From Forest to City -- San Cristobal de las Casas, MEXICO

I'm starting this post from an incredibly uncomfortable wooden chair in a small cafe down one of the main walking streets in San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico. I can't remember what the walking street is called, but I'm sure I'll have all of them down pat soon. 

'Cos Girl's moving from the forest to the city. Girl's moving from San Marcos La Laguna, a village populated by 2200 glassy-eyed (or creepily clear-eyed. Depending on the substance) hippies, to a city of 185,000 seemingly normal people. 

For at least the next three weeks. 

Boy would be so proud. But even though I tolerate cities, I don't think I'll ever come alive in them the way he does. We'll just have to find a balance somehow. 

Ach. The seat of the chair is too small. The back of the chair is too straight. Even the way my legs hang off the chair feels awkward. 

These are moments of profound frustration. 

Why can't the outlets be adjacent to the COMFORTABLE chairs? I don't understand.

Because then people would stay forever. 

And by people, I mean me. Yes, if I could sink into a comfortable chair WITH an outlet nearby, I might remain for the entire afternoon. 

No. That's a lie. It's raining outside. I have hot chocolate... I WOULD remain for the entire afternoon. 

Alas, this chair is tremendously uncomfortable. Were I not in such pain, I'd feel acute admiration that a simple collection of metal and wood could manage to create such a horrible sensation through my legs, my ass and the entirety of my spine. 

Life is hard. 

Like this stupid chair. 

I said goodbye to The Yoga Forest after teaching my last class on Tuesday morning and eating my last bowl of porridge, peanut butter and papaya. 

I will miss the peanut butter. 

I will not miss the porridge. 

I just... don't understand this porridge thing. It's gloopy. Gloopy. Who wants to eat something GLOOPY? le sigh. No amount of raisins and/or shaved coconut can ameliorate the ghastly gloop of porridge. 

One day... I will find a way to incorporate bacon into every breakfast. 

Yes. 

New life goal. 

Bacon. 

Every morning. 

(Hey... hey, Boy... you paying attention?)

Erin let me stay with her in Panajachel one last time. She even tolerated one more evening of pupusas (I get attached to things like pupusas very quickly) and waited with me for my shuttle the next morning. At 6:10 am. 

Because Erin's kind of a wonderful person. 

And she kept waiting with me until 6:45 am. 

Because Guatemalan shuttles are always late. 

And because Erin's kind of a wonderful person. 

The tropical travel website said that the bus ride from Panajachel to San Cristobal de las Casas would take 8 hours. So I was happily surprised when we jostled into San Cristobal a little over ten hours later. 

Because Guatemalan shuttles are always late. 

The journey from Guatemala to Mexico wasn't only long, circuitous and heinously bumpy, it was freaking complicated. We stopped several times to pick up more passengers. We stamped our passports and filled out tourist forms at the Guatemalan border (and were given friendship bracelets for our cooperation) and then we changed buses. Which was terribly complicated because two snotty, prissy French girls refused to move their luggage. The gravel would damage the wheels and they just couldn't be bothered to carry their suitcases. So they demanded that we all pick up our luggage (which we'd already carried over to the new van) and then drive the van down to where they'd left their luggage. 

I gaped at them. 

Sweethearts... you're not in Paris anymore. Jesus Christ. What the hell are you pansies doing in Guatemala? 

The perfectly primped girls finally coerced a nearby farmer to carry their luggage for them. I don't believe anyone in the shuttle spoke with either of the Frenchies for the remainder of the ride. We must have all been thinking something akin to, "How in the world did you manage to live this long and why are you here?"

Then we had to disembark our new bus at the Mexican border to fill out immigration forms. A dog sniffed all our bags for drugs, and I felt like the process was complete. Until thirty minutes later when we had to stop again to completely unload the shuttle and x-ray all of our luggage. 

This is why moving too often is just exhausting. The tedious side of travel. God. This is why I stay in one place for at least a month and minimize actual travel time as much as my budget allows. 

Every part of my body ached by the time the shuttle bumbled into the Zocalo of San Cristobal. Our driver pointed me in the direction of Puerta Vieja Hostel, and I shouldered Ellie and began to trudge down the wet roads. 

Ellie... I love you, but you never seem to get any lighter. We'll have to work on this before we attempt the Colorado Trail. Oof. We'll never make it if you obstinately persist in being so stinkin' fat. 

