Family Vacation Brings up Age Old Question: "Am I adopted?"

After three days on the road with your parents you start to wonder if the marketing wordsmiths behind the term “family vacation” enjoy sick little jokes or are just huge fans of oxymorons.

“Oh no! I’m not walking there.” My mother says defiantly. “We will take the trolley.”

“Norma, that defeats the purpose of coming to a nature park.” My dad retorts.

“If you think that I’m walking in this heat, you are absolutely crazy.”

We get on the trolley.

When I was younger my brother and I used to fight over which one of us was adopted.  “I’m not their kid!  You look like them waaayyy more than I do.” We’d say.  We’d ask our parents if we were indeed adopted.  Luckily, my mother loved lying to us and so she’d invent stories about how I was sold to her by Mexican gypsies in the Sonoran Desert in Mexico.  She’d wink at my dad and he’d go along for the ride.  “Yenni, I had to buy you because of your pretty black hair,” She’d say smiling.  I’d run back to my brother screaming: “I told you so!!  I AM adopted, HAH! It's you who's their real kid!”

Now it’s 20 years later and I’m in the backseat praying to the universe that I don’t carry their genes half as much as I think I do.

“You know, there used to be a coffee shop here.  Years ago, things have changed so much.  I could have sworn that it was here.” My dad says.

“Well, dad, things change a lot in forty years…” I say trying not to sound exasperated.  This is about the 20^th time he mentions that things have changed in San Diego since he’s toured around there.  I’m losing the tiny amount patience I have.

Why am I here?  Why did I say yes to meeting my parents in San Diego and driving into the desert with them for three days?! My parents, who under normal circumstances (visiting once a week on weekends), drive me insane?  First, it’s my mother who ALWAYS knows better than you about how you should be living your life and of course she has no reservations about letting you know exactly what you are doing wrong whether it be boyfriends, jobs, makeup, clothes or even hairdressers.  Then she starts talking about the girl from the telenovela she just watched last night and all the bad things that happened to her because she didn’t listen to her mother, as though this is some sort of REAL point of reference or something.

Then it’s my father who is normally a very well intending individual except for the fact that he is convinced the world is out to get him and his social security checks.  He tries to take the little victories where he can. 

“Jen, put this in your purse.”

“Dad, it’s a packet of honey, we have some at the house and I’m not taking a packet of honey from the restaurant for you.”

Or by calling the hotel room phone from the lobby phone instead of your cell phone from his pocket JUST BECAUSE HE CAN.

Why have I, a reasonably logical and intelligent adult woman, decided to take this trip with my parents?

I realize that I’m very lucky to have the parents I do.  Despite all the writing material they give me, they are good loving parents.  They are also getting older and in great shape to still travel and enjoy life. So if I don’t enjoy them as an adult myself now, then when?  We get older and so wrapped up in our little worlds that we forget about the important things sometimes. 

This gratefulness unfortunately rarely extends itself to you when you’re sitting in the backseat annoyed that you were created by the two people in the front seats who are currently having their third argument of the day about how my father should have changed his shirt and how my mother needs to stop micromanaging his life while on vacation.  

No, you just take a deep breath and thank God you brought your ipod.

Jesus Saves; I Spend

Why did I pack so much stuff?  I always pack way too much, I think to myself trying to squeeze into my window seat with my overstuffed purse.

“Hi.” A tall guy says to me as he squeezes into the seat next to me, his knees extending into the aisle.  “They don’t build these planes for 6’5 men I guess.” He chuckles.

There are four hours between O’Hare International Airport and Los Angeles International Airport.  He seems friendly, and now examining his features, the light brown hair and freckles dotting his face with intense blue eyes, I think, maybe not such bad company…

“I’m Drew.” He extends his hand. 

Drew grew up not far from Chicago in a nearby suburb.  He completed his undergrad at Northern Illinois University and continues graduate studies in meteorology at Brigham Young University in Utah. 

