Another Beginning

Here I am in Singapore, my first dip into Asia.  The city is nothing like I expected, but I'll get to that in a minute.  First things first: the arrival.

Typical Singapore-- tall, tall buildings, some construction,
and an enchanting array of trees and grasses coexisting
alongside buildings and people.

I flew from Mexico City to Los Angeles on May 12th and spent a week in LA, seeing it for the third time but really, in many ways, for the first time.  The last two visits were short romps, more like drive-throughs than anything else.  This time I got to live there for a week, to walk the suburbs and get new-age fusion Korean food (whatever that means).  I picked up dry-cleaning and went to Goodwill and did other day-to-day things.  Really, the city's not all that bad-- certainly not as bad as I remembered.  Yeah, the people are kind-of loud and self-obsessed.  Yes, it's an unending jungle of cars and streets, but it's also got lush, rolling hills and a pretty good variety of trees and shrubs growing throughout.  I don't know, I guess my point is that the place has a more intimate, human element beneath that calloused exterior.

On the 18th I boarded a plane for Taipei and 13 hours later we touched down.  My layover was ten hours long, so I wandered the airport, found a good, comfortable spot, and slept.  At 7 am I made the 4-hour jump to Singapore, where I've been ever since.

The urban planning is amazing.  You're in the middle of a
five million-person city and if not for the misted facades
of distant buildings, you'd never know you weren't lost
amidst virgin jungle.

So Singapore.  It's absolutely amazing: huge buildings and modern architecture, an absurd amount of malls, and the most efficient public transit system I've ever been on in my life.  Trees and forests are everywhere; really the island is probably 50% city and 50% green spaces, mixed together in such a way that you never feel like you're in the middle of a humongous city.  The place is also like 75% Chinese by descent, with the rest being Malaysian or Indian and then whatever white people have immigrated here for business.  You hear English and Chinese everywhere, with Hindi and Malay thrown in at irregular intervals.  Every kind of Asian food is here in droves and in general the place just feels like a melting pot on a scale I've never experienced before.

And the famed draconian laws?  Pretty much Western media sensationalism.  Jaywalking is technically illegal but never enforced; people here jaywalk as much as in the US.  Chewing gum is allowed for personal use; you just can't sell it (so you have to buy it outside the country, I guess).  And the upshot of the strict penalties for crime (e.g. caning or death) is that the city/country feels like one of the safest places in the world.  In short, Singapore is like a tropical Europe with a hint of the exotic (via Asia) thrown in.

So much color and beauty find their way into the everyday
here, like this apartment building in Little India.

Other than shopping though, there really isn't that much to see as a tourist.  I've mostly been hanging out with couchsurfers, going hiking with a few, swimming with like 15, meeting up for dinner with a bunch more, pub trivia night with another gaggle, and then playing ultimate frisbee with, I kid you not, 40 of them.  I have met more people in the last five days than I probably ever have other than freshman year of college.  The couchsurfing community here is so active!

I'm thinking of leaving on Thursday, going to a play tonight and then heading off early tomorrow.  The next stop is Malaysia, which based on my discussions with people in Singapore could be summed up as "pretty alright but Thailand is better."  Honestly most people have said just to visit Malaka, Kuala Lumpur, and then leave.  Heh.  As with most advice though, I probably will just do my own thing and play it by ear.

And We're Out

Tomorrow at this time I will be in an airport, leaving Mexico.  Tomorrow at this time I will have been in the country 87 days, two days shy of three months.

It's been an interesting experience to say the least.  The last few days have only added to that.  I left Puebla on a Saturday after some of the most exercise-filled days of my trip.  Two spinning classes, one full-day climbing outing, and plenty of dog- (and people-) walks.  I was even in Puebla for Cinco de Mayo, which I found out that day is really only celebrated in Puebla; nowhere else in Mexico really gives a shit (the battle had to do with defending Puebla; Mexico's days of independence are actually September 15th and 16th).

