As
I sit back in the sand and listen to the crashing waves, I allow the sound to
enter me; to become my breath and my heartbeat, the pulsing of blood in my
veins. There is a gentleness in the way
the tide washes over the shore, but there is violence crashing far across the
bounding main. Watching the silver glint
on the roiling black sea, I know that this is the most I could ask for out of
life: the moon and the stars, the salt
on the air, the surf and the sand.
A few months ago, St. Louis had a snowstorm so bad that my work closed for the day and sent everyone home. Naturally, this was a great excuse to day-drink and catch up on some reading. I got a text from a girl I play soccer with: “Wanna go to Mexico?”
“Haha,
hell yeah let’s go. It’s a great day for
it.”
“No
I’m serious. Aurora found a really good
deal on an all-inclusive adults-only resort. We have to book by 5 today though.”
It’s
noon now.
This
. . . is kind of reckless. I need time
to think about this. I stall by asking
lots of questions—when, where, who with, how much. . . .
I
call my mother.
“Well
yeah you should go, that sounds like fun!”
I
text my brother, the lawyer—the “responsible” one.
“It
sounds like a great deal for what you’ll be getting; I see no reason not to
go!”
Finally
I consult my friend Sam (referred to as “foodie friend Sam” here),
who responds, “Um yes!!! You know that’s
where the beaches are right . . . lol seriously do it!”
Holy
shit. I’m goin’ to Mexico.
Sam
is now referred to as Spirit Guide Sam.
“Viva
adventure! . . . Seriously I’m the worst spirit guide ever.”
And
so, four hot chicks set off on a journey together to another land. Kate, the girl who asked me; Aurora, another
girl we play soccer with; and Aurora’s friend Chelsea. I am the youngest of the four—the others are
all over 40. Aurora just turned, is a
part-time model, and the girl has visible biceps and a six-pack without having
to flex. She tried out for the Lingerie
Football League last year, but didn’t make it because she was too svelte. Chelsea
was born in Vietnam near the end of the war, adopted by Americans while still very
young, and honestly doesn’t look a day over 29.
Kate, the eldest, is also the tiniest; she regularly runs 5Ks and half
marathons, and sometimes “just to get some fresh air” goes on 6-mile trail runs. See why I eat my greens and do extra sit-ups?
We
picked a great time to leave St. Louis.
In the week leading up to our trip, it was cold, it rained, it hailed,
got up to 80 degrees, a tornado came through, and it rained some more.
It’s
my first time out of the country, Chelsea’s first time in Mexico, Kate’s first
time at this particular resort, and Aurora’s second time staying there. As soon as we are through customs in Mexico,
the first thing to greet us is a tequila store.
With several samples already poured.
After
“rehydrating,” we march off to catch the shuttle to our resort. And I have a fleeting thought . . . four
chicks alone in a foreign country . . . maybe I just watch too many horror
flicks.
I
am working the day before I leave. Everything
at the shop is routine for me these days, which is why I haven’t written much
lately.
“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t get
half of this stuff done.”
Burt and I are hard at work in the
back; smoking ribs and chicken wings in one smoker, jerky in another, and pork
steaks and chicken breasts in the big one outside, while two smoked pork butts
await pulling and saucing.
A few weeks ago, I came across a
plaque near the spice rack, half hidden by coffee mugs. It was a “Citizen Recognition Award” from the
City of Maplewood presented to Tommy, reading:
“This recognition is presented in appreciation for the efforts performed
on January 20th, 2000, in an attempt to resuscitate a victim of cardiac
arrest. Your selfless actions are
commendable.”
Nicole walks in around quarter to 10
and starts requesting meats; I’m not sure whether
she’s shopping or working. When she
comes behind the counter I chide her, “Ya know, we start at nine ‘round these
parts.” She laughs and kisses my cheek.
As I continue
mixing spices for our house pork/poultry rub, I hear raised voices in the back
room.
“I’m fuckin’
tired, Burt!”