The hostel was larger than I'd anticipated, but I appreciated (greatly) the more than ample supply of toilets. 

And even though Puerta Vieja is a little large for my liking, the free cocktail nights on Tuesday and Friday will probably create a decent enough community vibe.

I'd made friends with a Swedish girl during the ten hours in the shuttle, so we decided to spend our first afternoon/evening in San Cristobal wandering the colorful streets together. 

Before my first shift yesterday morning, I took my journal out to the Zocalo and scribbled out my fears about this new volunteer situation. After spending a month very actively practicing my passion, I found myself meeting the transition to manual labor that feels menial with resistance and resentfulness.

Why? Why does it bother me so much to know that I'll probably spend the next few weeks sweeping floors and cleaning toilets? 

Because this doesn't make me come alive. I know what makes me come alive, and this isn't it. I've found a way to share what makes me come alive, and sweeping floors feels like a waste of energy that could be spent giving thai massages. 

Because I don't see how this experience is contributing to the life I want to create with Boy. Which has become incredibly important to me. Even though I'm so far away from this love of mine, I want to feel like what I'm doing here and now is helping to build a future for us to share. 

But this is where I'm supposed to be because this is where I am. Now I just have to listen carefully and try to be open to the lessons life wants to teach me in this place. 

My morning was positively delightful. I ended up sweeping a couple of hallways and helping two upbeat Mexican teenage boys change bedsheets. They played music and danced and sang and congratulated me every time I finished making a bed.

"Perfecto, Aimee! Muy bueno."

I spent the rest of the day writing.

Writing, drinking hot chocolate and walking alone through crowds of people in the rain.

And lusting after their umbrellas.

Let There Be Cheese -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

Warning: 

This is a post solely about cheese. 

If you are easily offended by headlong hedonism, explicit language regarding intense enjoyment of the senses, or are a die-hard vegan, I advise you to cook yourself a lentil burger whilst listening to some soothing classical music instead of reading this post. 

I may find myself distracted by the occasional, non-dairy related tangent, but...

... but this is a post about cheese. 

A post about cheese and of my love thereof. 

When Boy wants to show his affection for Girl, he a) takes Girl on road-trips or b) creates a cheese masterpiece to share with Girl. 

I once couchsurfed with someone simply because his profile had "CHEESE" written on it. 

And yes, it was written in caps. 

When I can't sleep at night, I go to the kitchen, cut myself a substantial slice of cheese, feel like all is well with the universe, and happily fall back asleep. 

The community I fell in love with in Slovenia would buy me sensational cheeses just for the pleasure of watching me eat the cheeses. 

'Cos I kind of bliss the fuck out. 

I could carry on (and on... and on...), but I feel that my point has been adequately communicated. 

Girl likes her queso. 

During my first week at The Yoga Forest, I met an Australian guest named Mikha. Mikha is also rather fond of cheese, and during one of our very animated discussions concerning the virtues of camembert and chèvre, my new mate told me about a wine and cheese place in a neighboring lakeside village. 

And she made it sound like some kind of heaven. 

Screw gates of pearl and streets of gold. Give this girl some gates of gouda and streets of stilton. And...raclette rivers, brie bridges, parmesan palaces -- 

Dear Jesus, 

This is how you'd get me. 

Sincerely, 

Aimee

"We should go there on my last day at The Yoga Forest! To celebrate finishing a month of teaching and all that jazz. Can we? Please? CANWEPLEASE?" 

Thus said, I have been looking forward to my date with Mikha at Cafe El Artesano in San Juan la Laguna for approximately three and a half weeks. And it hasn't been the, "mmm... well, that'll be nice, won't it?" back-of-the-mind looking forward to, either. 

It's been waking up and immediately thinking (or yelling to absolutely no one), "21 more days until cheese! Oh, and 46 more days until I see Boy. THE CHEESE IS COMING!" 

And yesterday. 

Yesterday the cheese came. 

And it came hard. 

Hayley had just returned from Guatemala City with a newly purchased car, so she drove me, Gigi and two lovely Swiss guests from San Marcos to San Pedro. 

Good GRIEF, I now fully understand why boating is generally the preferred mode of transportation between lakeside villages on Atitlan. I believe there are more potholes than functional road on this road. 

