Rolling My Third Eye -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Del Lago, a hostel/cafe right on the banks of Lake Atitlan. Nary a local is in sight; just shirtless hippies with bandanas and yoga mats and laptops.

I always feel so guilty in these situations. I feel like I'm exploiting local people to live in a beautiful place. Local people who probably couldn't afford this 15 Q coffee I'm drinking. Who definitely couldn't afford to stay in this hostel, and have to cater to foreigners to get by. 

After my wander around Antigua, I returned to Three Monkeys Hostel and enjoyed my last carnivorous huzzah. An Argentinian dinner with grilled beef and sausage. And as my first real meal in about thirty hours, it was spectacular.

It was Friday night, and every other guest at the hostel was geared up to party. But fatigue from the last several hours started pulling at my eyelids and tugging my jaw into cavernous yawns, so I retired to my dorm. Where I swiftly slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

I awoke at six o'clock Saturday morning, rolled off my bunk and immediately became the hostel-mate everybody hates. The hostel-mate rummaging through her backpack at ungodly hours, cursing under her breath because she'd unwisely stuffed her travel towel deep into the bowels of her bag.

Grabbing my sarong instead, I hopped on over to the shower and felt a pang of homesickness as the lukewarm water trickled over me and pooled on the floor.

Hot showers. Decent water pressure. How I will miss you. How I already miss you. 

My shuttle to Panajachel left at 8:00, and the hostel manager had assured me that the driver would come into the hostel to pick me up, so I patiently waited at the gate with Fat Ellie and Teal Cecile.

"Ehmee?" a middle-aged Guatemalan man flew into the hostel.

"Here!" I stood up and shouldered Fat Ellie. I'd left off the rain cover and had loosely tied my boots to some of her straps. Becomes sometimes I get a little self-conscious about just how enormous she looks with the rain cover (although I don't tell her this), and when I took this journey in April, 2015, the bags had been stowed inside the shuttle.

Once outside, I handed Fat Ellie to the driver, thinking he would stuff her into the shuttle. Instead, he popped her onto the roof. Just threw her up there. Like she was a bag of potatoes, and not my darling Fat Ellie.

"Umm..." I tried to communicate with the driver who spoke no English. "My boots," I pointed to my feet. "Not secure."

"Si, es seguro," the driver motioned impatiently for me to get into the van.

"No, no es seguro," I tried to stand my ground. To no avail. The driver just continued motioning me into the van.

"Asshole..." I muttered under my breath. "My boots are tied onto my backpack," I groaned to the other tourists inside the shuttle, trying to explain my surliness. "In a single knot. And he won't let me retie them."

And then we continued to drive through the narrow, cobbled streets of Antigua, picking up other passengers. I kept looking out the rear window, expecting to see my boots flying through the air and bouncing off the road behind. I glanced into windows of parked cars, using them as mirrors to see whether or not my boots were still "seguro".

I can't see them. Fuckballs. If I lose those boots, I'm screwed. Ain't no way I'm gonna find boots to fit my hobbit feet in Guatemala.

The women in the shuttle with me were attending Spanish classes, so they tried to communicate with the driver to stop and let me check my boots. But he refused. Saying over and over again, "es seguro."

Well. That's all I can do, I guess, I thought, sinking into my seat as the lovely woman behind me rubbed my shoulders reassuringly.

After we'd picked everyone up, the driver took off down the back roads of Antigua, trying to avoid weekend traffic on his way to Panajachel. Which probably just made the journey take even longer. And most definitely made the jostling exponentially worse.

"I've done this journey three times," the lady sitting behind me commented. "We've never come this way."

The rest of the drive was uneventful. Except, you know, for the driver nearly refusing to stop to let the passengers out to use the restroom (we had three boys in the van for whom a four hour journey was too much for their young bladders to handle). And when the lady behind me demanded that the driver stop, he pulled off on the side of the road and pointed to a field of grass.

"No, necesito un baño," the woman said firmly, standing her ground much better than I'd stood mine.

When we finally arrived in Panajachel, the van was rushed by a group of young men, calling out, "San Pedro?" "San Marcos?" "San Juan?"

"Si, San Marcos!" I tumbled out of the van, anxiously glancing at the top to see if my boots had survived the jarring journey.

They had. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then followed a young man to the dock for the taxi-boat bound for San Marcos. I'd assumed that the fellow worked for the taxi-boat company and was in charge of rounding up passengers, but I'd assumed incorrectly. He was just another chap after a tip.