“You’re tired???”
“Yeah, I need a
break!”
“Then you ask for a break, you don’t just take
off!”
Next thing I
know, Tommy storms out the front of the shop and doesn’t come back for the rest
of the day. Apparently last week he
no-showed for two days.
Later on I overhear Nicole telling Burt, “He said he might be back
Monday.”
Burt scoffs, “I
don’t remember asking him to come back.”
He notices me listening and sort of stammers, “Sorry you had to hear all
that.”
Since Grace is
furious about Max unintentionally sleeping through a few of his shifts, and
Burt is livid about Tommy deciding to take last-minute vacations without
telling anyone, Burt and Grace have come to an agreement: Max gets 20 hours a week, and Tommy gets 20
hours a week. Cory comes in twice a week
for a few hours; Nicole comes in once a week for not even a full shift; and
then I show up for a shift about every other week. Which leaves Burt and Grace to work about . .
. 80 hours apiece.
The
funny thing, the thing I didn’t know, the thing that no one bothered to tell
me, is that this is intended to be kind of a couples’ resort. Not just a couples’ resort, though . . . an older couples’ resort. We get a lot of dirty looks. Particularly from the women.
The upside is that this is intended
to be a “girls’ getaway”: Kate and Chelsea
are both married, Aurora has been with her boyfriend for six years, and I’m . .
. well, I’m calling myself “single but uninterested” (a nice way of saying “fed
up with all the bullshit”); so it’s not like we’re down here cruising for
guys.
Still, I can’t complain about having
beautiful brown men wait on me hand and foot day and night . . . it’s going to
be so hard going back to disinterested American men. (Har har.)
What surprised me was how American
everything was; from the Budweiser at the bar to the food to the music played
at the bars. I didn’t come to Mexico to
drink beer brewed in my home town! I didn’t come to Mexico to eat barbecue; I
can get that from the shop any time I want.
I want tacos! Breakfast tacos,
nacho tacos, pork tacos, spicy
tacos!
One afternoon we eat at the
restaurant overlooking the beach; the girls are already seated when I come up
from the water. I simply hop over the
rope, still clad in my swimsuit cover-up and flip flops, sand sticking to my
calves. I order the shrimp ceviche and
spicy pork taquitos. They are not very
spicy, but they are delicious. Kate asks
what ceviche is.
“It’s raw fish covered in some kind
of acidic juice, which essentially ‘cooks’ it.
But the shrimp will be cooked, since you can’t eat raw shellfish.”
Aurora comments, “Wow, you really
know your food!”
I shrug. “Yeh.
It’s kinda what I do.”
Thankfully, the buffet has Mexican
options every day. Every morning I get
to eat breakfast nachos (chips, cilantro, a mild red sauce, red onion, and a
bit of shredded cheese), refried beans, and some type of fajita meat with
veggies. What strikes me as odd, though,
is that they offer this fajita stuff . . . but there are no tortillas to be
found. Anywhere. The first day, I ask the woman working the
griddle if she has any, and without saying a word she ducks into the back
room—for a good five minutes—and comes out with two. Not two packs, just two individual
tortillas. I decide not to ask
again.
The
longer I am here, the more my Spanish comes back, and I begin to regret that I ever
stopped taking courses. A few years in
high school, a few years in college . . . I stopped once I met the requirement
because my professor in college was horrible.
She didn’t teach us; all she did was assign us workbook pages and put us
in groups. And for me, “group-work” has
never been enjoyable, because my entire school career, “group-work” meant
everyone in the group stared at me until I gave them the answers. Because I was smart. And they were lazy. So I stopped going to class, and just turning
in my workbook pages to the professor’s office.
And I ended up with an A for the course.
But
I enjoy the language; I like the way it feels in my mouth. “Como se dice . . . Buenas noches. . . .” Feeling the syllables roll around on my
tongue . . . it’s like . . . chocolate.