And after about 73 hours of intermittent road (everything takes forever when cheese is waiting at the end, we arrived in San Juan, parked on the narrow street outside Cafe el Artesano and blissfully ventured into the most glorious cheese experience of my life thus far. 

Mikha was suffering from belly things (surprise), so she was unable to meet me for our cheese date. But absolutely everyone at The Yoga Forest decided they'd like to be in on cheese (surprise), so our group ended up being fourteen.

Fourteen remarkably cheerful people.

About to eat prodigious amounts of cheese.

About to drink wine that had never been introduced to a cardboard box.

About to celebrate a month (give or take a few days) of sharing space and building beautiful community.

Happy. 

You know your meal will be amazing when this is how your chef thinks: 

Not only did the menu look exquisite (as it was primarily cheese, charcuterie and wine), the garden cafe itself was out-of-this-world charming.

This is the chef. Those are sausages that he cured himself. They, umm... were not gross. 

The wine arrived. 

Drinking box wine for the past two weeks emphasized the goodness of the Malbec. 

Gabi, Joseph and Odin. Gabi has been at The Yoga Forest for most of my stay, and I've developed a fantastic friendship with her. She made me a mostly purple friendship bracelet the morning of the Long Awaited Day of Cheese. I shall wear it always. And then there's Joseph. Joseph has been with me for the entirety of my stay and may very well be at The Yoga Forest when I return to visit five years from now (he came for one month and is currently staying for three). This fellow has an absolutely gigantic ribcage (someone was looking for him once. "Just look for the Canadian with brown hair, blue eyes, and the largest ribcage you've ever seen."). He says lungs occupy most of his unusually capacious ribcage space, but I'm thinking it's mostly heart. Joseph paid for all my cheese. I will never forget Joseph. And Odin is the brilliant Norwegian engineer with a remarkable philosophy on conserving energy/laziness that made me laugh on the daily. 

And then the cheese made its way to the table.

And more cheese ventured in to join the party.

And all of those absolutely sublime sausages tagged along.

And Aimee didn't even know what to do with herself.

It was the most overwhelming, heavenly, intense, varied and prolonged cheesegasm I've ever experienced.

And it was an absolutely perfect way to celebrate the end of my time at The Yoga Forest.

A month of community.

A month of kittens.

A month of shitting in an outdoor toilet with a view like this --

A month of sharing the thing about which I'm most passionate. 

And then... 

cheese. 

Cheese sumptuous enough to erase the memory of a month of lentils (and the gas accompanying them) and all that explosive diarrhea.  

Yes... Jesus, this is how you would get me...

Rumbling, Tumbling, Bumbling Rolling Stone -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

There's something about living a life of constant movement that is incredibly deflating for my ego. There's something about the fact that what I leave behind is totally immaterial that challenges my sense of worth. I'm not like the Norwegian volunteer who created a hydroelectric system that will help supply the Yoga Forest with clean energy for years and years. 

I come. 

Sometimes I break a bowl. A vacuum cleaner. A French press. I do an absolute shit job ironing a nice shirt and leave a burn mark between the buttons (ironing confuses me). 

I (perhaps) invite people to feel a bit better in their bodies. A bit more grounded in the present. A bit more in love with themselves. 

I go. 

There's nothing tangible about what I'm leaving behind at The Yoga Forest (although I take partial credit for a few toned quadriceps), so I have to find peace with understanding that my impact has been purely relational. And that it's entirely possible I'll never again meet the people with whom I've spent the last month developing relationships. 

It isn't easy. Especially when I leave behind a place that I've loved and a community in which I've thrived. 

I experienced a similar sensation when I left Billie's ancient farmhouse in Bad Munster, Germany. I remember taking my sheets off the bed and realizing that the person sleeping there that night would be taking my place. Perhaps using the mug I'd commandeered every morning for coffee or curling up in my favorite part of the couch. Taking over my chores and enjoying evenings with Bille and Julia and their countless animals the way I had been for the past three weeks. 

And it just

makes me feel

infinitesimally small 

insignificant

insecure. 