“So you want to be a weather man?” I ask, smiling.  “No, I want to predict commodities for natural gas companies and stakeholders, that’s where the money is.” He replied.  I like him more already.

We get to talking.  He explains how the pilot is wrong in saying that it won’t be raining in Los Angeles when we land and he bets that it will.  We talk about the differences in cloud formations and he draws pictures in my journal depicting the mountain shade effect.  “Mountains are always greener with more vegetation on the western side because the moisture rises from the west.  That’s the direction weather travels, generally leaving the east side of the mountain a lot drier…” 

At this point, I don’t think I’ve ever been so fascinated by weather.

He tells me he used to play volleyball in school before deciding on a career in meteorology.  I glance at his strong long arms.  “When I was younger I was always so fascinated by the weather.  I would stare out the window during thunderstorms constantly, hoping to catch a few glimpses of lightening.”

Everything is going so well with this conversation.  It flows very naturally with no awkward pauses nor is there overexcited chatter about nothing to fill space.  Drew is very easy to talk to and also very easy to listen to.  I relax into my seat.

Then it happens.  He mentions something about a mission trip to Virginia.  “Oh, what were you on a mission trip for?” 

“My church was engaging various people about their relationship with Jesus.” Oh no.  He’s one of them! I grimace, what a waste. 

He asks me if I know Jesus or have a relationship with the guy.  I tell him I’ve seen him around, mainly tattooed on people’s arms or on gold chains around people’s necks.  It’s my last attempt to keep the conversation light. 

Before he starts to tell me about the late great savior of mankind I tell him I have my own personal spirituality.  We begin to define Christianity and Buddhism; examine Islam and finally he asks what I believe.  I explain very patiently that my beliefs don’t have a name; they simply are.  All influenced by my experiences.  I tell him about my boyfriends in college during my exploratory years.  I dated a Buddhist once, then a Shaman.  I learned to meditate and then I learned to see. 

I remained alone exploring for many years.  In the caves of Mexico and pyramids; in sweat lodges; living amongst wolves.  Yes, I too, dedicated my time and energy to a greater energy.  Its name was not Jesus but there was something, partially within myself and partially in everything else around me contributing to anything that was created: the beauty and horrors.  I don’t pretend to live in a perfect world and we are a complex race full of dualities.  Still, when I looked around I liked to think that God was in the sunset, we both agreed on that.  God was in the mountains.  To me, God is a smile too.  We all see glimpses of this God everyday if we pay attention.

I found him to be charmingly curious and interested in all the stones I had to throw at the holes in Christianity.  He was anxious to fill them with quotes from the Bible, historical facts and other tricks in his Jesus-mongering hat.  I was still slightly charmed watching his blue eyes and the golden ring he had that bordered his pupil.

“So would you agree that the world’s religions like Buddhism, Judaism, Islam and Christianity all have their finger on the elephant (elephant in this case being a metaphor for God) but maybe Islam has it’s finger on the trunk of the elephant and maybe Christianity has its finger on the husks of the elephant and perhaps Buddhism rides on the powerful legs of the elephant. “

“I would agree with that…” I said after pausing to think for a few minutes.  “Would you?” I said looking surprised.

“No in Christianity, we believe that Jesus is the only way to the elephant.” 

“I see….” I say.  He begins some chatter about how socially he doesn’t just hang out with Christians but he’s a rather very inclusive person. 

“So regardless of whether or not I’m a good person who cares about this earth and its inhabitants, I’m going to Hell?” I ask, getting to the point.

“As a Christian, without Jesus, you won’t be saved.” He replies.

He tries to change the subject and I glare out the window.  I’m not upset; it just seems as though the common ground we walked along during the conversation has converted to two very distinct paths that are clearly marked with each of our names on it. 

We land and he throws his head onto my shoulder flirtatiously.  I look into his gorgeous eyes.

“Guess it sucks I’m going to Hell, huh?”  