I
start giving the Spanish version of my name, and I feel like I become the Mexican
version of myself. I like her. She is fearless. And free.
She also doesn’t like wearing a shirt.
(Because shirts are for workin’!)
We
day trip off the resort one day, Kate and I.
First stop is the ruins at Tulum.
Our tour guide, Sergio, has long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, a
salt-and-pepper (more salt than pepper) goatee, skin dark and creased from the
sun. When he speaks, he is not reciting
a “preapproved” speech prepared by his company.
I can tell that when he speaks, it is from his heart. Not because it’s his job. It’s because he loves his country. I can hear it in his voice.
“People
think that because Mexico is different from their country, they don’t have to
follow our laws. They think that because
they are on vacation, they can light a cigarette within these walls, because it
is outside. They see the news about drug
cartels and they think that is
Mexico. That is an issue I will not even
address.”
The
crumbling stone structures remind me of the great castles of Scotland and
Ireland that I’ve seen pictures of. These
buildings are sacred. Thousands of years old. I can’t even fathom.
This
land is sacred. Ancient footsteps have traced these paths. And now they’re being traipsed by
flip-flopped tourists with baby strollers.
Some even brave the dirt paths in wheelchairs. It’s not just tourists, though, there are
locals as well. For some, this might be
the only chance they get to gaze upon the works of their ancestors. How many people can say that? How many people can look at something and
say, “The person who I get my eyes/nose/brow from, they built this land.” And
now they have to buy a ticket just to see it.
The
Mayan people wandered through the jungle—men, women, children—with what little
they had, or nothing at all—trying to find a place to make their home. Can you just imagine, being a woman with a
small child, and having to go through that?
Or what if you were pregnant?
Wandering the sweltering jungle, starving, barefoot, thirsty, not having
a clue where you were going; not knowing if a “where” even existed.
They
stopped when they found water: a cenote, a natural pit filled with
rainwater, that has long since dried up.
Tulum was built on a cliff overlooking the sea, though none of the
buildings face the ocean. The Mayans
didn’t value the sea very much; but they worshipped the sunset, so all their
buildings face west.
For
the rest of the day, we belong to the driver, Noe (pronounced “No-ay”)—the
“professional pusher” as Sergio describes him.
“Noe will push you off the platform.
If you get scared, Noe will push you.
If you cry, Noe will push you. If
you start to have second thoughts and you want to leave, Noe will push you.”
In
the little village outside Tulum, Noe asks if Kate and I are mother and
daughter.
This
happens frequently throughout our trip. Kate
does in fact have a daughter about five years my junior. I laugh, “No, we’re friends. We play soccer—jugamos fútbol—together.”
Noe
looks confused, then backs up, standing behind me; I glance back and see him
eyeing my calves. “Oh, now I see it.”
Really. “I’m the goalie—cómo se dice en Español?”
“Portera,”
he answers.
Portera. I like it.
I’ve
heard that in America you have to sit through about three hours of videos and
safety training in order to go zip lining.
We
get (maybe) a ten-minute briefing.
“Okay
guys, if you get hurt, guys; guys just don’t get hurt, okay? Because if you get hurt, I have to be in the
office for one hour doing the paperwork, and I hate the office, so just don’t
get hurt guys, okay?”
Next
thing we know, we are at the top of the first tower, high above the jungle,
where we finally feel a breeze and a respite from the heat.
“Who’s
first?”
Kate
and I happen to be closest to the edge, so everyone looks at us. She is closer to Noe, so he takes her
first. There is no time to protest, no
time to second guess, her legs are up, and off she goes floating over the trees. I guess I should be nervous or something, but
I don’t really let myself think about it as I step up on the platform, which is
a tree trunk just large enough for both my feet. Lean back in the harness . . .
“Listos
Dos?”
.
. . one good shove from Noe and I am soaring.
It’s like meditation: I am
completely alone, and I can finally exhale.
Two
more times of that, and we go to rappel—75 feet.