This insecurity is exacerbated by anxiety about my future. I try to move from placement to placement confidently. With grace. With no expectations but with an understanding of my current needs and enough compassion for myself to actively create space for those needs to be met. But three years of low-budget travel has stripped me of my naivety and of my once unbridled enthusiasm and unrealistic expectations. A great couchsurfing profile with 47 positive references does not mean that my drink is not going to be drugged. A fantastic volunteer site with rave reviews does not mean that when I arrive, my new host won't ask me to be at his beck and call twelve hours a day in return for living in either a bug infested shack or a tiny one person tent.

I've now been in so many exploitative volunteer situations that leaving something safe and fulfilling for something... well... totally unknown puts me on edge.

Will the environment in San Cristobal be toxic? Will I be fed properly? Will the hours of work be reasonable? What will I do if all goes to hell lickety-split in a hand basket? WILL THERE BE KITTENS?

I loathe how the insecurity and anxiety affects how I react to the people who are happily stepping into the shoes which I'm regretfully discarding. I want to be one hundred and twenty percent supportive of them, but I find that my insecurities infect my thoughts.

Will the shoes fit this person better than they fit me?

So instead of being one hundred and twenty percent supportive, I find myself trying to pinpoint the qualities and gifts I bring to the table of life that make me special.

Umm... well... I was able to help Nina find her handstand. But... I mean, any yoga teacher would be able to do that. I did a bunch of Thai massage -- that's kind of great, right? I led acro yoga jams and  -- 

Aimee. 

Enough. 

Christ. 

This is not a competition. You're not here to compare what you bring to the table of life to what Sara will bring. You're here to graciously, openly give what you have to give.

Most people who visit The Yoga Forest have something spectacular to share. I've noticed that the more insecure I feel about what I'm bringing to life's table, the more reluctant I am to receive the offerings of others. Feeling secure, feeling grounded in myself not only helps me give more freely and sensitively -- it helps me to receive.  

Bourget... you're here to gratefully, openly receive what others have to give. 

But instead of directing my energy towards receiving the extraordinary gifts of the next person to wear The Yoga Forest shoes, I catch myself waging mental warfare about whether what I had to offer was any different, any better, anything special at all.

I'm a rolling stone, rumbling, tumbling, bumbling down a hillside.

I'm gathering absolutely zero moss.

What I leave in my wake are relationships. Exquisitely beautiful connections, but connections without roots.

Sometimes my ego would very much like roots. And moss. And other things onto which it can cling. 

A false sense of ownership (even though ownership doesn't apply to people, we still behave like it does).

"Amelia is my friend."

This is Amelia. She's the yoga instructor who's been kind enough to take over a couple classes a week. It's thanks to her that I was able to visit Erin in Panajachel on the weekends. This is a lady I sincerely hope to see again. And I promise I'll stop accidentally calling her Amanda 60 percent of the time...

But I'm leaving Amelia. I don't know if I'll ever see Amanda -- I mean AMELIA -- again. I have to be content with this last month of friendship and accept that this marvelous chapter with Amanda -- I mean AMELIA -- might be closed. 

Identification.

"I am the yoga instructor at The Yoga Forest."

I'm leaving The Yoga Forest. Leaving that identity. There's nothing for me to hold onto here. These are some of the best and hardest lessons in non-attachment and in understanding how ephemeral identities can be. 

I have no idea what I'll really be doing in San Cristobal. I think I'll get to teach a little yoga, but I'll probably spend more time working at reception and cleaning rooms. If my sense of worth is attached to being "THE YOGA INSTRUCTOR," then I'm in for a miserable month in Mexico. This is something I struggled with when transitioning between my month of teaching on Vis Island and my week volunteering at Camp Full Monte in Montenegro. Steve and Denise were amazing hosts, their eco-friendly campsite was stunning and the work was fine.

But I was no longer "THE YOGA INSTRUCTOR." And the loss of this identity made my transition from leading vinyasa to sanding chairs and white washing walls very frustrating. I wasn't able to take as much from the experience as I could have, because I spent more time thinking, "I'm a YOGA INSTRUCTOR... why am I not teaching yoga?" than immersing myself in the community of Full Monte and the tasks at hand.

My goal for San Cristobal is to...umm.. not let this happen again. To take the lessons I learned at The Yoga Forest and leave behind attachments and identifications.

A New Gift -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Circles Cafe. I've got my pink MM earbuds in and my music cranked UP because the most offensive chap of all time ever is chatting with a moderately less offensive chap behind me. While I like to think I'm an open-minded lady, I don't exactly enjoy the way they're talking about female anatomy and how to get more intimate with it on a more regular basis.