To travel young and poor vs. old and rich

I was speaking with a male friend regarding my travels and how I wanted to see so much more of the world within the next few years.

He said, quite logically and practically, that he would like to wait until he was older and established financially to travel.

"In your 20s you can pull off the all nighters.  Your mind and body are prepared for it.  It's your 20s that you should work really hard for what you want.  That way, when I'm older I can travel anywhere and not worry about money or having a home.  I will already have all those things," he says.

Happy Travels!  Monument Valley, Utah

His argument makes sense.  My parents will agree with it; career counselors would approve and my resume would look better if I thought that way too, but I don't.

Here's why:

1. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.
2. If it were guaranteed, one must remember that travelling has the capacity to change your perspective and open your mind A LOT.  When you are young your mind is still in formation about many opinions you may have and thus willing to adapt more to the culture around you.  You can accept a growth in perspective more easily than when you are older.  Furthermore you potentially have more years to live with this newly acquired wisdom.
3. How are you going to surf the huge waves of Puerto Escondido or climb up the highest pyramid at 70 years old?  Perhaps you will have amazing genetics and take really good care of your body and be able to do so , but again that is not guaranteed.
4. There is so much of this world to see like South America, Asia, Africa, Europe and everything in between.  You should get started now.
5. Traveling with little money is fun!  You get to know the country more because you have more interaction with the people.  Sure, when you are rich you can stay at the five star hotels and be pampered, but you'll likely only take the safe tours with other tourists and shy away from meeting the actual people of the country because you're older and perhaps more fearful of the native people taking advantage of you and stealing your retirement funds or identity.  When you're young you have a lot less to lose so you stay at a hostel, meet other travelers and get the low down on the next places to visit on your adventure.  It's a far more communal atmosphere that lends itself to meeting new people from different places.  Traveling from place to place for cheap means you get to travel with the people of the country and observe their culture in public settings.  When you have the money to, you may be more inclined to take taxis and thus isolate yourself a lot more.
6. It's a scientific fact that one can learn new things such as languages faster as a younger person than as an older person.

Another aspect I factor into this conversation might as well be another blog post all together but I'm a woman, and as such I feel like I only have a limited amount of time to myself and to be completely selfish before deciding to start a family.  I only have a certain time frame in which I could physically have children so I don't have the luxury to put off things like backpacking the world until I'm 70.  I might be a grandmother then and perhaps not free enough to take off for a year on an adventure.

For the record: I have met plenty of older retired people traveling and they have told me to travel as much as I can when I'm young but they definitely seem to be enjoying their trips quite a bit and now can treat a young traveler like me to breakfast for conversation.  :)

My Route



Cuba...so close...yet so far away...



Day 7: The Jungle

I am staying in some bungalows in the middle of the jungle along the Ruta Puuc.  I came in yesterday in the afternoon and fell asleep in the hammock outside and awoke to about twenty mosquito bites and darkness through the trees while the sounds of exotic birds and insects that I didn´t recognize buzzed around me.

Angry at myself for wasting time sleeping during daylight and for not bringing any bug spray or a flashlight I decided not to waste a day and go into the town even though it was far.  I walked a kilometer or more into the small town.  The night road was a little unsettling with the unfamiliar noises and the unfamiliar trees looming over me.  Luckily it´s almost a full moon.  That was enough to provide sufficient light to town.  I had no idea where I was going really because I´m not the type of girl who is into looking at maps and what not so I relied on my ears, which I thought were leading me to the center of town but low and behold they led me to a high school marching band.  Ridiculous as I felt, in a tiny non-tourist town watching twelve students play drums with nothing else around I asked for directions.

I got to the church and met another couple looking completely out of place.  They were from Belgium.  The man´s spanish was decent but I helped him get the next day´s bus schedule anyway.  He asked me if I was travelling alone.  I told him yes.  He then asked: isn´t it a bit....lonely?

I hadn´t really thought about it that way...

