El Gato Perdido -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

Because I'm currently, inexplicably making a butt-load of money (okay, butt-load is a relative term. I'm currently, inexplicably making a butt-load of money for a hobo like me), I decided to spend yesterday afternoon in San Juan. Not to purchase a divine platter of orgasmic cheeses at Cafe El Artesano (I'm not making that much money, sheesh), but to buy a much needed poncho. Because I love all The Forest volunteers and I don't much like adventuring alone these days, I invited Anna and Kayla to join in on the poncho buying fun.

The last time I journeyed to San Juan, the boatmen charged Nacho and me fifteen Q each for the ten minute ride. Which felt a little ridiculous, but I don't like confrontation... so I didn't confront. This time, they charged us each ten Q. Which felt better, but still a little ridiculous.

"It should be five Q," Kayla, the queen of confrontation, tried to hand over a five Q note and was rejected.

"No, diez," the boatman shook his head.

Another passenger on our boat had lived in San Juan for about a year, and she graciously offered to lead us past the touristic drag and to a textile cooperative in town.

"The prices here are fair," she explained. "And they'll give you a free tour, if you want."

"Por que no?" always-game-for-everything-Kayla immediately responded.

So we did the free tour. In Spanish. Of which I understood a dismally small amount. But Kayla and Anna translated for me every now and then, and I did my best to focus, and you know, actually try to learn Spanish.

If I had to pick one resolution for 2018, it would be to learn Spanish. 

Fortunately, I don't have to pick one resolution. But still. If I had to pick one... it would be Spanish.

Which means I should probably prioritize it more nowishly. 

 

The woman giving us the tour pointed to a plant in between two different colors of yarn, explaining something in Spanish too complex for this monolingual lady to understand.

"She said that the one on the left was dyed during the full moon, and the one on the right dyed after the full moon," Kayla translated for me.

"Using the same plant?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"Yes, the same plant." 

"It's amazing how the moon affects everything," Anna beamed (Anna is always beaming). "Even plants!"

The next woman demonstrated how to position the yarn in order to create a scarf. At least, I believe that's what she was demonstrating. 

And the final lady explained the weaving process itself.

Yup. Spanish. Must be more of a priority. It would be so lovely to know exactly what they're saying. Imagine that.
 

"This one is calling to me!" Anna beamed at a gorgeous maroon poncho.

Kayla patiently wandered outside with her book while Anna and I tried on approximately seventeen thousand ponchos. Before buying the first ones we tried on. Because we're very efficient ladies.

We paid for our garments and joined Kayla outside. Then we continued walking towards the top of the hill, where we found a Christmas tree. Which Kayla rushed over to and showered with affection. As one does to all things Christmas.

 

Before boarding the boat back to San Marcos, we popped into El Gato Perdido for cake, coffee, and wine.

If I didn't already have a blog called "Gallivanting Grasshopper," I think I would create a blog called, "El Gato Perdido." 
 

Back in San Marcos, we walked over to the pier of Del Lago. Whilst strolling down the tuk-tuk trafficked streets, we crossed paths with un gato perdido. Maybe even EL gato perdido (no way to be sure).

It took about seven hippies to rescue el gato perdido from the tree branch (the tree branch didn't survive the seven hippies).

At Del Lago, I happily drank a beer on the pier and enjoyed the feeling of a full day off.

All this work has been so welcome, but it's been consuming. I needed this day to get away. To buy something with this butt-load of money I'm earning. Goodness, I cuddled up inside my red striped poncho, this was such a satisfying purchase. A little more than one painting bought me a poncho that will keep me warm on the lake this winter. 

Makes me feel so... free. To have desirable skills that can travel with me. Skills which allow me to support myself as I float from place to place.  

"What are you going to do when you run out of paints?" Anna asked the other day.

"I don't know," I shook my head in bewilderment. "I'm getting kind of worried about it."

"Something will happen," Anna beamed at me. "It will work out."

"I know. If I'm supposed to keep painting, I'll find a way to get more paints. More paper. Postal service or no postal service."