I don't wish them luck in their endeavors.

I'm hunched over a small table, furiously slapping white-striped mosquitoes and wishing that I had a proper chair upon which to sit... instead of three tuk-tuk tires bound together with twine. These are the things that a tourist finds novel and romantic at first --

"Tuk-Tuk tires! Ah! How delightful. How quaint! How positively not American!"

And then one spends three hours hunched over, writing a blog and Skyping one's boyfriend. And one begins to find tuk-tuk tire chairs significantly less delightful.

It's Friday afternoon. I have three more classes to teach at The Yoga Forest. Three more salads to prepare with filtered water, kombucha vinegar and whatever vegetables Petrona and Angela (the kitchen ladies) will let me run off with. Four more Skype dates with Boy (hopefully) before I take the boat to Panajachel and then an eight hour shuttle to San Cristobal de las Casas.

My feelings about leaving this place are absurdly mixed. On the one hand, I've experienced some beautifully uplifting community. On the other hand, my work schedule has been very demanding and my intestines have spent more time in an uproar than... umm... just peacefully passing on my poo. And a busy schedule in conjunction with peevish innards has rendered it tremendously difficult to actually take advantage of the beautifully uplifting community. When I'm not teaching yoga, leading meditation or making salad, I'm either sleeping or talking to Boy. Period. I simply don't have the energy or the space for anything else.

It feels a bit bizarre to be skedaddling in four days without having experienced a single night out with the other guests. In fact, if I stay up past eight o'clock to participate in a bit of after-dinner drumming, it's a freaking miracle. A miracle comparable to parting the Red Sea or turning water into wine.

The lunar cycle of May 18th - June 16th was not an easy one for the resident yoga teacher at The Yoga Forest. As I believe I mentioned earlier, there are usually several yoga interns to share the... ummm... not light work load. But May is a slow month, so just about everything fell to me. The salad making, the toilet checking, the shala maintenance and the yoga teaching. May is also the beginning of the rainy season and the month wherein most people get direly, dismally, despicably ill.

I've been sick three times during my four weeks as resident yoga teacher. Diarrhea, nausea, body aches, cough, fever and projectile vomiting plagued me for approximately two and a half weeks. Hence, I've only felt happy and comfortable being in my body for a week and a half of my stay here. The rest of the time, I've been pining for my own bed, a hot shower, Boy's cuddles, my mom's tea and a toilet close to my bed.

I actually had a dream about an ensuite toilet the other night. It was one of the best dreams I've ever had. And one of the most disappointing to wake up from.

I've spent some time here and there complaining about my persistent illness and feeling a bit disgruntled and overwhelmed by the hefty schedule... but in the end, this experience is probably exactly what I needed.

Physically.

Spiritually.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

As Boy can attest to, I was feeling incredibly anxious about coming to The Yoga Forest. Leading vinyasa flow sessions, thai massage and acro yoga jams are the places I come alive as a teacher, but restorative yoga and meditation are very far removed from my comfort zone. I've led both before, but never regularly and certainly never with a smidgeon of real confidence (this is where my degree as an actor comes into play). However, I want to be the kind of person who teaches yin, mediation, vinyasa, thai and acro.

So I put myself in a situation where I had to explore all five.

If there had been other teachers available on a consistent basis, I probably would have given in to my insecurities and sloughed off the majority of the restorative classes to my poor yoga interns. But I had no yoga intern (although a permaculture intern led a few classes for me -- god bless her muddy, hippie wellingtons), so I had no choice but to work through my insecurities and step outside of my comfort zone.

I taught classes whilst holding in an impressive amount of liquid poo. I taught classes whilst holding in coughing fits. I taught classes whilst feeling like all the vegetable curry I had for lunch had migrated to my throat and was desperate to continue its migration onto the wood floor of the yoga shala.

And I'm glad I suffered through a menagerie of ghastly bacteria and repugnant parasites (in retrospect. I would have never said this in the moment. Ever. What I said in the moment was a menagerie of four letters words/"Iwantmymomandmyboyfriendandafuckingflushingtoilet"). Being so ill helped me to fully understand the beauty of restorative yoga. And after four weeks of teaching yang in the morning and yin in the evening, my body doesn't even feel balanced unless I do both.