On Saturday I got in to Mexico City and found that my hosts had left for a party.  They'd told me they'd be in from 4-6 pm but with traffic and a bus delay I didn't make it in time, so I spent the night in a large, lonely hostel.  At least I had the room to myself, I guess.  The next day I went climbing.  Well, I went *with* people who went climbing.  After climbing five times in less than a month -- all this after 8 months without doing it once -- the tendons in my fingers were hurting and so I thought it prudent to avoid further damage.  I belayed and watched people going up and, occasionally and unexpectedly, very rapidly back down. 

 ---

I've been staying at a yoga commune since Monday, spending my last four days there.  It's without a doubt one of the most interesting places I've stayed in Mexico.  The place belonged to my host's grandparents and it's adorned with all the pomp and opulence of a rich, late nineteenth century mansion: large, impressive chandeliers; wooden flourishments decorating walls and doorways; stained glass and old, dusty furniture.  The place looks like it fell out of time, like it's been lost or drifting since a hundred years ago and maybe still is. 





It feels like it's right out of Great Expectations.  The furniture is sparse, dust-covered and unkempt.  The

bronze is worn and rusted, the paint peeling and some glass panels broken.  Lights are notably absent, or perhaps I should say that darkness is conspicuously present.  At night, shadows dominate the place as the one working light on the chandelier is swallowed in the large, open space.  It feels a little bit magical.

And then there's the fact that the doors are always closed, locked.  All these grand spaces and yet you're kind of shut into a tight corridor

with a metal railing overlooking the shadow-lined corridor below.  At uneven intervals doors will open or shut and out will come someone you've never seen; I have no idea how many people live in the house.  At least 8.

The whole place is some odd mystery and yet it's all just sitting there in the middle of Mexico City, hidden behind an old, iron gate and a white façade.  So unexpected.

Anyway, that's about all to report.  Tomorrow I leave (theoretically) for LA for a six day stint in the US.  Wish me flight luck!

Long Time No See

So it's been 41 days since I last posted-- over a month.  Trust me when I say that wasn't intended.  Moreover, being that the last post was a story about suicide, the insensitivity (and irony) of leaving a long silence doesn't escape me; sorry for that.

In any case, an explanation is in order.  My intent with this blog was not just to say, "I'm here, doing this.  A week ago I was in this other place, doing such and such," but instead to try to convey my thoughts and feelings.  Apparently that kinda petered out.  The thing is, after a certain amount of time, traveling becomes life.  The lack of routine, contantly meeting new people, engaging in new and unexpected experiences or troubles or frustrations-- they form a new kind of order.  The novelty becomes less novel.

I get the feeling that, were I traveling in a different culture or atmosphere, everything would start over again.  The game would be reset like an hourglass being turned over and I'd be left scrambling again to orient myself in a new world.  However, that hasn't been the case these last three months-- it's been Mexico from the get-go.  As a result, the grooves have been well-trodden and it's been rather easy to just flow with the current.

That's why I haven't written: things just haven't seemed that noteworthy.  I'm sure in a year I'll think back and remember it all as so exciting and exotic, but for the moment this has been life.  Still, I probably should be recounting that life, and so from here on out I'm gonna try to write more regularly and say what's going on, even if I don't feel like I can say it poetically or well.

With that in mind, here's a super-fast recap of the last month and a half, with apologies for the unfortunate length:

---------------------------

I spent a week and a half in Guadalajara.  The city was large and cosmopolitan, though I can't say I really fell in love with it or anything.  The couchsurfers I stayed with were really cool, though, and for me at least that really can make or break a place.  While there I got to go mountainbiking for the first time in my life and it was a hell of an experience.  The bike that my host procured for me had 21 gears, all of which would consistently skip while you were trying to go uphill, jumping and jolting to the point that I pretty much had to run up every hill we got to, dragging the bike alongside me.  This added to the memorability of the experience-- shooting down gravel slopes, swerving or popping over big rocks, then quickly dismounting and running up the next slope to try to keep up with my host.  It was terrifying, exhausting, and a lot of fun.