“Okay
guys, it is a pretty long fall if you fall, so guys don’t fall, because you
could die, and if you die, I will have to be in the office for two hours, and I
really don’t want to do that guys, so don’t die okay?”
This
time when Noe asks who’s first, everyone insists we are. Noe helps Kate; the person instructing me is
in his fourth day of training.
“Toes
on the edge please.”
I’m
confused. The “edge” is round, not flat
. . . how am I supposed to hang my heels over the edge? Millimeter by millimeter, I scoot the
majority of my feet over the edge overhanging the drop.
“Okay
now stick your butt out.”
What.
FINE.
“Lock
your knees and lean back.”
I
don’t lock my knees right away. They
want you to lock your knees so your legs don’t shake. I begin to see why this is important. I lock my knees.
“Lean
back.”
Aaaah
. . . aaah . . . aaah! Okay.
I
am now level with the floor I was just standing on; my legs are parallel with
it, my torso upright.
“Now
push the rope.”
I
think he means feed it through the carabineer.
“First
step down.”
There
is a set of inverted stairs just below the edge that I have to “walk” down
first.
This
is weird. And my legs are short!
“Second
step down.”
My
legs are shaking again.
“Third
step down. Now cross your legs and go.”
Now
I’m just sitting in this harness, dangling in open space; ankles crossed, I
guess so they don’t flail and hit anything, or get twisted up in the ropes.
I
feed maybe an inch of rope at a time. If
I let go, I’ll just slide down really fast, and the spotters will put the
brakes on for me. Kate quickly passes
me.
“Oh
yeah, by the way, don’t look down!” Noe calls from above me.
Really.
I’m
gripping the guide rope really tight with my left hand. I’m not afraid of heights, but this is all
new to me, so I’m prone to being cautious and taking things slow.
Kate
and I are the only ones to go twice. The
other excursionists joke that we are racing.
Yeah right. I start down a few seconds before her and I go
a bit faster this time around, feeding much more rope through at a time. I feel like I’m trucking right along when ziiiiiiip—there does Kate, right by me,
barely touching her rope, all the way to the bottom.
I
got a small burn from the rope, down by my right hip—not bad, I didn’t even
notice till the next day—because my shirt came up a little bit where the rope
was passing. But now I have scars! You know it’s a good trip when you come home
with scars.
Finally,
after a long day under an unforgiving sun, we get to cool down in a cenote in the jungle. People ask me which cenote we went to; there are thousands of them in the country, and
I don’t think this one had a name. Noe
drove us down a long gravel road, stopped at a gate, Sergio got out and opened
the gate, we drove through and Sergio closed the gate behind us, then we drove even
farther down that long gravel road. I
saw a couple of handwritten signs low to the ground, but that was it. This obviously wasn’t one of the “famous”
ones.
We
are given goggles, snorkels, and life vests that we can blow up using a
wand-like device located near the left shoulder. A photographer snaps a few pictures of me and
Kate, then the next couple—honeymooners.
The photographer tells them to kiss for one of the shots.
I
turn to Noe, “How come he didn’t ask us
to kiss?”
Noe
perks up, quickly speaks Spanish to the photographer, they both laugh.
When
all the pictures are done, we swim off with Noe. The water is cool, clear, and clean. This is the point when I learn that I am not
very good at snorkeling. I think the
last time I snorkeled was in a four-foot-deep above-ground pool when I was a
kid. I can’t seem to get the mouthpiece
to stay in my mouth; it’s at a goofy angle and water keeps getting in. It’s because of my tiny peanut head, I just
know it. Get your shit together. I
clamp my teeth around the mouthpiece and get myself situated. Okay.
Apparently
I am also not a very strong swimmer anymore.