"Aimee... You Dance Like Mr. Bean." -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

Nights are getting cold at The Forest. I'm wearing a sweater, a scarf, and my thickest pair of smartwool socks, and I still wish I was wearing more. Nele sips hot tea to ward off the chill, sporting her gigantic pink sweater (which looks like the Easter Bunny died to make it) and bright red scarf. A giant moth is trapped inside of one of the globe lanterns, its wings creating a beautiful silhouette as it flaps about in panic and confusion. The crickets chirp loudly, the drum circle from Del Lago pounds steadily in the distance, and the night guard and his son murmur quietly in Q'eqchi' in the kitchen.

I'm beat. Exhausted. But in a satisfied sort of way. I'm the kind of tired that comes from completing a monumental checklist. A checklist wherein every item is something you're happy to do. 

I took a glorious shower this morning, water deliciously hot and the sun peeking over the mountains just in time to warm my shivering body.

Indoor showers are going to feel so anticlimactic after this. So "meh". So, "where's my spectacular sunrise over a glittering lake?" 

Lame.

I spent a couple hours in blissful meditation with my watercolors while Kayla stalwartly sliced a veritable mountain of fruit.

I gave an hour Thai massage to a German chap who'd had only horrendous Thai massages in the past. So I was a bit nervous going into the massage, feeling like I would just add to his prodigious stack of unpleasant massage memories.

All you can do is your best, I comforted myself with the cliché. And closed my eyes, centered myself, and gave my best. 

"That was perfect," he said at the end. "Just what I needed."

Oh, thank god... I thought, giving the guest a relieved hug. There's not much better than giving someone a massage that makes them feel wonderful... and not much worse than giving a shit massage. And then receiving money for it. Gah. 

Then I rushed down the path and finished painting two signs for a new acupuncture school just a hop and a skip down the path from The Forest.

"They look great," Christian nodded at the signs. "Thanks for all your work, maybe I'll have something else for you soon."

"Super, let me know," I smiled, gratefully pocketing the 300 Q I'd been paid for my work.

I picked up my laundry from Hotel Quetzal, happily smelling the wonderful thing which is machine washed socks, and then moseyed on over to Circles. Where I wrote, Skyped home, and drank my cappuccino with too much sugar.

(I compensate for the dearth of sugar at The Forest by dumping an excessive amount into my coffee at Circles)

I gave another massage after dinner tonight. And I've another scheduled for tomorrow at one. I've sold four paintings today and have been commissioned two more.

I feel busy. 

"Aimee, you're in the flow," Nele says whenever I bring up all the jobs jumping out at me.

"I think so," I chew my bottom lip thoughtfully. Then again, I've come to a place wherein my specific skill set is desirable. It might be difficult to NOT be in the flow in San Marcos la Laguna. This town is all about massage, yoga, art. All I have to do is be open, trust myself, take chances, rise to occasions.  

Which isn't easy. I struggle with oodles of self-doubt. Especially when surrounded by so many other people who have my same skill set... just a more advanced version. So rising to the occasion includes letting go of fear of my own inadequacy. Includes not comparing myself to others. Includes trusting that what I have is good enough and that other people aren't lying to me when they say they like it. 

I think that's probably the thing that keeps me out of "the flow" most often in my life. Not lack of opportunities. Lack of confidence in my own abilities. 

During the past few weeks of living in such an intimate community I've grown incredible comfortable with the other volunteers at The Forest. And when Girl gets comfortable, her silly side rears its ridiculous head. A head which has its pros and cons. 

Pro = making salad becomes significantly more fun.

Con = making salad takes significantly longer. 

Many of the foreigners who visit San Marcos la Laguna stay for a few days. Many stay for a few weeks. Those who stay for a few weeks tend to search out pieces of routine in their lives (I wouldn't know anything about this...). So if they like yoga at The Forest, they come back consistently. And when people come back consistently, I feel like I can invite them to play a little bit more.

It's bittersweet, though; making friends for just a few weeks and then saying goodbye. I've gotten used to these two ladies in my classes. Their presence makes me feel comfortable, happy, easy-going. Their playful energy and openness makes teaching fun. Something that makes me want to walk up the heinous, butt-sculpting stairs first thing in the morning.

And now they're off to explore more of this crazy, exciting, massive world. And I'm happy for them and sad for me. Which is normally how these things go. 