 

The thing I remember most about Guadalajara though, is my host Claudia.  She made racing noises while driving, didn't know how to cook almost anything, and had such a unique was of talking it pretty much was guaranteed to make you smile, if not for her gesticulations then for the random, incomprehensible sounds she was prone to throwing in.  She was so vivacious and fun to be around, always bursting with excitement at everything new and novel.  I remember when I described her as "quirky" and, more than anything, remember the look she gave me when I made a terrible attempt at explaining what quirky means: "it's like if you were a painter but you only painted lemons and you had, like, twenty paintings of lemons in your house."  I spent a long time after that trying to assure her that I wasn't calling her insane....

After Guadalajara I went to Guanajuato, a city of steep, narrow streets and tight alleys.  It was my first time staying in a hostel alone and the best way to describe it would be terribly underwhelming: one Aussie dude snoring loudly all night and two Chinese girls that spoke not a word of English or Spanish.  It was kind of a lonely two days. 

After that came San Miguel de Allende, a beautiful artist town that's completely swamped by American and Canadian ex-pats.  It was there that I met Michael while staying in another hostel.  He was a 20-something Dane that was incredibly intelligent, logical, and who disagreed with me on everything.  Somehow, though, we got along great, and my four days and three nights in San Miguel were spent almost exclusively engaged in 5- or 8-hour debate marathons with Michael, discussing the value of science or medicine or conspiracies or morality or practically any other subject out there, the two of us firmly planted on opposite sides but, in time, each coming to see a bit of the other's perspective.  I honestly don't think I've ever learned as much talking with any one person as I did talking with Michael, and I can only hope he feels like he gained something talking with me as well.

From San Miguel I went to another of Mexico's "colonial jewels," Querétaro.  There I met a girl-- an American named Yael-- and wasted two days on her.  At the end of it I came to the realization that her pretty face didn't make up for her personality, and with that I was off to Mexico City.

Mexico City was nothing like I'd imagined.  Big, sprawling, incomprehensible in size?  Yes, yes, yes.  But dirty and polluted and overrun with traffic?  Well, not really.  In fact, it was a heck of a lot nicer in all those aspects than most of the places I'd already been (granted I was almost exclusively in the downtown area of Mexico City so i can't speak about the more peripheral regions, but I'm also comparing that against mostly downtowns in other cities as well).  I stayed in hostels again, thinking this would be a good place to meet fellow travelers.  The first place I went to had great reviews on the internet, being lauded repeatedly as a very "social" hostel.  I soon came to understand that "social" meant "beer, drinking, and bars."  In fact, the hostel had a bar on the roof and that's pretty much where everyone remained from 3 pm until 3 am. 

I tried to socialize, to hang out and meet people, but I discovered that in a bar, a man without a beer in his hand is a social outcast.  The only real conversation I had was with a German whose name was Zach as well.  I asked him where he'd been to already and where he was going.  He'd spent some time in Cuba.  "Oh yeah?  What'd you see in Cuba?" I asked.  "All of it," he said. "All of it?" I repeated, increduously.  "Yeah, it's not that big."  I let that conversation die and just went down to bed. 

The next day I found a different hostel and five days later left Mexico City.  Before I left though, I had a chance to go rock climbing with two couchsurfers, going about an hour and a half outside of Mexico City to a forest with large, rock spires shooting out above the canopy.  I didn't have my own shoes with me, though, and had to borrow shoes from my hosts.  They were really small and incredibly painful, making that experience particularly memorable but enjoyable nonetheless.

From Mexico City I went to Oaxaca, arriving April 6th.  I ended up spending three weeks there.  The time I was there, the people I met, and the things I did probably deserve their own post, but I'm on a roll.  I didn't intend to spend so much time in Oaxaca-- in truth it was my shoes that made me stay.  I'd finally decided that I wanted to make rock climbing a big part of my travels, so I'd asked my parents to send my climbing shoes and harness down from the US.  The USPS said it'd take 6-10 days to arrive, but I found out from several Mexicans that it sometimes can take up to a month.  With that in mind, I hunkered down and tried to find something to do.  The first CSer I stayed with works for an NGO and said they could use database help.  I said I had some theoretical knowledge of it and would be willing to give it a shot but that you get what you pay for (they weren't paying me), so I did that for a bit. 

