Muffins I would be ALL OVER, were I not ridiculously sensitive to all things glutenous.
I've had a marvelous last few days -- primarily thanks to my new friend, German. When I began to sense that my future at Puerta Vieja held a fair amount of toilets and awkward conversations and not a whole lot of yoga and cooking, I began to send out couchsurfing requests. As I browsed through profiles of various San Cristobal hosts, German's stood out to me because his favorite book was "Broken Wings," by Kahlil Gibran.
I've been using so many quotes by Kahlil Gibran in my yoga classes... and I've never actually read his work. That. Is not acceptable. I wonder if German would let me borrow his book if I surf with him...
And so I sent German a request --
Hi German,
I'm a traveling yoga teacher/volunteer from Colorado. I'm going to spend the next few weeks exploring Chiapas and the Yucatan before I head back to Colorado to spend two months walking 450 miles from Denver to Durango. It'll be kind of epic. :)
If you're available to host me for a few days in July, I would love to stay with you! I can share yoga and some cooking.
Kahlil Gibran was actually the next author I hoped to read -- so if you have any of his books around, it would be so amazing to spend some time reading them while I stay with you (if you're available to host).
Cheers!
-Aimee
He almost immediately responded with --
Wow you are really an adventurer!
You can read my old Broken Wings book if you want.
Mi casa es tu casa :)
Goodness gracious, how I love couchsurfing. German picked me up at Grano Cafe at around ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, introduced me to his lovely wooden home in a barrio just outside of the city center --
-- and brewed a cup of divine coffee for me.
Did I mention that German is a coffee trader? A coffee trader who is incredibly enthusiastic about that which he trades. He has a machine that brews drip coffee and espresso. He has a moka (my favorite way to make coffee), an old-fashioned coffee grinder from his grandmother's house and a modern coffee grinder for all purposes other than sentimentality and aesthetics. Where most people would store bread, he has bags of coffee from Chiapas and Cuba (and probably other places).
Fellow likes his coffee.
My couchsurfing host is involved in exporting organic, fair trade coffee from Chiapas (and probably other places) to quite a few states in the US (and probably other places). His line of work takes him to coffee conferences in cities like San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and Boston.
Fellow knows his coffee.
"What do you want to do now?" asked my host after we'd finished our drinks.
"Umm..."
"Do you want to go on a bike ride?"
"That sounds wonderful. Yes. Let's go on a bike ride. I haven't been on a bike in ages."
(Except for that one time when I helped grind blue corn for tortillas at the Yoga Forest. On a grinder bike)
So German let me choose my bicycle from his collection --
-- and we set off down the road.
Biking in San Cristobal is pretty exciting. Just about every road is a one-way road and just about ever road has a dog (of six), a pothole (or sixty) and a Mexican pushing a cart with ice cream, elotes, or papas y platanos fritas.
All that said, it seems like drivers in San Cristobal are much more considerate to bikers than in some other parts of the world I've traveled. In fact, I believe I felt more unsafe biking around in Dublin than I did in San Cristobal (perhaps it was the whole left side of the road thing, though).
German took me off the main roads and into the countryside around San Cristobal. As we whizzed along, avoiding dogs and potholes and Mexicans with carts like biking ninjas, German explained to me a little bit about each barrio (neighborhood) through which we whizzed.
"This is one of the oldest barrios in San Cristobal, and it is famous for its pork."
No wonder I like it so much.
My host showed me where his father used to take him as a child.
"When I was a boy, there were no houses here. All of this is new."
Except for the ancient aqueduct and the old mill, that is.
 |
| Old meets new |
After the bike ride and a lunch of slow-cooked pork, I took a nap -- and loved that I could shut the door of German's spare room and be in my own space. I'm someone who's totally fine with sharing a room and loves living in the homes of others, but sharing a small loft with nine other people was a bit excessive even for me.
German made me chilaquiles the next morning.
Chilaquiles = Chips Soaked in Everything Delicious.
To prepare Chips Soaked in Everything Delicious, German first boiled some tomatillos with half a jalapeño. Then he placed the aforementioned in the blender with some red onion, garlic, epazote, cilantro, salt and pepper. After it had been thoroughly blended, he poured it into a pan and mixed in half a bag of chips.
And served the Chips Soaked in Everything Delicious with refried beans, sour cream and fresh cheese.
And it was delicious.
German had a house hunting date with his mother on Wednesday, so I stuffed my laptop in my red daybag, stuck Kahlil Gibran's book of poetry in the leather journal Boy had given me before I left for Guatemala, and set off for a day of quiet walking, reading and journaling in San Cristobal.