I am kicking furiously to stay afloat; I’m not very buoyant. Probably has something to do with my body fat
percentage, and the absence of natural fat deposits on my chest. (“Those aren’t buoys. . . .” Ba-dum-ching!) It occurs to me that over the last five years
or so, the majority of my time in water has been spent kayaking, or floating in a lake on a
raft with a can of beer in one hand. Also,
the raft is usually tied to a dock because of that one time I fell asleep and
drifted into the weeds, but I didn’t spill a drop of my beer! Shit.
I’m gonna have to inflate my vest, because I’m getting tired. At least I’m not the guy clinging to the life
preserver.
We
don’t swim long before coming to a large open cavern, lit from above by an
opening in the ceiling near the back of the cave. You can see right to the bottom of the greenish
pool. A stunning landscape of
stalagmites erupts from the floor; some formations elongated enough to scrape
our toes as we swim past. Stalactites
dangle like knives overhead. Noe gives
us a quick talk about not touching anything because it takes a thousand years
to grow one inch of a stalactite/stalagmite, but feel free to swim about within
this cavern.
First
place I head is towards the shaft where daylight is streaming down from
above. It’s overgrown with foliage, and pretty
narrow—large enough for an average person to drop down, though a group of
stalagmites juts up from the water directly beneath it.
Noe
is floating around in a shadowy corner of the cavern, where the stalactites
hang low. He calls out for everyone to
swim over to him, but I am apparently the only one who hears him. I slowly dogpaddle over.
“How
long can you hold your breath?” he asks.
Thus
far my aquatic performance has been less than inspiring, so, “Uuuh . . . I’m
gonna say, not very long.”
“Okay,
go ahead and deflate your life vest.”
What! Damnit, I just blew this damn thing up!
“Now,
I want you to look that way.” He points
at the wall of rock right in front of us.
I
don’t have time to be confused, because he shoves my head under water. I go down about five-six feet, and hang
there. The wall of rock has disappeared,
and in its place is a stretch of blackness.
But far, far off in the distance . . . there is this beam of daylight .
. . streaming down . . . illuminating all the hills and valleys of another
cavern.
My
head breaks the surface again. “That was
so cool!”
“Okay,
everybody, you want to do something kind of crazy, come on over here!”
I
grin, “Yeah guys, come let Noe shove your heads underwater.”
Everyone
from our group swims over, but instead of pushing them under like he did to me,
Noe swims closer to the wall of rock.
“Okay
guys, these rocks here go down about three feet, and you can go down and you
can swim under them to the next cavern.”
A
male voice behind me calls out, “Do we have to do this?”
“Of
course not,” his wife responds.
Everyone
swims away. Except me and Kate.
She
looks at me. “You wanna do this?”
I
look at her. “You wanna do this?”
“Okay
guys, I’m gonna go under, and then I will drop down and wave for you. Don’t come until you see me wave.”
I
guess we’re doin’.
Once
again the thought crosses my mind . . . This
is how horror movies start. . . .
Have
you ever seen The Descent?
Noe
has a waterproof flashlight with him, so we watch him go under, then we can
only see his legs underwater as he pops up on the other side for air, then he
drops back down and gestures for Kate to swim to him. They both go up on the other side of the rock
wall. He comes back over to where I am
to tell me to come up gently on the other side because the stalactites hang low.
“Make
sure your life vest is deflated so you can go down far enough, okay?” He goes back under once more.
When
he gestures for me, I take in all the air I can and drop down, then over to
Noe. He holds my head as we come up so I
don’t bump any rock formations.
He
wasn’t joking; I can’t even keep my whole head above water because the jagged ceiling
reaches so far down, like rough fingers in my hair. This cave is dark—much darker than the
first—there is no natural daylight here, only the light of Noe’s flashlight. And quiet.
We move slowly—laterally, like crabs—being careful not to bump any
formations.
We
emerge into a more open area, though it’s hard to tell how open without
light. Noe is shining his light
downwards so that we can see the formations underwater.
“A
lot of times people come cave diving, and you know what their biggest problem
is? Their batteries die.”