So even though it would have been an easier, more pleasant experience had the load been lighter and the explosive diarrhea been less frequent, I wouldn't have learned what I needed to learn. I'm leaving The Yoga Forest this Tuesday feeling stronger in my body, more confident in my teaching and deeply appreciative of a style of yoga that hardly interested me before. But now I understand the healing power of yin and I have another gift in my backpack. Another tool that weighs nothing at all and can bless so many people.

A gift I now feel confident in giving.

I'm leaving The Yoga Forest this Tuesday with a better understanding of permaculture principles --

Meet Harry, new permaculture instructor at The Yoga Forest. He's rather delightful. I wish I could stay for another month to participate in all his classes. 

I approve of his chicken drawings. 

 -- with new friends literally all over the globe --

 -- with an even greater desire to one day have a cat named Montezuma --

This is Marni. I love her. I will one day live with her in New York and teach her yoga every morning and cook dinner with her every night. Also, I have named the grey kitten Sherlock and the grey and white kitten Montezuma. We'll see whether or not the names stick. 

 -- and I'm leaving The Yoga Forest this Tuesday with a routine that I'd like to keep in my life for as long as possible. Morning pages. Vipasana meditation. Mindfulness walks. Vinyasa flow. 

And a gentle, restorative session in the evening. 

This month has been a lesson in self-compassion. In letting go of expectations. In remaining calm, centered and focused even though 107 percent of me just wanted to curl up in a ball and bawl my eyes out. 

I've loved my time here and I can honestly say it's been one of the best volunteer experiences I've had thus far -- in spite of all the illnesses. I've learned an incredible amount during my time here and have met some astonishing people. But I'm ready to leave this Tuesday. My physical body needs a lighter work load (and more access to cheese and bacon) and my emotional body just needs more alone time. 

San Cristobal, here I come. 

You Can't Be 26! -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

I'm starting this post from Cafe Kitsch, in Panajachel. It's 2:40 and my Boy should be online in about 20 minutes, so I decided to write for the few minutes between now and then.

It's pissing rain. A torrential river courses down Santander Street. I charily hopped off the boat that carried me from San Marcos to Pana and was surprised to discover that although I had crossed Atitlan successfully, I still had an intimidating body of water to forge before concluding my journey. After twenty minutes of splashing through ankle-deep run-off, I settled my soaking wet self down at one of Cafe Kitsch's small metal tables. And although I appreciate the gluten-free peanut butter cookies, I do wish the internet wouldn't cut out every seventeen seconds.

My dress is completely soaked through. My underwear/shorts are sopping wet and my toes have wrinkled up into fat, pink raisins. I would have been worried about the wellbeing of my electronics had I not packed a towel from the Yoga Forest to take with me to Erin's. My couchsurfing host turned pupusa buddy (PUPUSA!) has been remarkably generous about letting me use her towels when I take my once-a-week-deliciously-hot showers, but I wanted to bring my own so that I wouldn't feel like I was taking advantage of Erin's generosity.

And thank goodness. During this monumental deluge, I was able to place the towel over my laptop and camera and all my valuables stayed dry. Well, dry-ish. Nothing stays fully dry during rainy season in Guatemala. Nothing. Nada. Rainy season is a state of perpetual damp/sopping wet.

A couple huddle in a store across the street, kissing cheeks, sticking hands into pockets (not their own) and generally taking advantage of the dreary weather to get nice and cuddly. A Guatemalan teenager checks his smartphone, consciously or unconsciously oblivious to the cuddling couple. Something that I've noticed about Guatemalans is that even though this is a relatively poor country, a shocking amount of locals own smartphones.

Smartphones they won't let anyone borrow.

Tuk-tuks splash precariously along, leaving behind a larger wake than the boat I rode in on from San Marcos. As no one else was desperate enough to cross the lake during such a downpour (I had Erin and a hot shower waiting for me on the other side of the lake. All the incentive needed by anyone), I had the boat nearly to myself. And the nice little Guatemalan captain charged me a reduced fare of 15 Q instead of the typical gringo fare of 20 Q. Because I was the only one on the boat and he wanted to talk with me.

"15 Q for you. Only for you. Special. Where you from?"

"Colorado."

"Oh, United States! How old are you?"

"26."

"No! No, you're not 26! No! You can't be 26. Maybe 23. Yes, 23. Not 26."