Walking in San Cristobal can be an amusing pastime, not simply because of the cute stores in which I window shop (and do my best not to lust after EVERY pair of comfortable pants I see...) or all the cafes out of which the fragrant smells of chocolate caliente waft --
-- but because a friendly street dog usually chooses to walk me.
Not walk with me.
Walk me.
A muddy mutt stares at me quizzically for a second or two, decides I would be a boon companion, and then happily trots up to me and accompanies me until I arrive at my destination. At which point I shrug my shoulders at the mutt and try to slink into whatever cafe I've chosen. The mutt looks at me sternly, as if telling me that I haven't yet gotten enough exercise to merit a cup of chocolate caliente, and then trots off to walk someone else more deserving.
So.
Walking happened.
Reading happened.
Journaling happened.
Quiet?
Not so much.
Welcome to San Cristobal during the elections in Chiapas.
I finished "Broken Wings" and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in a daze. The image of Selma torn between Christ and Ishtar -- between sacrifice and pleasure -- dominated my thoughts for hours.
I just don't understand why virtue is so inextricably linked to sacrifice and unnecessary suffering. Can't living a happy, pleasurable life be "virtuous"? What the hell is wrong with Ishtar?
I was relieved when Gibran asked the question himself at the end of the book, saying something akin to, "I'll never know for sure whether it would have been better to choose Ishtar and happiness or Christ and sacrifice... but the sincerity with which the choice was made was undeniably beautiful."
Well... I suppose I can buy that. I find authenticity irresistibly attractive...but it seems as though Selma sacrificed herself because she was taught that virtuous people sacrifice themselves in order to uphold the traditions of their time. She didn't choose the sincere desire of HER heart.
And that doesn't feel authentic to me.
And I kind of think living by society's rules is HIGHLY overrated.
(Says the girl with no bank account, no car, no job and too many comfortable pants)
But even though I disagreed with so much of how the book ended, I was struck by the spiritual communication aspect of the relationship between poet and beloved. How much and how deeply they managed to communicate without the aid (or distraction) of words. Spirit, energy, atmosphere transcended all else.
As I walked through the market afterwards, I felt all manner of crazy energy. From everyone. The dogs dutifully walking their people, the girls doggedly selling stuffed zebras and giraffes, that fellow who keeps trying to get me to eat glutenous pizza at the Italian restaurant up the street... I felt like the bodies around me were irrelevant. Entirely irrelevant. I was feeling the energy and the atmosphere of those around me, and that somehow went well beyond their bodies.
It was bizarre. And I feel weird writing about it.
But I've written weirder things on this blog.
I found myself attracted to different energies. A woman selling tortillas on top of a wooden crate. The backside of the crate had a tattered blue blanket halfway covering the opening. Through the unveiled part, I glimpsed a small child trying to comfort a crying newborn baby.
"Tortillas! Tortillas!" the woman carried on with her work as the baby cried in the crate.
I saw an old woman begging on the side of the road, an old man holding an umbrella to shield her from the sun as she held out her tin cup.
Two boys playing soccer in someone's garden. This wasn't a very difficult energy to notice, as I was nearly bludgeoned by the ball.
A car with a "Broncos" sticker on it shocked me out of my dazed reverie.
I finally just sat down on one of the many benches lining Real de Guadelupe and journaled.
I love that men and women here walk the streets with backpacks carrying little plastic baggies full of chia seeds.
"Chia? Chia?"
Women wearing traditional black woolen skirts stand on the sidewalks calling out, "pan de elote!"
Pan de elote is kind of cornbread I was reluctant to purchase at first, due to my doubts about it being free of all things glutenous, but this recipe -- Pan de Elote -- leads me to believe that it could be composed entirely of corn and condensed milk
Corn mixed with condensed milk doesn't sound nearly as appetizing as Chips Soaked in Everything Delicious, but could very well be a cultural experience -- as there are about a dozen women on every block of this walking street, standing behind their square pieces of yellow cornbread and crying out, "Pan de elote!"
Remember what you promised yourself at the very beginning of your life as a solo traveler... if you have the opportunity to try a cultural dish and you are not allergic to it, you WILL eat it.
Which is why I ate sheep balls in Morocco and chicken feet in Italy.
Oh, and "trotters" in Ireland.
All of which were irrefutably detestable.
After I'd finished journaling myself out of my Broken Wings induced daze, I walked the twenty minutes back to German's wooden house in the barrio famous for pork.
I made bananas foster for my host and myself that night. I thanked Cuba for the rum and I thanked Ishtar for the pleasure I experienced whilst devouring the caramelized bananas and hazelnut ice cream.
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