I've also lost my Circles Cafe buddy. Farina. The friendly German who always said hello, complimented my paintings, and was forever compassionate regarding my lack of change.

The teacher training ends in just a few days, so there will be many more goodbyes before the weekend. As a way to celebrate our time together, we had pizza night and a talent sharing session.

Kayla played her music (Kayla has excellent taste in music. I wish it was mine. The taste and the music), and I let my silly side rear its ridiculous head and danced with euphoric abandon.  

"Aimee... you dance like Mr. Bean," Kayla looked both awed and appalled by my funky dance moves.

Hmm... not actually a compliment. But it's far better than when my dance teacher in university told me, "It's so nice to watch you try..." 

...

Yeah. I'll take "You dance like Mr. Bean." 

Bre (like the cheese) does not dance like Mr. Bean. And one does not watch Bre (like the cheese) "try". One watches Bre (like the cheese) kick ass. The girl is a fantastic tapper. A tapper so dedicated that she travels the world with her freaking tap shoes in her backpack. 

 

 
Yes. 

New hero. 

Bre (like the cheese). 
 

There are a few Forest rules that still get under my skin. Primarily the rule that whilst a teacher training is underway, we're not allowed to speak until ten in the practically-afternoon. I've been told that this rule is in place because it's good for people to maintain sacred silence and meditation in the morning. But I think the real reason is because they no longer serve coffee at The Forest, and they don't want a lot of pissed off, caffeine-deprived yogis grouching at each other. 

This rule makes me crazy. Drives me absolutely bonkers. Morning is the most beautiful time of day, coffee or no coffee. Morning is the happiest time of day (okay, it's happier with coffee). It's when I want to engage people, laugh with people, moan over the delicious pineapple and eggs and avocados and -- 

-- and it's when I am required to be silent (I'm becoming quite well-known for breaking this requirement, though).

I'm trying to observe my resistance to rules. My aversion to particular behaviors. Because usually, resistance and aversion tell me much more about myself than the people exhibiting the particular behaviors or enforcing the unsavory rules.

The silence rule.  And any sort of condescension. These are the things that aggravate me to an absurd degree. 

Okay. So, why does the silence rule piss me off? 

Because it forces me to participate in someone else's spirituality. It's being told that silence is good for me -- when I know that this brand of silence isn't -- and being forced to participate for the sake of others.  And I have... errr... rather extreme reactions to being coerced into participating in any spiritual activity. 

Why does the condescension piss me off?  Why does it irritate the living hell out of me when someone interacts with me as if they're on a different spiritual plane?

a) condescension in general is comprehensively maddening to me because I'm insecure. If I was more secure in myself, I could brush it off instead of stewing on it. But most of my life is spent being a beginner. Being the one who sucks the most at everything -- because I don't live in a place long enough to become remotely competent at anything. So when someone condescends to me, it triggers all my insecurities about being incompetent. And I can become aggressively defensive.

b) The vacant stare of a practicing yogi will always make my blood boil. Methinks there's no help for this. I melt into a burbling puddle of "what the fuck are you trying to achieve with that?" every time I witness the completely lucid stare of someone who believes that eyes are the windows to the soul (and is trying to show you how pure theirs is), but also the empty expression of someone who isn't really there anymore. Vacant lucidity. I just want to scream in frustration, "Be here! Be human with me! Let's have a conversation about the delicious powers of chocolate instead of the enlightening powers of cacao! About this life instead of all your questionable other ones." 

I think my aversion and resistance is heightened because I wish so badly it wasn't there. I wish I could simply fit in perfectly with this community. So when I notice the parts of myself that don't harmonize -- the parts that are discordant -- I react defensively. As if I need to somehow prove that I belong here, even though I have edges that poke out all awkward like. Like the edge that believes in vaccines and antibiotics. But I need to learn how to live the honest expression of my heart while being receptive and curious about other beliefs. 

I need to let go of my desire to fit perfectly. Because I never will. Anywhere. Period. And I need to stop being so butt-hurt and insecure about it. I need to be okay with my awkward edges. And I need to honor and protect them whilst reaching out curiously to learn about the beliefs of people wherever I am.