"Tip for me?" he held out his hand at the dock.

Ugh, I thought as I handed him a ten Q note. No more accepting help. Just don't do it. 

I boarded the boat, leaving Fat Ellie in the bow and sitting by a window in the stern. 

Feels so weird to be back, my gaze sauntered around the familiar lake surrounded by the beautiful blue silhouettes of volcanoes. I wonder how much San Marcos will have changed in the two and a half years since I last visited. 

I deliberately avoided the young boys at the dock, all of whom were eagerly grabbing backpacks and asking tourists, "Where you going?"

Jyotir (the manager at the Yoga Forest) had promised to send an escort to meet me at Circles Cafe at two o'clock. It was nearly twelve thirty by the time I lowered Fat Ellie to the ground and leaned her against a bamboo pillar at Circles.

Two hours to Skype, write, collect myself. Super. 

Circles is a hippie cafe. It would have to be to survive in San Marcos, which is a veritable hippie haven. So while I sipped my coffee, I was subjected to cringe-worthy conversations.

"You know, if your intuition tells you not to vaccinate your child, don't do it."

"Vaccines are killing so many people. Giving kids bovine growth hormones. Meant to infertilize us all. Evil. This stuff is downright evil.

This is why hardcore hippies make me crazy. A) infertilize isn't a word. B) Letting your fucking intuition (as opposed to you know, SCIENCE) decide whether or not to vaccinate a baby in a country rife with typhoid. Is just... unethical. So unethical.


"Back in the 80s, I had a few friends with perfectly normal kids. Then they vaccinated them. Autism. Tsk."

So. Autism is worse than dying from a preventable disease. Sure. That makes lots of sense.  

At three o'clock, I decided that the escort was a bit late, even taking into consideration Guatemalan time. So the owner of Circles kindly phoned the Forest to let them know that an Aimee was waiting to be picked up.

"Well, at least they're honest," she said after she'd hung up. "They forgot you."

Oh. Good. 

The escort, a young Guatemalan man, arrived about twenty minutes later. 

"Yoga Forest?" he asked me.

"Yup!" I stuffed my laptop back into my daybag and reluctantly shouldered Fat Ellie.

"Como te llamas?"

"Aimee. Y tu?"

"Francesco. Ayudo?"  Francesco motioned to my daybag. Which contains my laptop, camera, notebooks, and is thus nearly as heavy as Fat Ellie.

"Gracias," I gratefully handed over the bag. Which was greeted with a rather shocked expression from Francesco.

I laughed. An apologetic laugh.

"Lo siento."

The Yoga Forest has changed quite a bit since my visit in 2015. I enjoy some changes and resent others, as happens with everything. I enjoy the transition away from charcoal and to normal hand soap. I resent the transition from coffee and tea to only tea.

"Coffee isn't good for yoga. It stimulates the mind and in yoga, we want to calm the mind," the manager explained to me.

Yeah, well, all coffee does to me is stimulate my happy. 

The view from my abode is a bit different, but still beautiful. Since it's the busy season, all the cabañas have been given to paying guests, and volunteers sleep in circus tents. Which totally makes sense. I'll just need to get used to having no electricity and the presence of a few more gigantic spiders scurrying around at night.

The tasty vegetarian food is the same. Even the cooks are the same.

The view from the composting toilet is the same. Still the best view I've ever had whilst doing my business. It's actually probably a good thing the composting toilet smells so nasty, otherwise I'd just want to hang out. You know, bring my kindle. Maybe my ukulele. Have myself a party.

There are five other volunteers here, most of them yoga teachers. All delightful, helpful, communicative, and fun. Most from Canada.

Although... I always feel slightly out of place in these situations. I love yoga because it creates a safe space for people to heal hurts, physically and emotionally. I love yoga for how it helps the practitioner develop body awareness and connection to self. I love acro yoga for how it teachers practitioners to connect with others, to trust and to play. And I love yoga practitioners for how cheerful they can be. How friendly and funny and batshit crazy. 

I don't like yogic philosophy for how it can lead to distrust in western medicine. Like vaccines and antibiotics. 

"I have a parasite," one of the guests moaned, gingerly rubbing her deflated belly.

"You could get some antibiotics," I offered. "You can just buy them over the counter here. Any pharmacy in San Pedro or Panajachel should have them."

"No, this is my third day of fasting. I'm starving the parasite. I feel pretty good today. Just...hungry."

