YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED ME -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I'm starting this post from an organic cafe on Real de Guadalupe -- not so much because I prefer the coffee or the music to that at Al Grano (and I have absolutely no idea what's currently playing because eight different machines seem to be grinding rocks at the same time) -- but because sometimes I still feel slightly abashed to be going into the same cafe day after day after day.

"Don't you have anything better to do with your life?" I read into the faces of Grano's incredibly efficient servers.

"Better than talking to my family and Boy, drinking a lovely latte/cappuccino and writing? Umm... no, not really. Unless you have a piece of gluten-free cake you'd like to give me. Or cheese. That would make it so I'm doing something better with my life."

German took me on a bike ride on Saturday morning. I'd assumed that this excursion would be similar to our first leisurely bike ride -- a few ups, a few downs, a plethora of potholes and maybe a bit of huffing and heaving.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED ME," I whimper/gasped to German about ten minutes into our adventure. "WHY DIDN'T YOU WARN ME?"

German just smiled.

"Is it ALL uphill?" desperation flickered across my face.

"No. It's not ALL uphill," German kept biking. "We can walk if you want."

"No. No, I'm... *HUFF*... okay... *HEAVE*... I just...*PUFF*... need to catch my breath," I stubbornly insisted on continuing to ride, ignoring the demands of my displeased lungs and the burning sensation in the back of my throat.

How the hell am I going to hike the Colorado Trail if I can't make it up a measly hill? And if German says it's not ALL uphill, then I should be able to last a little bit longer... at least until it levels out a bit...

German is a very sneaky sort of Mexican. He was absolutely correct in saying that the journey wasn't ALL uphill. Because about one percent of the hour long ride was flat and the final two percent was a glorious, longed for downhill.

"What did you say was at the end of this?" I finally toppled off of my bike and decided to walk, sacrificing my pride for the sake of my lungs.

"A river going through a cave."

"Well... I suppose that sounds worth it," I tried to be a good sport and keep my griping to a minimum. Part of me was frustrated with my body for struggling so much. Another part of me was just wishing we'd taken the car. Another part of me was celebrating feeling so damn tired and taxed.

There's something so exhilarating about exploring physical limitations...

Yet another part of me felt kind of pleased with myself that German even considered I'd be able to do this bike ride in the first place.

After relishing the meager two percent downhill, we tried to sneak into the park without paying the ten pesos entrance fee. Alas, I was so disoriented by this strange downhill business, that I gracefully slid down the slope (created quite the ruckus), bruising my backside and creating a mini-landslide.

My inopportune landslide attracted the attention of a stern looking chap wearing a cowboy hat (this headwear probably has another name in Mexico... I just spent too many years riding horses English style, and everything that wasn't a "hard hat" was a "cowboy hat"). He approached German and politely demanded the twenty pesos. A fee German promptly paid, even though it was my fault for falling down the hill.

"Are you okay?" my host asked as we strolled past picnicking families and playing children.

"Just a bit sore," I gingerly rubbed my backside.

We spent the next hour or so just walking...

... and it felt exquisite to be back in nature again.

This is where someone like me belongs. 

The ride back down to town wasn't boring. Neither was it slow. And it was just the right amount of stupid dangerous to keep me from drifting off into future dreams or sliding back into reminiscing. What with the abundance of topes, charging dogs (an owner actually laughed when his mutt snapped at my hairy, frightened legs), and... errr... irregularities within the winding road.

It was ridiculously fun.

When we finally reached German's home, I finished up the chair paintings I'd been working on..

German told me that his favorite animals are tigers and capuchin monkeys. Then he bought me paints and set me loose on his furniture. 

I'm so happy I left Puerta Vieja. 

Leaving something that wasn't fulfilling... and ending up couchsurfing with a fellow who lets me teach him yoga, paint his furniture and cook bananas foster. Someone who shares amazingly beautiful parts of his city with me, introduces me to the best coffee I've ever had and is well on his way to becoming a friend I sincerely hope I'll meet again. 

Yes. Yes, please. 

We went to quesadillas again that night. I splurged and spent six dollars on dinner. Six dollars which bought me a small warm glass of pineapple atole, a duck quesadilla with zucchini flowers and a slow-cooked pork quesadilla with some manner of fruit chutney.

After dinner, German and the two Mexican girls couchsurfing with him went off to a night/early morning of dancing.