Heading Home -- Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

It's six fifteen in the morning, and the sun is just beginning to creep above the quiet, glittering lake, illuminating the not so quiet volcanoes encircling it.

Watching volcanoes erupting in the distance will never feel normal. And that's good. I've gotten so good at adjusting to everything (by necessity) that sometimes I feel like everything is just... normal. And it's nice to have the things that decisively feel abnormal. And seeing that plume of smoke above Fuego as I take my morning poo is still very abnormal.

I'm starting this post from the dining room area of the Yoga Forest. A small jar of fading flowers rests on the rough wooden coffee table in front of me. The night guard shoulders heavy blue bottles of filtered water and pours them into the clay eco filters (we don't mess around with water here. It gets filtered about six times before we drink it). The night guard's son sweeps the path between the kitchen and the Shakti Shala, and I feel a twinge of guilt settle into my gut.

I understand that different countries have different views regarding child labor... but it still kills me to see eight year old kids working. 

That's Guatemala, though. And Mexico. Parents force children to beg on the streets and to peddle their wares. I frequently see boys, panting under loads twice their size, bravely marching up the hill outside San Marcos. Nearly every time I buy my coffee in Del Lago, a young girl approaches me with banana bread and cookies.

These are the times white privilege hits me in the face like a freaking two by four. When I was a kid, I spent my days playing, studying, and doing a few chores around the house. I got my first job when I was fourteen, but it was because I wanted to start saving for my own personal dreams. Not because my family needed money to put food on the table. 

What would my life be like if I'd spent my childhood selling knickknacks to tourists on the streets?  If I'd had to worry where my next meal would come from or where I would sleep?

I don't think I'd feel the kind of freedom I do right now. It's only because I've never had to worry about food that I trust food will happen when I need it. It's only because I've never had to worry about being homeless that money isn't a big deal to me. I can quit jobs with hardly a second thought, because I just believe another job will present itself when it's time to work again.

Because that's been my experience. 

Worry takes up a lot of space. And creates some pretty strong attachments to stability. 

But trust creates space. And allows me to live a life less attached to possession, identities, all that stuff. 

I'm so fucking grateful that my experience has created a worldview that allows me this freedom. This trust. Holy bananas. 

A slight breeze rustles through the trumpet flowers, the giant jungle leaves, the bit of hair that's fallen out of my ponytail. My skin tingles and goosebumps and I feel vibrantly alive.

The only thing that would make me feel MORE alive right now is a cup of steaming coffee. Mmm... yes. 

Yogis gracefully glide across the stone floor, decked out in their colorful Lululemon pants and hippie sweaters. Braids, tattoos, flowers, and the occasional feather augment their outfits. They sidle up to the hot water and tea dispensers, holding their nalgenes underneath expectantly.

I don't understand this. The morning shift doesn't start until seven, so there's almost never tea or hot water in the dispensers. But it doesn't keep the dedicated yogis from checking every single morning. And being disappointed every single morning.

The ride from San Cristobal to Panajachel took a backside destroying, spine wrecking thirteen hours. I sat next to an American fellow named Alex, and we chatted about travel, politics, and how tired we are of discussing gun control (Alex has lived in Texas for a few years...). I eventually put my earbuds in and tuned out to a podcast, and Alex turned to Tom, an elderly American who'd been living in San Cristobal de Las Casas for quite a few years.

"I can't live in the States anymore," Tom's voice infiltrated my episode of Radiolab. "Everyone there is so correct! I can't say anything anymore without someone getting offended. I remember, listen to this, I remember saying to a coworker that something we were doing felt like slavery. And before you know it, I was talking to HR. 'He was offended,' they said. 'Well, I'm offended that he was offended!' I said. Just because he was black. Hell, people can't have a conversation these days. Nobody knows how to talk! But here in Mexico, I can talk and nobody minds."

Clearly he hasn't been keeping up with the things Donald Trump gets away with saying. 

We arrived in Panajachel at about seven pm, and I decided to spend the night at a cheap hostel in Pana, rather than take the forty-five minute boat to San Marcos and then walk up the mountain to the Yoga Forest alone in the dark. Because I am slowly, surely, becoming a reasonable human being. So Tom, Alex, and I moseyed down Santander and found a bar where we relaxed with a couple of drinks. Like reasonable human beings do.