...

"Well, I'm glad that's working for you."

I don't like yogic philosophy for how often I, as an omnivore, have to defend the way I eat. Although, I should be able to defend my behavior. Without getting defensive. That only makes sense. So. That's entirely my problem. An area wherein I need to grow.

"I eat meat when I'm at home or traveling."

"That's not very yogic," another teacher good-naturedly smiled at me.

"When I'm at home and making money, I try to buy dairy and eggs from local farmers. And I eat game that was hunted in a sustainable way. When I'm traveling, I eat what's given to me and I'm thankful for it. And that's all I can do right now."

I don't like yogic philosophy for some of the same reasons I don't like religious philosophy. In religion, folks say, "I'll pray for you," and do nothing. In yoga, folks say, "I'll send you positive energy," and do nothing. And everything is energy. Absolutely everything.

"I like the color of your keyboard cover," a student said to me. "It has really beautiful energy."

"... thanks."

Yup. There's a big part of me that fits here perfectly. The gorgeous nature, how it's all so sustainable, the mindfulness element, the community living. 

And there's big part of me that's constantly rolling my third eye. If I have one of those guys.

Into the Fire -- DIA, Colorado

I'm starting this post gate B29 of Denver International Airport. A young woman sits on the floor next to the outlet my laptop's plugged into, and I can see her delicate hand resting on a white water bottle as she chats with someone on her phone. The fellow to my left has his laptop out and seems to be Skyping.

 "I just talked to my wife," he turned to me abruptly. "She was tucking our girls into bed, opened the closet to get something, and tore off the top of her toe. Blood everywhere. She's on her way to the hospital now."

"... Oh. Oh dear. I'm... uhh.... Sorry about that."

A mum in a long-sleeved purple shirt walks by, holding the hand of a meandering two foot munchkin. The munchkin wears a bright blue shirt with a neon orange brontosaurus plastered on. And I want it.  Loudspeakers blare in the background, but I've got my earbuds in and am listening to Iron and Wine. The air conditioning is aggravating my perpetually irritable sinuses and my head throbs with the anticipation of the long journey ahead of me.

WHY didn't I keep the bottle of Aleve in my carry-on? Dammit, Bourget. You know better than that, I thought as I massaged my temples.

It's six thirty and my flight doesn't start boarding for another hour or so. I've been whiling away the time writing down ukulele tabs, working on my yoga playlists, and watching The Great British Baking Show. Like the "I spend most of my life waiting" champ I am.

"Final boarding call for Karen Lane!"

Three hour flight to Houston. Then a nine and a half hour layover. Then a three hour flight to Guatemala City. Then a two and a half hour wait for my shuttle. Then a two hour shuttle ride to Antigua. 

Why do I do this to myself? I could have a cozy bed in Grand Junction to crawl into. A kitchen of my own. A consistent supply of bacon. Hot showers. And yet... 

And yet, here I am. Missing family, friends, Boy, my oil paints, my bed with the soft penguin pillowcases. 

I've mentioned it before, but I'll mention it again. Because it's relevant and most of this blog is an exercise in slightly restructured redundancy anyway.  

Ahem.

My first trip back in 2011 felt a bit like jumping out of a frying pan into a fire. As the macabre saying goes.  And you know what? It was easy to say goodbye. To leave that life behind. Because no one likes being in a frying pan.

This trip feels a bit like jumping from the loveliest, fluffiest feather bed of all time ever... into the fire. Which is not how the saying goes, because no one does that. It's stupid. So it doesn't get a saying.

"Are you excited about your trip?" friend after friend asked me.

"Well... no, actually. Mostly nervous and scared."

"What are you scared of?" Boy asked me.

"I'm scared that I'll get sick again... I'm scared that I won't be the kind of yoga teacher they need... I'm scared that I won't make meaningful connections, and that I'll be fucking lonely. I'm so, so tired of all the lonely."

I had the best set up in Grand Junction. Holy bananas. I had slow, but affordable healthcare through Medicaid. I lived with Boy and two other delightful roommates. I baked and painted to my heart's (and stomach's) delight. So many dinner parties. So much wine. And I had just started to make money -- good money -- giving Thai massages. Oh, and I had at least two Irish coffees a week with Judy. 

That was my feather bed. My lovely, fluffy feather bed.  And now I'm giving it up... for what? 

That's been the question echoing through my mind for the past few weeks.