"I'm an old lady," I confessed to German. "I'm just gonna go to bed. Buenos noches," I kissed everyone goodbye and walked back to my host's wooden house just outside of town.

What a perfect day. 

Burping Demons -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

Fuck balls.

I'm sitting in a chocolateria across from the Santo Domingo Cathedral near the Zocalo in San Cristobal de las Casas. German recommended I come here and try the "best hot chocolate in the city."

I am not disappointed in the hot chocolate (although the mug isn't as cuddle-able as I'd like). 

However, I am slightly perturbed by the weather outside. 

It's hailing. Not itty-bitty balls of hail, either. Whopping, whomping ping-pong balls of hail. Hail that strikes the windshields of cars outside the chocolateria  in which I've taken refuge with such a resounding "THUNK" that I fear for the people behind the wheels. 

The lights in the building have all gone out and the barista is closing the doors and windows... so I'm sitting here in the dark, hoping the hail will let up fairly soon so that I can make it to a cafe with power to Skype Boy this afternoon. 

Dear Mexico, 

Your internet is already horrible enough without adding hail-induced power loss into the equation. 

Please work on this. 

Yours truly (but only because of how much I love your tlayudas),

-Aimee

There's a leak in the ceiling. It started off as a small drip that I could easy avoid, but has since become a huge drizzle that's merrily flooding an entire corner of Kakaw. Water seeps through the wooden timbers and covers the floor in epic puddles that will most likely give the resident mop a fatal heart attack. The barista worriedly chats on her cellphone, doubtlessly asking advice in regards to what ought to be done with the chocolateria turned swimming pool.

When I first pointed out the leak to the young hispanic lady, she went to the kitchen and brought back a bucket to catch the water. But by the time she'd returned with aforementioned bucket, the ceiling had upped its game and was busily leaking in eight different places. So she went and got all the house plants to put under the raining ceiling. 

With somewhat limited success. 

Thunder booms in the background. I'm incredibly thankful I didn't start my walk into town a few minutes later. It wasn't rained much in San Cristobal for the last week or so, so I've become rather lax in my level of preparedness for all things damp and/or SOPPING wet. 

I'm in Mexico. It's the rainy season. And I still left German's house sans rain jacket and sans black garbage bag to keep my electronics safe from damp and/or SOPPING wet.  

I'm getting cold... so, so cold. God , I wish I'd brought my poncho. And my rain jacket. And my fucking black garbage bag. I mean, I brought those things all the way from San Marcos, Guatemala, but I didn't manage to to take it with me from German's today. 

Sirens scream past. The red lights bounce off of the brick red wall through the single untutored window. 

I'm trapped in a building that makes me feel like I've found my way into the film Jumanji. I more than half expect to see human eating vines reach around the wooden beam next to the hanging wicker chair. Perhaps a rhino will burst through the bar with colorful cupcakes and chocolate stacked atop. 

The entire floor of this chocolateria is drowning in an inch of water. 

The roads outside are flooded with six inches. And then some. 

Hello, rainy season. Even Boy might consider this rain to be a bit excessive (Boy goes blackberries for all things rainy). 

Yesterday was delightful. 

I'm learning that most days with German are delightful. 

I woke up to a beautiful view of the full moon and the city from my bedroom window -- 

-- gave German a quick yoga class, ate a breakfast of eggs and tortillas and presented my new friend with a painting "Broken Wings" had inspired.

I was captured by the way Gibran presented the character of Selma -- with all her mystery, virtue and sadness. A photo I took of a German volunteer at Puerta Vieja made me think of Selma's mystery, so I painted it. :) 

Then German took me on a road trip. First stop, Zinacantan.

Zinacantan is a small village about 20 minutes away from San Cristobal. It specializes in flowers.

Lots and lots of flowers.

Driving past Zinacantan was like driving past a town composed primarily of greenhouses.

And walking through Zinacantan was like walking through a garden.

Except the garden was inside the church, on the clothes of its people and in the shops lining the streets.

So much color. 

And then we continued on to Chomula, a significantly more touristic, yet closed off town only about ten minutes away from Zinacantan. 

"They ask you to pay to enter the church here," German told me. "And don't take any pictures when you go inside." 