I boarded the boat for San Marcos at around seven thirty the next morning, pleasantly surprised with how anxious I was to get back. To get back home. 

"Is that an ukulele or a violin?" the bearded hippie sitting next to me gestured to Teal Cecile.

"An ukulele. A waterproof ukulele. But only because it's cheap and plastic."

"Gotcha. Why are you going to San Marcos?"

"I'm teaching yoga up at the Forest. Been there for about a month, but took a quick trip up to Mexico with a friend. The bus ride yesterday back to Guatemala killed me."

"Here," the hippie offered me a wire ring. "Roll this over each finger a couple of times. It hits all the acupressure points. And it's infused with self-love."

"Oh. Okay," I took the ring and began moving it over my fingers, valiantly struggling against the impulse to roll my eyes.

Yup. Back in San Marcos. 

"And if you want one of your own, I'm selling them for 40 Quetzales each," bearded hippie smiled beatifically.

Yup. Back in San Marcos.

I walked up the mountain towards the Yoga Forest, relishing the happy spring in my step.

I'm excited for the outdoor shower. I'm excited for the view from the toilet. I'm excited to see Bre (like the cheese), Nele, Kayla, Ana, Blake...

Holy bananas. "home" feels good. 

After many hugs, a quick breakfast, and a glorious shower, I headed back down to Circles Cafe and did a bit of blogging with my cappuccino.

Jonas is keen on creating communication and camaraderie between local staff and volunteers, so we've started doing a couple hours of language exchange on Wednesdays.

And while I love languages, I am comprehensively incompetent at learning them. And speaking them. I spend a few moments thinking about what gender the word is, whether or not it's plural or singular, whether or not the adjective goes before or after the noun, and just when I'm ready to spout a sentence, I realize that half of what I want to say is in French.

WHY. Do I suck at languages SO HARD? 
 

Eventually, I stopped beating myself up for my horrible Spanish, deciding it would be much more productive to just eat cookies.

Which is probably why I'm horrible at Spanish, I thought as I contentedly munched delicious baked goods listened to Michael fumble along in Spanish with a very patient Petrona. 

Although I'm happy to be back at The Forest, I'm also a little overwhelmed. We're still full to bursting with hosting the two teacher trainings simultaneously. And while all the trainees are lovely people, they can be a bit absentminded.

Are these really adults practicing a life of mindfulness? 

Someone moved the "please dry your dishes" sign so that they could put their dishes there. This is incomprehensible to me.

Huh. So that's what mindfulness looks like. 

I get a bit irritated, but mostly just let myself feel amused. I find that it's generally a healthier option. So I chuckle, dry their dishes, put in my headphones and break out my paints.

I think that all I need is a sense of humor and my paints to carry me through life. 

And bacon. Oh, and cheese. And wine. Never mind. Fuck that. I need a lot to carry me through life. 

Of Cafes and Caves -- San Cristobal de Las Casas

I'm starting this post from the rooftop of our hostel in San Cristobal de Las Casas, Mexico. I have no idea what the hostel is called, and frankly, I feel great about not knowing. There are few moments in my life wherein I'm not the one who has to plan everything, so whenever I'm presented with the opportunity to be a tag-along, I thoroughly take advantage of the experience. By not bothering to research anything. Or know where I am. Or care where I'm going. I just get to be here. Wherever the hell I am.

San Cristobal is colder than Xela, and I haven't got coffee to keep my hands warm. Unlike in Kasa Kamelot, there isn't coffee available twenty-four/seven. Which is the sign of a miserably deficient hostel, in my humble, coffee-addicted opinion. The Canadian who runs this place (whatever it's called) is a brusque, inhospitable chap who breaks all my preconceptions about friendly Canadians. And doesn't seem to care that some guests might appreciate a hot beverage before eight thirty in the morning.

Nacho and I left Kasa Kamelot at eight o'clock on Thursday morning, catching a shuttle from just outside our hotel. The driver was an American chap who had married a woman from Xela and had made this Guatemalan mountain city his home for seventeen years.

I wonder what that would be like? To live in one place for seventeen years. Holy bananas. I can't even imagine. 