Is it instinct now? Is it as necessary for me to move as it for birds and butterflies and wildebeest to migrate? Am I on autopilot? Doing this because I simply don't know how to live any other way? 

I've decided to incessantly practice self-awareness on this trip... to check in with myself all the bloody time. Ask myself questions like, "Why am I doing this?" "How is this helping me grow?" "Am I living with meaning?"

"Boarding for the 8:15 flight from Denver to Houston, boarding Group One!"

The flight was fully booked. I popped in my earbuds and tried to tune out, plastering my cheek against the cold window and feeling terribly conflicted and immensely sorry for myself.

"What's your name?"  a large, affable, mustached man interrupted my music.

"Aimee, yours?"

"Ray. I can't believe this flight lands in Houston at midnight. Phew. I have two daughters. Twins. It's their birthday. I'm going to visit them."

"Oh. Where are you from?"

"Well, I'm from Louisiana," the fellow slid his arm onto the middle armrest. "But I've been living in North Dakota with my son for a few years. We have an oil business up there, yup, had some pretty good luck. But I don't like oil. I'm going to build a hotel in Peru."

"Peru?"

"Did you know that potatoes are from Peru? Four thousand different kinds of potatoes. And I'm dagum crazy about potatoes.  And meat. Did you know that Peru has some of the best beef in the world? Well, Argentina has the best beef in the world, and most beef in Peru comes from Argentina."

"That's pretty convenient."

"I just broke up with my girlfriend," the man continued. "We didn't have anything in common, so I finally -- "

This fellow is awfully comfortable talking about everything... 

-- it's hard to be so tall on these flights," he slowed down for a breath.

"Yeah, I'm glad I have such short legs," I motioned to the ample space between my knees and the seat in front of me.

"I'm glad you're skinny!" the mustached man declared. "I once had to sit next to a woman for thirteen hours.... she was... Now, don't get me wrong, I love everybody, but she was so big that she kinda, well, spilled over into my seat. And I'm not small, you see? Anyway, for the first few minutes, it was fine. But then we started to sweat, and I couldn't tell which sweat was mine. At the end of the flight, the pilot thanked me for not making a fuss and gave me a 300 dollar flight voucher."

".... Oh."

We went our separate ways in Houston's international airport. Ray to baggage claim and me to a spot of thinly carpeted floor close to an outlet. Where I would remain for the next nine and a half hours.

Oh well. 

I Skyped Boy and then logged into Netflix. The second season of Stranger Things had just become available, and I planned to watch every episode before I landed in Guatemala and had only shit wifi for months.

So I spent the better part of nine and a half hours curled up on the floor, watching Stranger Things and lifting my laptop cord for the tired janitors who glared at me for being so in the way.

Why are airports always so cold? I thought as I shivered on the thin carpet, feeling a crick in my neck and a bruise beginning to form on my hip.

I finally boarded Houston to Guatemala. At nine thirty am. The flight had advertised that breakfast would be included, so I hadn't bothered to eat anything in the airport. However, breakfast consisted of a single, unappetizing cookie.

I feel so cheated right now. Also, I feel hungry. I haven't eaten since yesterday at two when Boy took me for a pita. 

...

The things I would do for a pita right now. Blurgh, I sighed as I drank my poor excuse of a coffee and crunched down on my crumbly cookie.

I landed in Guatemala City at 11:20. After about an hour of waiting in line to go through security, I picked up darling Fat Ellie at baggage claim. Then exited the airport to a raucous crowd of Guatemalans shouting, "Taxi!" "Antigua?" "Shuttle!"

Here we go again...

"Taxi?" a small fellow with missing teeth smiled at me.

"No, gracias. I already booked a shuttle."

"Oh, with who?"

"Tropical travel."

"Phone call?" I was offered a phone.

"No, it's okay," I demurred, knowing that this fellow was not just being friendly -- he was after a tip.

"No Quetzales," I shrugged my shoulders. "Do you know where an ATM is?"

"Only one ATM, third floor," the opportunistic chap pointed across the street to another section of the airport.  

God, I hate withdrawing at airports. Withdrawal fees are bonkers. But... I'm pooped. Utterly, thoroughly wasted. And I don't want to have to walk around Antigua, looking for an ATM before I can check into my hostel. I just want to check into my hostel and pass the fuck out. 

So I withdrew money.

"Taxi?" "Shuttle?" "Antigua?" the same blokes shouted the same things.