He
turns off the flashlight, plunging us into complete darkness. It is the kind of darkness that covers you
like a heavy blanket; the kind where you can’t tell whether your eyes are open
or not, but it doesn’t matter, because the view is the same either way.
Okay,
this is definitely how horror movies
start. Next he’s gonna tell us we need
to split up. . . .
He
turns the light back on. “I want you
guys to look at something, okay?” He
points away from us, towards the dark back of the cavern. “Go under and look that way.” The light goes off, blackness envelops us once
again.
Once
underwater, though, I can see that faraway beam of daylight streaking downwards
at an angle—closer now, but not close enough to be in our cavern—the mineral
spires ascending in the glowing green water.
Darkness
greets us once again when we come back up for air.
Noe
flicks the light back on. “Now you see
why there is such duality in the Mayan beliefs:
night and day, light and dark, life and death.”
“Have
you been in all the different caves down here?” I ask.
“Yes,
I have explored these caves many times.”
Suddenly
I feel very safe with this man.
We
make our way back to the rock wall that we swam under to get here. I tell Kate to go back first, so that I will
be left alone in the cave for a few moments.
Same drill as the first time: Noe
goes over first, then drops down and waves.
I see Kate take a deep breath, and just as she is going under I realize
. . . I try to yell but my snorkel obstructs my words.
Shit.
Her
back pops up out of the water, appears to hit a few stalactites. Her head is still under; I can see Noe near
the cave bottom, beckoning her. Kate
looks like she is bracing herself to dive again. . . .
Without
thinking, I push her under so she is away from the low-hanging rock formations,
and pull her back towards me, then put my hand on top of her head as I situate
her upright.
“Are
you okay?”
She
mumbles something in her snorkel that is not an answer to my question.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m
fine. What the hell?”
We
hear Noe on the other side of the rocks, “What happened?”
“She
didn’t deflate her life vest!” I open
the valve and squeeze, making sure enough air gets out.
This
time she gets over just fine.
I
am left alone with the darkness . . . the closeness . . . the stillness . . .
the silence . . . to inhale . . . to exhale . . . just one more breath. . . .
“Are
you ready to come back?” comes a muffled voice on the other side of the rock.
Quickly,
I release the valve on my own life vest; when the air is out, I dive under and
swim to Noe. Back in the main cavern,
the noise and light wash over me. There
are several tour groups down here, not just ours. Noe is making sure that Kate didn’t get hurt
or scratched by any of the rocks. We
tell him what happened on our end. He is
surprised.
“That’s
right; you did exactly right.”
When
we relate our tale to Aurora and Chelsea that night, they are both aghast.
Aurora
asks me, “How did you know what to do?”
“.
. . I didn’t. I just . . . reacted.”
Actually,
that’s not the first time something like this happened. I’m reminded of walking atop a frozen creek
with my childhood best friend . . . we heard creaking and cracking, and
suddenly the ice below us gave way. My
legs somehow got me to the bank first; I climbed up, turned around and pulled
her out.
“Thanks,”
she panted. “Last time that happened,
the other girl got scared and ran all the way home—just left me down
there.”
We
rejoin the rest of the tour group and convene at the cave’s mouth.
“Okay
guys, go ahead and get changed for lunch, and uh, guys, don’t tell anybody that
we went in the other cave, guys, because I’m not really supposed to do that, so
just, you know, don’t tell anybody, okay?”
Just
then another tour group swims past.
Their guide calls out, “Don’t tell anybody what?”
Noe
laughs, then ushers us out of the cave.
By
the end of the day I am more than a little enamored with this man.
We
eat lunch in a small screened-in hut, and this is the most authentic Mexican
culinary experience of the whole trip.
And the only time I actually find spicy
salsa. Grilled chicken, fresh guacamole,
refried beans, and rice . . . all smothered in the spicy stuff. Look at those beans; they’re almost black.
And runny. Mmmm. . . . And . . .
(gasp) corn tortillas! And the taste of cilantro on everything . . . if anything, I think I can
decisively say that cilantro is the flavor of Mexico (for me, anyways).
