kind enough to rescue me from the mosquito infested sauna.
The bus from Xcuyun to Merida takes a little over an hour (and the bus driver whimsically picks a different route each time, swear to god), so I arrived downtown a little after eight o'clock.
I'm meeting Miguel in front of the Cathedral at nine... so that should give me time to change my ticket from Cancun to Tulum.
For those of you who will one day travel in Mexico: ADO bus is marvelous. Changing tickets is no hassle at all. You can change the time and date of the ticket, the destination of the ticket and even get the leftover money back, should there happen to be any. No questions are asked (but maybe that's only because they don't want to listen to my horrible Spanish) and the service is surprisingly (sorry, Mexico) quick and efficient.
So I speed-walked over to ADO and changed my ticket from Merida --> Cancun to Merida --> Tulum.
Everyone and the eight street dogs living in front of their house have been telling me to go to Tulum.
"You're going to Cancun? Why Cancun? No, you should go to Tulum."
They've been nearly as insistent as the Guatemalans who refused to let me be 26.
"WHAT? 26? No, you can't be 26. 23! You're only 23!"
And while I...err... would find it slightly difficult to change the fact that I am (unfortunately?) 26 years old, I can easily change my ADO ticket from Cancun to Tulum.
Which I did. I abashedly handed the woman standing under the Venta De Boletos sign a little piece of paper that read, "Puedo cambiar mi billete? Merida --> Tulum 18/07/05"
Voila.
Girl's going to Tulum.
Then I speed-walked back to the Cathedral and met Miguel. Even though the climate in Merida is out-of-control, hellishly hot, he was wearing long red trousers and brown boots. And sported a ukulele strapped to his back.
His hair was longer.
(so was mine)
His happiness to see me was the same.
(so was mine. But about him. You know)
He'd spent a year studying in Pamplona/Barcelona, creating films and finding a way to thrive in the purely student city of Pamplona.
I'd spent that time vagabonding, learning yoga, teaching English and sharing yoga.
"Do you mind if we get breakfast together?" I asked after a few minutes of catching up. "I know you're not so into food, but I'm pretty hungry."
"No, I could eat," Miguel replied. "I'm just the kind of person who forgets to eat. If people around me are eating, then I remember that I'm hungry. But if there's no one around... I can go days without remembering."
"I. Don't understand this. At all," I smiled and thought, how could you forget to eat when something as heavenly as cheese exists?
We ate a quick breakfast of panuchos in the bustling, smelly, dirty Mercado and then Miguel located a van bound for some cenotes.
Cenote: when limestone rock collapses and produces a sinkhole. The groundwater is exposed and much frolicking (and Mayan sacrifices) is to be had inside the resulting pools. They're scattered throughout the Yucatan peninsula, with some of the most notable being found in Tulum and Chichen Itza.
We were dropped off just outside the town of Homun, and a guide immediately approached us with the offer of driving us to five different cenotes on his motorcycle taxi. For two hundred pesos. But even though two hundred pesos is just about 12 dollars, it's still two days worth of money for me. So Miguel and I forwent the motorcycle taxi and asked guide to point us in the general direction of the cenotes within walking distance.
He gave us a child guide. Named Raul.
Raul dutifully led us down a well-marked path through the jungle, and then abandoned us at the small(ish) cenote.
A cenote we had all to ourselves for fifteen minutes.
"The water is so warm," I couldn't believe it. The crystal clear, serenely still water felt positively luxurious against my skin. "There are caves in Colorado where you can find underground rivers and small pools of water... but they are... uh... not warm."
And much frolicking (but not a lot of Mayan sacrifices) was had.
After other tourists arrived, we clamored back up the stairs and returned to the well-marked path in search of another cenote.
We were not disappointed.
This cenote had an opening in the roof, so swallows had built their nests throughout the cave. They busily fluttered about (joined by the occasional bat and exotic tropical bird) and created a wild, beautiful, decidedly un-sterile, earthy environment that felt fabulous to melt into after over a week living in a big city.
Wrapping myself in my sarong and shouldering my daybag, Miguel and I left the swallow cenote. We meandered back into the center of Homun to catch a van back to the center of Merida, chatting about where life has taken us during the last two years.
I love meeting people like Miguel. I love it because saying goodbye = "I'll probably meet up with you next year in Switzerland or something... I wonder what kind of stories we'll have to share by then."
We had a lot of stories to share on our walk to Homun.
When the van dropped us off in Merida, Miguel led me to a Mexican restaurant named "The Almond Tree." But in Spanish. This was his grandfather's favorite restaurant, and Miguel's favorite Mexican food was served inside. However, the prices were a little excessive for my meager vagabond budget, so I asked my friend,"Do you mind if we split the queso relleno? It's... it's a little much for me."
"Aimee," Miguel promptly responded. "When we met in Paris three years ago and you asked about my favorite Mexican food, who would have thought that you'd actually visit Mexico -- twice -- and that I'd be here with you? So I can pay for the queso relleno."
And it's a good thing we didn't share. I don't think I would have been able to.
Queso Relleno.
Edam cheese stuffed with pork, onion, garlic, chiles, cinnamon, tomatoes, olives...
Covered in white sauce and tomato sauce.
If you are even slightly inclined towards the activity of eating delicious things, you should prepare it -- QUESO RELLENO.
For dinner.
Tonight.
After the cheese was (sadly) finished, Miguel took me to his friend's flat where we drank coffee and watched one of Miguel's more recent short films.
About his experience hitchhiking through Mexico for two weeks.
God, this takes me back... Did I really do that? In ALBANIA?
He walked me to the bus station. We took our third picture together --
-- and said goodbye.
"See you somewhere."
I boarded the bus back to Xcuyun and spent the hour and twenty minute ride back to Jose and Lau's feeling amused and slightly worried by the dramatically different route the bus took this time around.
Why is it always so different? I've taken this bus four times now, and it's NEVER the same.
When the bus finally (magically) arrived at my stop, I hopped out and walked over to the little home that's started to feel like where I live.
Jose, Lau and I spent the evening watching a film and drinking cocktails.
All in all, I'd say it wasn't a horrible day.
For our last morning together, Lau and Jose took me to a market in the center of Merida. And we ate cochinita.
It was a revelation.
Pork slow-cooked in a pit with sour orange juice and (of course) chiles. Topped with onions, tomatoes and crunchy pork skin.
This is the traditional Sunday breakfast in the Yucatan.
For those of you who don't have easy access to sour orange juice and a hole in the ground in which to cook your pork butt, this recipe seems pretty solid -- COCHINITA
Jose and Lau drove me to the bus stop and hugged/kissed me goodbye.
"If you need to come back... I mean, I know it's a long way from Tulum... but you can always come back," Jose said as I swung Ellie onto my back.
"Thanks so much," I replied with 700 percent sincerity. This couchsurfing couple made my experience of Merida and the surrounding area something I'll always look back on and think, Wow... how did I get so damn lucky? "And I'll see you in the airport, Lau."
Lau is leaving Mexico to visit her family in Argentina next week. She's flying out of Cancun, Terminal three. She's flying out at 7:00 in the morning on the 23rd. Just like me.
"Yes, I'll see you there."
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