"I already booked my shuttle," I repeated to the same man with missing teeth, trying to keep the irritation out of my tone. And probably failing.

"Oh, which company?"

"Tropical travel," I said, feeling stuck inside an incredibly obnoxious loop. 

"Phone call?"

"Fine," I broke the loop and gave the chap what he wanted.

Just confirmation that someone's coming to pick me up is worth paying a few cents, should he ask for a tip. 

Which he immediately did.

"All I have are hundreds," I frowned, knowing that the adjustment period of having to "tip" people's friendliness would be long and leave me a bit cynical.  

"It's okay, I take hundred."

"No, I'll find change," I said firmly, not enthusiastic about giving the man a thirteen dollar tip for a one minute phone call.

I bought an orange juice and gave the smiling chap a five Q note.

Beyond delirious at this point and entering a new, strange realm of calm -- one that I hadn't known existed beyond delirium -- I boarded my shuttle for Antigua. And as I'd done two years before, looked out the window at the chaotic, ugly mess of Guatemala City and felt extremely lucky to not be stepping foot outside my Tropical Travel Shuttle. 

I was dropped off in front of my hostel, paid the bills and then went for a quick walk around Antigua, feeling inexplicably energetic.

How am I still moving right now? 

Probably because of all the pretty. I mean... look at all this pretty. 

Also... I'm feeling kinda emotional right now. Somewhere beyond and below the delirium and calm. 

I don't think I can sit with all that emotion. I can walk with it. But not sit with it. Not lay down and close my eyes with it. 
 

Give yourself a couple of months, Bourget. If you're not living a meaningful life that brings you at least some joy, if you're not making connections and learning in a healthy way, be DONE. 
 

You're always allowed to leave. You're always allowed to move on. To say, "this isn't good for me."
 

If you land in a fire and can't seem to escape/discover that you're actually Targaryen and fire is AWESOME/put out the fire, you are allowed to find another feather bed. 
 

Life has loads of suffering. But you don't have to go looking for it. You don't have to live in it when you have other options. 
 

So feel it out. Keep an open mind. 
 

Ask friends for support if you need. Ask family for support if you need. Don't isolate yourself. Don't cut yourself off from the loving, supportive community you have. People like Judy and Grandpa Joe.
 

You can feel some peace knowing that if everything in Central America goes to hell, you won't be alone to deal with it. 

So here I am. Here I go. Into the fire. 

The Slipping Days -- Grand Junction, Colorado

I'm starting this post from the living room of my current home on Chipeta Avenue. Camomile tea steams from my green thermos. Yellow light from the porch filters through the flimsy cream curtain on the front door. A bouquet of wilted red and yellow roses lingers in a blue tinted mason jar across the room. 

I wonder how long they'll sit there until someone decides to toss them. 

One roommate putters around the kitchen. Another organizes her bedroom. I listen to my yoga playlists in order to, a) help me focus on writing, and b) help me organize my dismal yoga playlists. I'm used to teaching vinyasa classes that are 60-75 minutes in length, but at The Yoga Forest, classes are a whopping 90 minutes. So I'm having to mix and match my shorter playlists to fill that extra 15 minutes.

Why does Bon Iver curse in so many of his songs? This would be a perfect yoga song. But what if one of my students notices that he says "fuck" in this bit? Damn you, Bon Iver. If you're going to make magically incoherent music, be consistent. Don't be magically incoherent and then insert a remarkably coherent "fuck".  

Blurgh. 

I leave for Guatemala in nine days.

Nine days. Nine. Fucking. Days. 

I practice packed Fat Ellie today. Stuffed her to her 65 liter brim with things like yoga pants, a polka dot puffy jacket, and a giant blue travel towel on which I'm having all my friends write, "DON'T PANIC".

Because I'm so clever. 

Fat Ellie. My dear. You're significantly fatter than usual. Unambiguously rotund.

There was a stage in my travels (as some of you will recall), wherein I prioritized the sensation of lightness above all else.

"Who needs shampoo? I got soap. Who needs razors? Hair is natural and I WILL LOVE IT IN ALL ITS FUZZY GLORY. Who needs a towel? I have a sarong that DOES EVERYTHING. Who needs bras? I will offend the world with my RAMPANTLY UNAPOLOGETIC NIPPLES!"

This phase of extreme minimalism taught me a lot. It taught me that weeks of castile soap feigning as shampoo, does not, luscious locks make. It taught me that if one must sleep in a sarong, it is rather unpleasant to use said sarong as a towel beforehand. It is also unpleasant to use sarong as a towel immediately after using it as a picnic blanket.