"I know," I quickly responded. "I met an English guy in Puerta Vieja who's had the worst luck in the world and in all-time-ever. He's a photographer who's spent the last year traveling. The first month of travel through Asia, he met a lady and kind of fell in love with her. They traveled together for a good few months (I don't remember all the details). Things got passionate. Intense. They were in Nepal during the earthquake, about twenty kilometers outside of Kathmandu. On the walk back to the capital, whilst they're helping injured Nepalese out of the rubble, she breaks up with him. DURING THE AFTERMATH OF AN EARTHQUAKE. Who does that? Then she hightails it to Guatemala and he keeps traveling through Asia. But they start talking again. And decide to give their relationship another shot. So the English chap flies all the way across the world for his lady love, spends two days with her on Lake Atitlan, and she breaks up with him again. Then he goes to Palenque, books a cabana in Panchan, and ends up having all his things stolen. Except a cheap camera he'd taken with him to photograph the ruins and his journal -- a journal detailing his emotional roller coaster with this lady. And right before I left Puerta Vieja, he went to Chamula and took a picture inside the church. Instead of just asking him to delete the photo, the church guys took his camera, removed the memory card, BROKE THE CARD, and handed it back. So. I won't take any pictures inside the church." 

And I didn't take pictures.

But I did take notes.

The floor is completely covered in pine needles. A puppy scampers about playfully, sliding this way and that across the needles. A small girl looks up at me with big, black eyes. She forgets that she's currently holding a fruit flavored yogurt and spills half of it onto the pine needles beneath her. She looks down at the floor, looks at me again, and then starts trying to smear the yogurt into the bed of needles. 

I wink at her and walk past. 

Three women have swept clean a section of white tile floor and are busily erecting small candles in a row. Once the candles are lit, they return to a kneeling position with bare feet tucked underneath them. One woman reaches for an old-fashioned looking coca cola bottle and pours the bubbly beverage into a small glass. She takes a small sip and then passes the glass to the woman kneeling next to her.  

Before I entered the church, German told me to watch for people drinking coca cola. The carbonation in soda is supposed to aid in the act of burping. And we all know that burping releases our darkest demons. 

From now on, when anyone sneezes, I'm going to say "Jesus!" (like they do in Spain) And whenever anyone burps, I'm going to say, "BEELZEBUB!" 

Yes. 

Candles of different sizes and colors are everywhere. 

Flowers, flowers, flowers. 

Saints lining the walls in glass boxes. 

With more flowers, flowers, flowers. 

As wine is to good Catholics in the rest of the world, pox is to natives of Chamula. So after the three women finish burping out their demons, they pour themselves some of this ceremonial alcohol to close their prayers. 

German had been in the church several times, so he told me to take my time inside and waited for me on the steps outside.

"Want to have some pox?" he asked as soon as I stepped out.

"Definitely."

What a bizarre experience. That's gotta be one of my favorite churches in Mexico. And I was just started to get bored with this whole church thing. But using coca cola to burp out demons? 

That's priceless. 

Beelzebub. 

German bought a belt for his brother from a vendor near the church --

-- and I took a few photos as he haggled with the belt vendor. 

These woolen garments are commonplace in Chiapas. The furrier they are, the more prestigious the wearer. 

Hence, the more you resemble Chewbacca, the more respectable you are. 

"I've even seen people from Chamula wear this wool in Cancun," German told me as we walked back to the car. 

Cancun (as I will soon experience first hand) is not a cold place. 

"My goodness," I gasped, imagining the suffocating heat of wearing Chewbacca in Cancun. "That's dedication!" 

These flower shawls are made in Zinacantan 

I spent the afternoon napping, writing in various, non-flooded cafes -- then meeting with German and two Mexican couchsurfing fellow vagabonds in front of Santo Domingo.

And the evening was spent eating more gourmet quesadillas. 

Waiting for quesadillas... German had a much better attitude than I did. I spent the entire time sulking and complaining about "Mexican time." This is what I do when I know cheese is waiting for me on the other side of a closed door, but the people responsible for opening the door are nearly half an hour late in doing so. 

What the Hell is Wrong with Ishtar? -- San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico

I'm starting this post from an organic cafe on Real de Guadeloupe. A cafe wherein I can purchase a glass of mediocre vino tinto for less than a cappuccino. A cafe with significantly better music than Grano (some delightful jazz plays at the moment) and boasts banana chocolate muffins in a display to my left.

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.