I pretty much have to hitchhike everywhere...cept I have to slip people some pesos for the ride.  There isn´t very good public transportation and thank God I speak the language.  I don´t quite know if I´d manage here without it.

Uxmal today.  Campeche tomorrow.  More pictures soon.

Tales from the Ocean, Part II

Part I

I tried to go into the ocean yesterday.  I´d go in halfway, water coming up to my waist and then the waves would crash over me hard and I´d remember the Ocean´s power, her sheer strength.  Fearfully, I´d back out again into the safety of the sandbank.

Friends would say I am an adventurous person.  There are few things I fear, but I guess there is something to be said for almost dying and then going straight to the one who almost drowned you, asking for a soft embrace.  The waves crash over me again and I am remembering my body twisting and flipping violently in ways I never thought possible while I, thinking that this was the end, fought for my life against the strength of Her just to see the blue of the sky once more.

I thought I was going to die in that moment.  I know now that I was blessed by her.  She taught me a powerful lesson that day.  She spared my life. 

As though saying:

Don´t you dare ever underestimate my power or even for a second think that you, mere human, are stronger than me.

Go forth my child.  I spared your life.  Now spare mine.

After that trip last April the news of BP´s oil spilll hit.  For months we mere consumers watched, completely helpless, as oil spilled out into the Golf of Mexico.  We watched the helpless seabirds die covered in oil and pray that an end to this would come soon.

She´d haunt me in my dreams: Your move, Jen...

I kept thinking about hurricanes and tsunamis...something´s gotta give.  She will retaliate.  We should not underestimate her.

Now, I sit in front of her, watching waves crash over, seabirds fishing, the white foam of the ocean gently caressing the sandbank before retreating.

I am so scared.  All at once a breeze blows and the shore becomes a series of white water.

El Cuyo, Mexico

I am here.

Not the calm waters I met five years ago...

I came to this beach in particular because five years ago I came here.  These were the most tranquil waters I´d ever seen.  I would swim here in the middle of the night.  I´d run my hands under water and could see every single ripple.  Of course I came here in the month of July then and I guess the ocean is different in January.

These are not the waters I was ever so politely introduced to five years ago, nor is there a beautiful boy with green eyes and the most gorgeous body you ever did see from Veracruz courting me on this beach as there was then, but I had a boyfriend.  I always had a boyfriend.  Gorgeous boy is married and living in Veracruz now.

Be here now.  My initial theme for this journey.  What a lesson that is: coming back here and finding that the paradise of my mind is cloudy and the waves too great to swim in.  You can´t go back to recreate moments from your past.  There is only here and now.

That being said, my time in Merida is up and I´m changing plans and heading somewhere I´d never been before.  Time to fly, but also be present while flying. :)

As for making peace with the Ocean...that story is to be continued...

Merida: Day 2

Okay so I know I said on rule number 4 on A Girl´s Backpacking Guide that one shouldn´t drink when they are backpacking.  I also know I may have posted several pictures on Facebook last night of Banderas (these delightful shots that are the colors of the Mexican flag which include lime juice, tomato juice and TEQUILA), HOWEVER if you are with family you haven´t seen in five years, it´s TOTALLY OKAY because you´re not wandering around ALONE which was the speculation under which I wrote that guide.

Aside from the drinks, I am in awe of the architecture here.  I am wishing I were a better photographer.  I am obsessed with the large wooden doors that are massively tall and make every building feel like it´s a convent.  Even better when they are slightly delapidated. 

I am in love with wandering the streets of this city, but I am longing to be closer to the elements so I´m heading to this tiny little fisherman´s town for the weekend.  It´s very quaint and the whole town naps outside of their houses on their hammocks in the afternoon.  All they eat there is fish!  It´s a virgin beach still with little tourism and my cousin and I are going to have an amazing little weekend eating fresh seafood and swimming in the ocean while working on our tans. 