I also learned that leg hair is marvelous and I will keep it forever. And that there is a time and a place for nipple tamers. Like while hitchhiking with creepy Transylvanians who won't keep their eyeballs on the road or their hands to themselves.

Fat Ellie is properly plump because I have different priorities on this trip. I'm tired of sacrificing my health for lightness. I'm tired of sacrificing my comfort (to a degree, at least) for lightness. I'm tired of sacrificing the confidence that comes with feeling good in the clothes I wear for lightness.

I want a towel AND a sarong. I don't want to always be picking post-picnic dried grasses out of my leg hair when I dry myself off.

I'm bringing medicated shampoo for my psoriasis. Because incessant itching and burning pain is no longer something I'm willing to tolerate.

I'm bringing a razor. Because no matter how much I adore my leg hair (it's pretty amazing), I'm not at all fond of my armpit hair. And that's allowed. I'm allowed to let my life weigh a little more so that I can feel a little better in my body.

I'm bringing not one, not two, but THREE bras (this is unheard of for me. I can't remember the last time I owned three bras. Holy bananas). For my own comfort and for the discouragement of sketchy Transylvanians.

And I'll simply stay put longer so that I don't have to stumble under the burden of my beefy backpack on a regular basis.

Guatemala for six months. Belize for a couple of weeks. Honduras for at least a month. El Salvador for a month. That's the sort of lifestyle that can support an excessively fat Ellie. 

So I guess that's what I'll do. 

As the days slip away from me until I slide into my airplane seat heading south, I focus on filling them with art. 

 

Should I carve room into Fat Ellie for my brushes and oils? 
 

That would be unprecedented.
 

But maybe... maybe this is a part of me I'm just not willing to let go of. 
 

I fill the slipping days with friends. Ridiculous friends. The best friends. Friends I'll pine for when I'm anxious in airports and want someone's arm around me to guide me to my gate. Friends I'll pine for when I'm making all the mistakes learning Spanish, and want someone to make the mistakes with me. To turn frustration into a laugh. Friends I'll pine for when I find the BEST PUPUSA STAND, and want to share the glory of fatty tortillas with chicharron. Friends I'll pine for when I want to be understood without explaining.

Speaking of friends.

I spent last week with Janet. My friend from university now working in Dinosaur National Monument, a park that straddles Utah and Colorado. And it's... uh... not ugly.

Our brief hike to Harpers Corner was spectacular.

I wanted to camp at Echo Park and stay a week. Or two. Or until someone told me politely but firmly that I wasn't allowed to linger there forever.

The week in Dinosaur with Janet was rife with new experiences for this hippie.

I got to listen to a talk by Park Ranger Brody Young. A chap who miraculously survived being shot nine times.

There was a Chicken Tikka Masala dinner party. Wherein I got to meet a good many of Janet's park ranger friends and coworkers. Who were all fascinating and hilarious and complimented my naan appropriately. Some of whom were even game to try acro yoga with me.

I wish I could show Janet my life the way she's showing me hers. I'm just so completely happy for her. This life she's created here is incredible.

I wonder if she would be this happy for me? 

I also got to ride along in a patrol truck to Utah. Since Janet still had to work a couple days of my visit, one of her coworkers asked if I wanted to join him for the afternoon.

"It's like an office!" I exclaimed as I hopped into his decked out truck. "You've got a laptop in here. Holy bananas."

Laptop. Radios. Very large, terrifying gun (for this lady, anyway). Rather badass policeman. And me. Hippie me. Avec Teal Cecile.

How. The hell. Did I get here? 

The afternoon was glorious. I got to touch real dinosaur bones, learn how clams reproduce (it's nasty, don't even think about googling it), learn that police officers prefer you to drive 5 mph OVER the speed limit, and observe many perplexed expressions as bystanders noticed a hippie with a teal ukulele playing Bon Iver in the passenger seat of a patrol truck.

Bahaha. 
  
We drove back to Grand Junction Saturday afternoon. And I felt disappointed to be leaving so soon, but immensely grateful for the opportunity to experience the life created by someone I love.

This is a friend I'm always a bit wrecked to leave behind. A friend around whom I feel totally safe. A friend by whom I feel completely understood. But a friend I know will be here to welcome me with open arms and a refrigerator full of cheese should I ever visit again.