The American dropped us off at a gas station outside of Xela, where we changed shuttles and loaded into a van already full of travelers on their way to San Cristobal.

"Oh, hello!" I exclaimed, pleasantly surprised to see three folks from San Marcos crammed into the backseat. 

Right. This is Central America. Wherein everyone goes to the same touristic places and sees each other all the time. 

The rest of the ten hour journey was pretty wretched. The road was not only windy, but it was ridden with potholes, stray dogs, and other drivers trying to avoid aforementioned potholes.

Which ended up looking something like this:

I was stuck in the middle seat, so had no window to lean against/look out of. My iPhone, for some reason or other, had decided to stop charging. So I no music or podcasts to keep my mind occupied. For ten hours. I suppose I could have meditated, but screw that.

Side note: I'm currently reading a series by Jim Butcher, wherein technology doesn't work around wizards. So whenever my computer/phone/camera stops working (which seems to be happening an awful lot these days), I just shrug my shoulders and think to myself, meh. It's because I'm a wizard. 

My stomach grumbled as I listened to the girl next to me crunch plantain chips, nuts, energy bars, and the plethora of other tasty, loud snacks she'd packed for the trip.

"You came prepared," I smiled, looking down at her enormous stash.

"It's because I'm a teacher," she laughed.

At the Guatemalan border, we had to unload from the shuttle and go through immigration. On a normal tourist visa, travelers are allowed to stay in Honduras, Nicaragua, Guatemala, and El Salvador for 90 days. Then they have to leave for 72 hours before they can return again with a brand new 90 day visa.

Damn. I sure wish the Schengen area worked like that. I could live in Europe so easily. FOREVER.

... 

which is probably why it doesn't work like that.


Three of the teachers from Panajachel had overstayed their visas. So they had to pay an exorbitant fee of two USD per overstayed day before we could continue on our merry way to Mexico.

We walked across the border town, found our new shuttle with our new, Mexican driver, and proceeded to the entrance of Mexico. Where we passed through immigration again, loaded back into our shuttle, and headed in the direction of San Cristobal de las Casas.

Gah. I'm almost out of pages, I thought, flipping through my tattered passport. Only two blank ones left. And all the other pages pretty near to bursting. Poop. Guess I'm just gonna use my Canadian passport from now on. Unless I want to pay a hundred and something dollars to renew my US passport in Guatemala City. 

And there are things I want more than that. Like wine and coffee and new comfy pants.

The shuttle deposited all passengers in the Zocalo of San Cristobal de Las Casas, and Nacho and I shouldered our bags and made our way to the nameless hostel with the surprisingly rude Canadian.

We spent the evening happily drinking mezcal and eating guacamole. As one does in Mexico.

~

I'm finishing this post from Circles Cafe. Hummingbirds flit back and forth between peach colored flowers shaped like trumpets and scarlet colored flowers with petals like crepe paper.  A baby furiously screams across the courtyard from me, and a very nice lady who's bought three of my watercolor paintings reads at a table to my right.

Nacho and I abandoned the surprisingly rude Canadian's hostel the next day, finding a much friendlier place just down the street.

"Can I paint today?" I asked Nacho. "I'm beginning to miss it..."

"You don't need to ask me," Nacho immediately replied.

So we moseyed over to a cafe with hot chocolate and coffee, and I cracked open my watercolors for the first time in a few days.

But right now, a few days seems like ages. I feel like something's missing if I go even a day without painting. 

Which probably isn't all that healthy. Especially since I'm running out of paint and postcards. And Guatemala doesn't really have a postal system, so it's not like I can order new supplies...

San Cristobal has the most child beggars I've seen in any city, in any country I've traveled thus far. And they don't stay outside. They wander into the restaurant, saunter up to your table, and try to sell you their wares. Usually, I try to be politely dismissive, uttering a quiet, "no, gracias," and returning to whatever I'm doing. But Nacho is different. Nacho engages the children.

(Imagine that the following is in Spanish)

Child: Want to buy this? Twenty pesos.

Nacho: Pesos? What are pesos?

Child: ....

Nacho reaches into his bag and pulls out a simple game. 

Nacho: Want to play with me?

Child smiles, confused but eager to play. 

Child: Okay.   