Everyone stares at me here and I´m convinced it´s because of my Casper-like complexion.  They almost seemed relieved when I explain that I´m from Chicago and we only see the sun for three months a year.  It´s like they found out I don´t have some crazy disease that makes me look like a vampire or something.

Merida: Day One

I have no idea what time it is and I have no idea why that bothers me so much, but it does.  I spent the whole morning walking trying to orient myself in this old city.  I got lost four times already and have been here for less than two full days. 

It´s rainy, wet and humid here.  I´m glad I didn´t stay in Cancun yesterday.  After flight delays in Chicago (thank you snow) I got to Cancun around 3p.m.  I was supposed to have landed at noon...I decided to go ahead with my original plan and go to Merida directly.  After customs and baggage claim and a bus to downtown Cancun I barely made the 5p.m. bus to Merida.  I checked into a cute hotel with a gorgeous garden and pool.  It´s simple, quaint and absolutely charming. 

I think I decided on my theme for this trip:  it´s called BE HERE NOW.  This morning I went to the Zocalo (main town square) and had some famous Yucatan coffee while reading the paper.  The headline was about an increase in prostitution in this state due to the number of women with children abandoned by their husbands.  I wonder where the men go.  To the U.S.?

I was in Oaxaca this past April eating dinner with my friend when a young woman approached us handing us condoms, no less, asking for a donation to help educate the public on the prevention of HIV and AIDS.  I asked her if HIV was very prevalent in Mexico thinking that its conservative religious culture might at least help in the prevention of the spread of this pandemic.  She responded that HIV was more prevalent now because the men would leave ¨al norte¨ (up north...to the U.S.) and come back home to their wives with the disease and pass it on to them.

I remember reading an article in Chicago about this very thing except many men mentioned in the article were bisexual or homosexual and living ¨on the downlow¨ because of the potential social stigma implied by their preference.  They had unprotected sex with other men and then passed on the disease to their wives.

Anyway, back to here.  The town is quiet today.  It´s a cloudy Wednesday and I am drinking coffee watching the high school kids in their white collared shirts hustle off to school while old men in large hats hang out across the street with their shoe shining kit.  I was sitting here at this same cafe four and half years ago.  I can´t help but feel that this city feels different.  I don´t know if it´s me or Merida.  Things seemed much more lively then.

Mexico has been hit hard - tourism - it´s biggest industry is fighting to keep the cities clean and safe but as the economy worsens and government is consumed by fighting against the drug cartels, tourism is getting hit harder.  The bad press isn´t helping, nor is the excessive violence plaguing the country.

Still I´m happy to be here.  I am happy to wander the streets and trip over cobblestone and smile at the old men and women saying ¨buenos dias.¨  Everything tastes better here right down to the Diet Coke or in this case, Coca Cola Light.  I am in awe of the colonial architecture this city is famous for.  I stood in front of a small church for twenty minutes straight today (it seemed that long but I have no sense of time here) completely still, consumed with the detail.

A Girl’s Backpacking Guide

Okay, I leave tomorrow.  I’m less anxious, more active today, although still very sick.  I figure this cold should be gone in a couple of days so I’m not postponing my leave date.

As I’m packing, I thought it’d be wise to share some backpacking secrets especially for the young women that plan to take backpacking trips at some point.