I also saw what is reputed to be the widest tree in the world in terms of trunk girth (El Tule tree) and saw some cool ruins (Monte Albán).  Mostly I hung out with the hosts I ended up staying with for almost the entire three weeks-- Magali, Susano, and Pavel.  When they'd get back from school we'd talk about music, watch lucha libre (wrestling) or a soccer match on TV, chat about life, or whatever.  I even got a chance to go to a quinceañera and see Pavel's band play, being of course the only white person and spending most of the time being stared at (we were on the outskirts of a little village an hour from Oaxaca).

Near the end of April I had the chance to go with Pavel to see Juquila, a small town tucked in the mountains of southern Mexico.  Pavel, Magali, and Susano were all born there and, when Pavel and I went, Magali and Susano were there as well, staying with their parents in the house across the street from Pavel's.  The town is one of the holiest in Mexico, with many Mexicans making a pilgrimage to it at least once in their lives in order to see the Virgin of Juquila.  I spent most of my three days there vomiting and listening to every crazy theory out there as to why I was sick-- it was the mole I ate or the fact that I ate it with water instead of juice or that I ate a piece of cake in the evening or it was the altitude or the change in weather or this or that or another thing.  I ended up carrying the sickness with me back to Oaxaca, continuing my early-morning vomits for 5 or 6 days total, though in truth I felt fine except for the mornings. 

And then on May 3rd I finally left Oaxaca.  And now I'm in Puebla, staying with a 27-year-old that absolutely loves to bike.  She leads spinning classes and so I've had a chance to try that (more enjoyable than I expected!) and we also got a chance to go climbing which, added to the one time in Mexico City and the three times in Oaxaca, makes five times in Mexico so far. 

The plan at the moment is to leave on Saturday and return to Mexico City, staying there till my flight on the 12th to Los Angeles.  I'll be in LA for six days and then, on the 18th, leave for Singapore (unexpected, I know).  I'm hoping to wander up through Southeast Asia and then either head towards India or China, with the intent being to learn either Hindi or Chinese, the choice probably ultimately coming down to whim and fancy, I guess.

So with that, things are caught up.  Apologies for the length of this post and, once again, apologies for not keeping this updated.  Hopefully I'll do a better job of this in the future, though at this point it's probably better if I don't promise anything....

The Bridge

A story inspired by a painting I saw in Guadalajara; unfortunately I wasn't sharp enough to take a picture of it at the time.  This is the first short story I've every written-- actually perhaps the first piece of fiction I've ever written-- so apologies for whatever shortcomings there may be.  Given that it is my first attempt at fiction, any comments or criticisms would be greatly appreciated.  Also, as before: not suicidal.  :)


They say that wherever you go, there you are.  And when I think about it, that's always been the problem.  That's the thought that's plagued me for all these years, that's hung over and before me like a thick veil, driving the color from my world.  And really, at its deepest, I think that's what caused me to do it; that's what caused me to jump.

I don't know when the idea first entered my mind-- it must have been months before.  I don't think I was even really aware that I was thinking about it for the first few weeks.  I just kept coming to that bridge more often, standing in that same spot.  I like to think I found the plunging waters beautiful, so tranquil and calm and then all of a sudden white froth and open air.  It was like they were trying to erase themselves from the picture.  I imagined millions of drops of water, marching smugly towards a waiting void.  Sometimes I'd try to follow them with my eyes, picking out a floating coke bottle or some dirty styrofoam container, watching eagerly as they inched slowly closer towards the dam's smiling lip.

At first it was just whenever I happened by, picking up a movie or something, but soon I started ending up there every day after work.  I'm not quite sure how-- my flat was in the other direction-- but it happened so often and then one day I realized I'd been there every day for a month-- weekends, too.

