Thursday, May 16, 2013

La Aprendiz del Carnicero

I have always belonged to the ocean, and the moon.  Two entities forever locked in a love affair—a constant push and pull, back and forth—and like an anchor, my adulation for them has always been rooted inside of me.  They can’t form words, yet their existences are inexorably linked for all of time; something outside of them draws them back to each other again and again.
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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