Noe
drops us back off at the resort.
“I
am going to start my own cave diving business.
When I get it open, I will invite you all back down.”
“Yeah,
because we clearly need the practice!” I joke.
“No
. . . you two will do great. With cave diving, you get a wetsuit, an
oxygen tank, and weights all around you, so you just drop to the floor and don’t
have to worry about coming up for air.”
“That
would be awesome,” Kate says. She and I decide
that if we ever come back, we’re not doing any excursions without Sergio and
Noe.
When
we get back from the jungle, we head right for the beach. However, the “Entertainment Staff” has
organized a game of soccer in the grassy knoll by the side of the pool. I set my things down and chuck my flip flops. I should be completely drained, but I’ve been
waiting to kick some Mexican ass at fútbol since . . . well, my whole life,
really.
One
of the guys spots me. “You want to play
señorita?”
I
nod, patting my chest, “Portera.”
“We
already have a goalie; just shoot towards that goal.”
But
. . . portera. . . .
I
play the field for a few minutes; of course, right off, a guy kicks me in my
bad foot. It’s not hurt, though. I receive a pass, pull a move (a collective “Woooah!”
goes up from the Mexicans), pass it off.
I make runs to get open for my teammates. I quickly drop back to defense. I play as hard as if I have cleats and shin
guards on; those habits are just so hard to break. My competitive nature doesn’t have an “off”
switch. When the other team scores they
put me in the net, but neglect to tell me that I can’t use my hands. Someone shoots a rocket right at my face; you
can bet I threw my hands up and blocked that shit. We score a couple, they score a couple; every
time someone scores, the Entertainment Staff yells out, “One more goal, one
more goal!” I don’t know what the score
was when we started; the Staff kept yelling out different scores. I want to say we lost by one.
Afterwards,
the first guy I talked to approaches me.
“You are good. You play on my
team every time.”
The
rest of the trip is spent relaxing. Chelsea
and I get up early to watch the sunrise.
I fall asleep in a cabana until the wait staff shows up. We order champagne and pizza for our last day
on the beach. Our cabana boy keeps
bringing us doubles, even when we don’t order anything. The staff fries fish in an enormous wok—thing
had to be at least four feet in diameter—out by the pool.
I
guess all those vegetables and extra sit-ups were worth it, because a random
girl walked up to me by the pool and said, “Your abs looks fantastic; you look
like you should be a lifeguard!” I said
thanks. “You go be a lifeguard!” she
yelled. “Aaah!” I said as I ran away from
her.
Late
afternoon I kick more Mexican ass at sand volleyball. They tell me I don’t need to dive so
much. “Then what’s the point of playing?” Former gymnast . . . portera . . . I love throwing my body around.
For
our last night we eat dinner by the pool.
The resort has hired an intense fire dancing troupe to perform. Then they have a bonfire and band on the
beach. The band plays covers of American
classic rock songs.
(Photo
credit to Aurora for this one.)
Now
that I’m back I can say sophisticated things like, “I’ve been out of the
country for a while, what’d I miss?” or, “I’m still adjusting to being back in
the states; it’s just so hard to get acclimated!” I . . . can
say things like that. What I actually
say, though, is more along the lines of, “I’m still on Mexico time so I can eat
this pot brownie if I want to!” I am
well aware that there is no time change between St. Louis and the Yucatán.
I already miss the people, and the
language. I’d rather say Hola than Hello. Definitely miss the sun; it was 50 degrees
when I got home and I turned on the dang heat!
I miss hearing people call me the Spanish version of my name. I feel like I became her; she’s a different
person, but she’s a part of me. I think
of her when I’m nervous or scared or stressed about something; I remember the
girl who boldly followed a man she barely knew into the darkness, into the unknown. And I still don’t like wearing shirts.
I never thought I could love any place
as much as I love the sea, but when I think of that jungle . . . I feel like I could
just melt into it and never return.
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