1. Get a knife.  I have a gorgeous Swiss Army knife that I take with me on all of my trips.  Not only is it useful for protection but I use it all the time.  I use it to cut the fresh mangoes I buy at local markets.  I use it to cut the thread on the hem of my skirt that’s come undone.  I sleep with it under my pillow at hostels where I’m sharing rooms sometimes (hey you never know).  Anyway, it just comes in handy, plus you feel empowered to protect yourself and walk around with less fear, which in itself, helps prevent any sticky situations allowing you more confidence. 
2. Walk around like you know where you’re going, no matter how much you might stick out in the crowds.  Be confident.  Don’t be afraid to smile at strangers and enjoy the sights but don’t walk around like a deer in headlights.  That “lost” look attracts not only people coming to sell you things but also people that might want to take advantage of you.
3. Pack a solid first aid kit.  Include bandages, hydro cortisone cream, disinfecting cream etc.  Anything you would need to take care of yourself after cuts or rashes caused by allergic reactions.
4. Don’t drink alcohol.  I know it seems counter-intuitive considering you are on vacation and want to have a good time but this isn’t your neighborhood pub where everyone knows you and you can stumble on home safe and sound afterwards.  This is another country.  Be responsible.  If you must drink stick to beer and keep an eye on it at all times.  I suggest not drinking.  You’re in a new country…why dull your senses? 
5. Be open to new experiences.  So you've never seen women breast feed in public – don’t gawk.  See it for what it is and move on.  So you hate the way the men look at you in this country.  Don’t over analyze it, accept it and move on.  Talk to strangers.  Make new friends.  Practice the language.  Learn to say hello and thank you and please and nice to meet you. 
6. You are not here to change the world.  You’re here to witness it and stand in awe of it.  Maybe you have more formal education than those in the country that you are visiting.  Maybe you think you can teach them about feminism and change aspects of their culture with your “enlightened” perspective.  Newsflash: there’s a reason you are visiting this country and it’s not to change the very culture you’re attracted to viewing firsthand.   Leave it at home.  Sit and observe without judgment and walk with humility.  You may find that your experience with a new culture teaches you more than you expected. 
7. When in Rome, do as the Romans.  If it is uncommon for women to visit taverns alone in this country, then don’t.  It doesn't matter that it's entirely appropriate back at home.  If it is inappropriate for you to shake hands as a greeting then kiss everyone hello. One time I was in a rural part of Mexico quite homesick and I went to a bar to have a beer and write in my journal.  I was dirty, wearing awful clothing I’d been travelling in for weeks and every man stared at me and kept harassing me.  There were no women in the bar.  The men kept trying to talk to me and I was not having it.  I later found out that going into a bar as a woman alone in this part of town meant that you were a prostitute looking for clients.  Oops! 

Have fun.  Meet new people.  Explore history and culture.   Smile a lot.  Watch your back.  Carry a knife.  Be safe.

Choose your own adventure series: Mexico.

In this case, it's choose my adventure really...

I’m nervous about my upcoming trip – nervous because I leave in two days and I’m terribly sick with a cold.  Worse than that, despite having the time to do so, I still haven’t managed to plan out my trip or route.  I have an idea of the activities I’d like to do but haven’t planned those out either.

Who gets anxious about her vacation? Moreover, who gets anxious about a trip she is taking by herself strictly for herself?  I do!! I do!!

I was telling a friend about this and she suggested I pick a theme for the trip and focus on the theme throughout my activities.

Perhaps one could be investigating Mayan spiritual practices, both past and present.  Maybe I could go out there, fancy myself a journalist and then write about what I find.  I could visit temazcales, ask to speak to the village’s medicine men and write a perspective on the ways of the Mayan healing.

Or maybe I dedicate the journey to sensual pleasures (non-sexual ones, pervs).  I could do a journey of the senses taking in the delicious scenery, the beautiful food, the sensation of hot sand beneath my feet or the cooling of an ocean breeze blowing softly past my salty arms. 

Another interesting theme might be the people.  I could try and meet as many people as possible and write their stories of hope, despair, life lessons and joys.  Through their voices on my journey I might find one that uniquely resembles my own…

So what do you, dear reader, think I should do? 

A spiritual journey through the investigation of ancient indigenous customs?  Indulgence of the senses through bodily pleasures in one of the world’s most beautiful of places? Or a character study of culture in Mexico’s Yucatan peninsula?

Please post your comments or suggestions below.  Here is a map of where I will be.  I have fifteen days there.  I leave in two.

Quintana Roo and Yucatan state are on the agenda.  I am not leaving Mexico and only heading to Campache is there if time.