I guess I should have realized it then.  I don't know, maybe a part of me did and just didn't care.  It certainly wasn't a hard lie to keep from myself, what with all the other people walking by or stopping, laughing and talking.  ''I'm just enjoying the view,'' I'd say to myself.  ''What's so wrong with that?''  Nothing, nothing at all.  It was a fine view: the flowing water, the tree-lined shores, and the dam right at their union like a handshake from one shore to the other.  Besides, the bridge was beautiful; anyone could see that.  Columns of old, indifferent stone worn smooth by years of wind and rain, light brown like coffee with too much milk.  Cold and calm and free.

Often as I stood there, looking out upon the waters, I'd run my hand over the columns' weathered surface, feeling the stone and wondering if the stone could feel me.  I'd stand up straight and imagine myself to be one of those cold, indifferent columns, simple and immortal.  Untouched by troubles.

Still, that was only wishful thinking; I knew the world wasn't that kind.  I just wanted it all to be different, you know?  I just wanted to be someone else.  It was like, 36 years and this is it?  A crappy flat and a dead-end job?  Even my four white walls looked so bored they wished they could get up and leave.  And that was it.  Where was the passion?  Where was the excitement?  I just couldn't find it, and believe me I tried.  I rented all the movies people raved about, I watched all the sporting events people were excited about-- I just couldn't see it.  I couldn't care.

And then one day, watching the water, it hit me: just jump.  That was it.  It was so easy.  Just jump and goodbye job, goodbye flat, goodbye empty life.  Not only that but it was the perfect revenge.  Here it had always seemed like life had the upper hand, standing behind you with a knife against your back and telling you to just keep going, keep living.  But here it was, the solution to it all: just stop.  Jump.

Once the idea hit me I'll admit I didn't really look back; I didn't have any second thoughts.  The only thing I decided was I'd wait until sometime when there weren't any kids around.  I'm not sure why I got fixed on that.  After all, what did it matter if they saw a man jump?  What did it matter if they saw him pass over that lip, plunge into the waiting void?  Hadn't they seen the coke bottles and the styrofoam containers do that a thousand times?  Was this really any different?  I don't know, maybe it was my sense of moral responsibility that made me choose to wait.  When it came down to it, it didn't really matter much anyway-- a couple days, a week.  I was already just killing time, so what was the hurry?

In the end though it only took three days.  I didn't really change my routine; I just kept coming every day after work, standing by that column, turning every once in a while to see if any kids were around.  I wasn't too worried about anyone trying to stop me-- I doubted whether they could get to me before I'd done it, in fact whether they'd even realize what I was doing-- and so when the time came there was really nothing to it.  I calmly lifted myself onto the thick, cobbled edge, pretended I was a stone column, and stepped off.

As I was falling, falling, falling I remember feeling like victory borne on golden wings.  I felt like I'd slapped life straight in the face, like I'd won.

When I hit the water, though, I felt the full force of life slapping back.  It all happened in an instant-- the violent splash, the crack of bones, the cold, cold water rushing over and through me, pulling me under.  I was sinking, being dragged down and swallowed by the blue-black waves.  And as I sank, far above me I could see the filtered light of day, could see the distant rays of golden sunlight fading softer and softer, being erased-- just as I was-- by those cold, dark waters.

And as I was looking up at that dying light something happened, something inside me.  I felt panicked.  I couldn't breathe.  And I realized that all I wanted, all I'd ever wanted in the world was a breath of fresh air.  My lungs were burning, flooding, while my arms flailed, trying blindly to grasp at anything that might bring me back.  And for some reason, in that monumental state of panic, that line from ''Fight Club'' came into my head.  That part where the penguin tells Edward Norton, ''just keep swimming!''  And then, as if everything was firing in sequence, I remembered life and the knife against your back and just keep going.  In this instant that lasted a lifetime the thick veil was finally lifted, and for the first time I saw the knife at my back; I saw the hand holding it and the hand was mine.  It had always been mine. 