"Umm... pretty sure I'm 26."

"NO! 23. Only 23."

"Okay."

I've finished my third week of teaching at the Yoga Forest, and even though I've had three weeks to settle into this retreat center, I still can't believe how well I fit into this community and how happy I am. I was asked the other day how long I'd been teaching at the Forest, and the guests were surprised when I answered, "just two weeks."

"You look like you belong here," they commented.

"I feel like I belong here."

This is a common sentiment amongst guests, though.  We all want to belong in a place this natural. This simple. This down-to-earth.

A place where we grind peanut butter on blender bikes.

And then mix the peanuts with chocolate, honey and coconut oil.

A place where wholesome food is freshly prepared every day. On a woodburning stove. Outside. Where the smell of blue corn tortillas and vegetables fills the dining room area three times a day.

Where there's no TV to distract anyone from talking with each other.

Where just about everyone shares the story of, "I was unhappy with my job. I quit my job. I don't know what I'm going to do next in life. I'm open. I'm exploring. But I'm here now, and I'm loving it."

I'm finishing this post from Circles Cafe in San Marcos. Today is some manner of religious holiday and a band plays upbeat, Christian music behind the cafe. The overcast sky looks like it's holding in another colossal deluge, and I'm hoping (without much optimism) that the sky will continue to hold it in until I make it back to the Yoga Forest. 

My Skype date with Boy was full of interruptions. The internet cut out every seventeen seconds (as expected) and the street vendors kept harassing me. They'd sit down beside me and offer me their wares. When I said, "No necessito, gracias," they would then lean over to stare at my laptop. And at Boy. 

"Tu amor?" they'd ask. 

"Si. Mi amor." 

"Muy hermoso," they would say, smiling and waving to Boy. "Hola!" 

Then they would try to get me to buy their bracelets or scarves or skirts again. 

At one point, a Guatemalan couple sat down in front of me and observed the persistent, toothless old lady relentlessly harassing me. They took pity on me and firmly told the old lady that I didn't, in fact, want to purchase anything. A point I'd been trying to communicate for the last fifteen minutes or so, to no avail. Then the barista came out to take the order of the couple, and the young man asked in Spanish if he could sing a song for me. 

"You are... very beautiful," the girl said. "He likes you. He wants to sing for you a song. For your beautiful ojos. Eyes. Muy bonita."

"Umm..." 

"Can he sing for you? Do you like him?" 

"Well, I have a boyfriend." 

"It's okay. He only wants to sing. Just as a friend. Amiga. Friend." 

"Ummm... okay, he can sing." 

And with that, the young Guatemalan whipped out his smartphone (as young Guatemalans do) and sang along with some Spanish rap music. For my beautiful eyes. 

"Do you want beer? Cerveza?" the girl asked. 

"No, I have a cappuccino. Thanks, though." 

"Whiskey? Tequila? Rum?" 

"No, I'm actually okay." 

"Do you want to go out dancing tonight?" 

"Maybe." 

"How old are you?" the girl moved from her table to sit next to me. 

"26." 

"NO! You can't be 26! 26? Not 26. You're only 23." 

"No, I'm 26." 

"NO! 22! 21! Not 26." 

And at that moment, the internet decided to work again and Boy was able to call me via Skype. 

"Oh, is that your boyfriend?" 

"Yes." 

"OH, I LIKE!" the girl squealed. "He's so beautiful! Very, very beautiful." 

"Um. Yes. Yes, he is beautiful." 

"I LIKE SO MUCH!" her enthusiasm over my, um... beautiful boyfriend was unrestrained. 

"Me too. I... uh...I like him too." 

And the conversation carried on like this for the next fifteen minutes. 

After the unusually eventful Skype date, I splashed my way through the flooded city to Erin's house across the bridge and twenty minutes away. When I arrived, bedraggled and shivering, she immediately gave me a pair of dry, comfortable pants to wear, made me a rum cocktail and we settled onto her couch to watch August Osage County. 

Which was miserably depressing. But good art. And all that jazz. 

We ate pupusas (PUPUSA!). We drank hot chocolate (with more rum) and balanced out August Osage County with Monsters University. 

It was a beautiful night. 

I'm afraid I'll be just as reluctant to leave Erin on the 17th of June as I will be to leave the Yoga Forest.