FAILED: How to ruin your vacation in two seconds flat...

In less than ten days I will be somewhere in the Yucatan Peninsula, Mexico.

I’ve been thinking about this trip for a while – months.  Recently I’ve been reading  Eat Pray Love to get myself motivated for what looks like it is shaping up to be another solo journey.  I haven’t taken a trip by myself since I was 22 and I backpacked the Mayan Route in Southern Mexico.  It was a beautiful, spiritually enriching, and often, a lonely journey, but one I needed to make.

So of course, while I’m planning to take this trip with activities like swimming in the most beautiful cenotes only native to this region and hiking up some majestic pyramids, what do I do last night?

I think I broke my toe.  In the spirit of having wild backpacking adventures I choose to wrap some gauze and electrical tape (it was either this or duct tape) around the offending toe and limp around my apartment all day like nothing is wrong.  Sure, I could go to the doctor, but why?  He’ll only tell me something that I don’t want to hear like not to walk on it or to take it easy or something. 

This reminds me of the time I almost died from this crazy wave in the ocean (read that story here) and the first question I asked the doctor who was about to stitch my face up was:  “So when can I go back in?”  The doctor, slightly surprised at my question (which I guess might happen when you’re a young female foreigner that needs stitches on HER FACE) broke my heart by saying a whole seven days.  Seven days?!?  I wasn't about to hang around a sleepy beach town where I can't go to its only attraction for seven days!

Conclusion: doctors are stupid and unnecessary.  Disclaimer: my scar healed quite beautifully and you can barely tell now…but that’s irrelevant.  We’re talking about my toe here…

Pain is nothing.  I will still snorkel, dive and hike around one of Mexico’s most beautiful states.  Did you know that the average temperature for Merida right now is 84 degrees?  Did you also know that I live in Chicago?

It should be better by the time I leave, right?

Travel Tales: Lessons from the Ocean

A few months back I was backpacking through Oaxaca after a long Chicago winter and some lovely adventures through the chilly mountains of San Jose del Pacifico.

 Finally, we arrived at the beach.  I was so excited to smell the salty breeze, watch the endless blue waves colliding and feel the soft sand beneath my feet.  After a five hour drive from the mountains I was ready for a swim.

Oaxaca is not known for its beaches to tourists largely because of its huge waves.  It is, however, known as a hot spot for surfers.

Excited and brash as I was, I ran into the ocean swimming past the surfers with such rigor you’d have thought I was in a race.  I wanted to get to that spot in the ocean where the waters are calm and everything in front of you is as never-ending as the blue sky on a clear day.   My best friend and adventure partner, Kristin, was back on the beach and dusk was quickly approaching; I started to swim back to shore.

Nearing the shoreline I didn’t feel content enough with swimming past the surfers.  My soul yearned for another adventure with the ocean and when I saw the wave coming I knew how to pursue it.  My feet were touching the oceans floor barely and then comfortably as the tide washed ashore.  The next thing I knew I jumped and the ten-foot wave pulled me under.

Immediately my body hurled and tossed about violently – I thrashed around trying to break the ocean’s surface.  I felt as thought I had been punched in the throat, esophagus and the very pit of my stomach all at once.  I was in survival mode and I don’t remember much other than somehow surfacing, heaving heavily and in a complete state of panic – fearful that breath would never return to my body fully.

A Spanish couple came to my aid asking if I was alright.  I of course, embarrassed and clinging despartely to my autonomy, lied and said I was fine.  The ocean had just caught my off guard (translation:  I almost fuckin’ died and am majorly freaking out right now).  They then told me about the blood on my chin.  I rinsed it with the salt water for them to see.  Their faces were all I needed to see to know I needed to go to a hospital.

Finally, on solid ground I searched for my friends.  Nothing is as awkward as running towards these two guys you had just met (and yet thought appropriate to travel with them in their car for the past four days) half naked and in panic holding your hand over your bloody face. 