So while I finished my hummingbird, Nacho accumulated three or four children, all happily playing a game with him.  

Then the children came over to me, glancing curiously over my shoulder at the colors I splashed onto the paper. They grabbed napkins, took a couple of my extra brushes, and painted with me.

This. This is how I want to engage the children whose families (if they even have families) force them to beg on the streets. I want to offer them something that makes them feel like they can be, you know, kids. 

We eventually left the munchkin cafe, walked around for a few minutes, and then found another. Where Nacho read his book and I finished a painting of a fawn. 
 

Yeah... this probably isn't all that healthy. I feel like I'm becoming dependent on something that's about to run out. 

Blurgh. 
 

We spent the rest of Friday ambling through the colorful streets of San Cristobal.

Saturday, Nacho and I (when I say "Nacho and I", I definitely just mean Nacho) found a chicken bus to carry us to Chomula, the town near San Cristobal de Las Casas famous for its rather bizarre church. But I didn't realize it also had such a unique cemetery.

People in Mexico throw their garbage everywhere. They even need a sign reminding them not to throw their garbage in a freaking cemetery

Someone didn't read the sign.

Nacho napped and I read Jim Butcher (don't judge) in the sunshine just outside of the cemetery. Then we strolled down into the city center for lunch.

After a quick meal of fried chicken, we wandered over to the church. A church in which no visitors are allowed to take pictures. A church whose floor is strewn with pine needles, speckled with flickering candles, and populated with praying Guatemalans and tourists wishing they had cameras.

The Guatemalans kneel in front of rows of candles, murmuring prayers and gazing intently into the wavering flames. They then pass around ceremonial shots of pox (sugarcane liqueur) and bottles of coca cola.

Religion is so weird. Christianity in the US has grape juice and crackers. Christianity in this part of Mexico has extremely potent alcohol and coca cola. 

I want a religion with bacon and hot chocolate. 
 

Nacho and I left the church and found a cafe across the square. Where I blissfully painted and drank a cappuccino.

Back in San Cristobal, we walked through the market in search of an extra pair of comfy pants for me.

Which I had no problem procuring.
 

Then we settled into yet another cafe, where Nacho ordered two pieces of pie (Nacho is amazing), and I finished up my horse painting.

 

I hit the streets of San Cristobal early on Sunday morning, keen to watch the city wake up. 

 

I love mostly abandoned streets. Wherein it's me and the street cleaners, cleaning up yesterday and preparing for today. 
 

"Want to go to some caves?" Nacho asked me as we ate breakfast at our new hostel (with the much friendlier, non-Canadians).

"Which caves?" I mumbled between mouthfuls of scrambled egg.

"These caves," he showed me a picture on his phone.

"Mmm... yes. Let's do that."

So we caught a colectivo to Grutas de Rancho Nuevo. And wandered through a pine forest on our way to the caves.

Pine... smells like home to me. I love the jungle and all its crazy tropical plants. But pine forests will always make me think of home, of trampling through three feet of snow in search of the perfect Christmas tree, of crackling fires keeping the house warm in the winter. 

Mexicans, like Guatemalans, don't exactly get off to early starts. So Nacho and I practically had the cave to ourselves.

We lunched on quesadillas with chorizo, and I bemoaned the fact that I could not eat quesadillas with chorizo at The Yoga Forest.

"One day," I told Nacho. "I will open a yoga retreat with bacon and wine and coffee and all the things that are delicious and bad for you."

We flagged down a colectivo back to San Cristobal, and spent the rest of the day happily wandering the city.

These stairs are nothing compared to the heinous, butt-sculpting stairs at the Yoga Forest. Pshaw.

Nacho doesn't climb the heinous, butt-sculpting stairs at the Yoga Forest five times a day.

 The evening was spent in and out of bars, eating tapas, drinking mojitos with mezcal, sipping shots of mezcal, and just enjoying the rest of our last day together.

"It was good to meet you," Nacho said as he hugged me goodbye Monday morning.

"Nice to meet you too, Nacho."

And I boarded the shuttle to Panajachel, sad to leave my Spaniard behind.

But not too sad.

I'll go harass him in Pamplona one day. Surely. I'll see that crazy Nacho again.