We got back into the car as they tried to comfort me.  My best friend by my side helping me put a shirt on through my crying.  We arrived at the village doctor ten minutes later who cleaned my wound and told me I’d be needing stitches.  My gut reaction was to ask when I would be able to go back into the ocean.  He replied that I wouldn’t be able to for at least seven to ten days while the wound healed.  He also mentioned he had no thread and referred us half an hour away to the nearest hospital.

When we arrived at the hospital there was quite the line with injuries much more severe than mine.  An indigenous couple tipped us about a doctor in town who could take me right away.  Back into the car we went.  It was at this precise moment that I knew: these guys were not my new travel companions for just a couple of days, these guys were my friends. 

In town and at the doctor’s office he worked quickly and efficiently while Kristin supervised his stitch-work (I was close to having Kristin stitch me twenty minutes earlier).  I walked out bandaged up and happy to see our friends again.

A few days after getting stitched

Right before leaving Mexico City 10 days later.

This scar on my chin represents many things to me:

I am damn lucky.  At some point when you walk through a sleepy beach town with a bandage covering half your face, the locals start to recognize you.  I like talking to new people so I explained what had happened.  They then proceeded to tell me horror stories about stupid tourists, people who don’t know how to respect the ocean and how tons of visitor die each year from broken necks and drowning because of the current.    I felt much better about not being able to swim for ten days after that conversation.

Respect the Ocean!  She is far more powerful than any one person can even imagine and although she was easy on me this time I understand her power more than I did before – on a level that DEMANDS respect, fear and gratitude.

Friendship can be found in the places you least expect.  I remember before heading into the ocean being slightly nervous about leaving my wallet in the car.  How ironic that when push came to shove these boys took care of me as well or better than friends who have known me my whole life would have.

 

The Birds Always Sing After The Rain

When I was 22 years old I went backpacking by myself to the southern part of Mexico for two months.  I spent time in many indigenous communities that had a completely different perspective on life than I did, growing up in the United States.  Everything was different; their sense of time, their sense of priorities and their spirituality.  I spent time with them and listened.  I soon learned that they had more to teach me, than I them in many cases. 

San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas

One of the people I met worked at the Mayan Museum of Medicine in San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas.  His name was Miguel.  I went to go visit him after walking two miles from my hostel to the museum in the rain.  I wasn’t in the best of moods when he looked me over and said: Sabias que los pajaros siempre cantan despues de la lluvia? Did you know that the birds ALWAYS sing after the rain?  It was a simple response to the melody of chirps and songs that were serenading us at the moment but really it was a metaphor I still use in my daily life. 

Miguel didn’t have a sense of space or time the way I did; he also didn’t see it as an issue.  When in Rome do as the Romans, and I found myself caring much less about the details and much more about the moment.  In his native Mayan language there did not exist the conditional tense, that is: should have, would have, could have, etc.  In his language they speak in the present.  That was probably one of the most rewarding things about being around him.  He was always present and in the moment.  When he listened, he really listened and when he spoke, he used his words wisely.

It wasn’t all easy lessons like with Miguel.  I spent time in Veracruz shortly thereafter and really wanted to drink a beer after having abstained from alcohol for more than one month.  I walked into a bar by myself to drink a beer and write in my journal.  I was not left alone and saw the harsh reality of being a woman in a country that has a very different sense of what women should and shouldn’t do.  

The men looked at me as though I was half crazy and spoke to me as though I was for sale.  I felt angry, not so much at them, but at this culture that seemed so unfair to women and allowed men to do as they pleased on the basis of their sex.  I felt the frustration of an outsider who wanted to turn their culture upside down and show them mine because of a sense of superiority and enlightenment.  I grounded myself and reminded myself that I chose to be there to listen and learn and not to conquer their beliefs.  I reminded myself that it wasn’t my job to do so and furthermore, I knew I wasn’t going to win that battle so I finished my beer and went for a walk instead.