I felt like crying from joy, like repenting.  I'd been so blind, so lost.  I'd had it backwards-- inside-out and upside-down.  It was my hand.  It was me.  And then in horror I realized that now, when for the first time I could see clearly, every possibility was fading around me, disappearing forever beneath those blue-black waters. 

And as reality rushed back I found myself clawing against the current, dipping beneath the waves and then fighting back above them.  I could hear the roaring waters at my back, could almost feel the cool vapor rising over that threatening lip from the silent void beyond.  I was fighting with everything in me, desperately tearing at the waves, struggling to avoid my chosen fate.

And eventually, somehow, I made it to shore.  I was broken and hysterical.  I couldn't see anything, feel anything except the air in my lungs.  I was crying and gasping and clutching at the wet soil-- grasping and releasing thin pockets of mud with blind intensity, wheezing uncontrollably into the damp earth.

It wasn't long before people arrived, crowding around and shouting.  The paramedics came soon afterwards; I could hear the droning siren and then the shuffling feet as the crowd parted to let them near.  They must have put me on a stretcher-- with my shattered legs I suppose they had to-- though all of that is rather hazy.  And then I was being carried towards that blazing sound, staring at treetops and passing clouds, bobbing and wafting on the gentle breeze and feeling so light it was almost like I was floating.  And the last thing I remember before falling into that deep and empty sleep is looking up at the bright blue sky-- a blue so different from the water-- and being amazed at how open it seemed.

And that's it.  That's all I remember.  Of course, there were the months in the hospital, the physical therapy, and learning how to walk again.  I didn't mind that though, thirsted for it, in fact.  I was in love.  Each day felt full of promise, each moment so much more vibrant than before.

After I got out of the hospital I went back to my spot a few times, visiting it, touching the stone and looking out on the water, but it felt different; it didn't feel the same.  And eventually I stopped going-- I moved away to a new job and a new flat and a new life that I owned and authored-- but before I did I left my story there.  I wrote a message, took my heart and carved it into that cold, indifferent stone.  And when I left it read:

''Wherever you go, there you are.  So just keep going.''

The Sea Within

Sailing is a magnificent thing.  It's hard to put into words, but the experience seems to soak through you, to seep into every pore and sense you're feeling.  As you're out there you don't really realize it, so slow is the process, but that whole time you're being softly seduced by the waves and sea.

Of course, that's not how it starts though.  At first, you're seasick.  Nauseous and miserable.  Each wave-wrought lurch and plunge of the deck draws higher in your mouth the gristly, salty taste that so faithfully precedes vomit, so you stare at the horizon or you stare at the waves and at the same time you're praying to God, to your screwed-up sense of balance-- to anything that might listen, really-- that the nauseum end.

And, eventually, it does.  In the romance of the sea, I think this is where you're officially smitten.  As the seasickness subsides a new awareness rises up in its place as you find yourself intimately attuned to the rocking of the waves.  The rush and roll of the boat, so recently a cause of torture, now soothes with its meditative rhythms.  You find that when the boat sways, you sway, too.  And when it dips, you're dipping.  Like a dancer feeding off the movements of his partner, you fall in step with the flowing waves, expecting and embracing their motions.

And all this time the wind is blowing, gliding swiftly over the surface of the sea, quietly collecting the cool salt spray it will brush upon your cheeks.  That wind, that air-- it's easy to be blind to it.  Until, that is, you raise your sails.  Then, the taut white sheets bucking against the gusts, you feel the sheer force of that once tranquil wind.  And as you ply against the rigging, throwing every muscle into raising the sails, the distinction between man and ship grows dim.  I know it sounds strange, but at those times it's hard to tell where taut tendon ends and taut rigging begins, and at least for a moment that bright white wing is yours; it's you that's rising on the wind.

At night, as with most romances, the emotions thicken.  Sitting watch at midnight, the sails ablaze with a magnificent back-lit white, the waves ever-rolling, ever-soothing, a vault of stars twinkles down to reflect the froth-topped waves.  The night's silence resonates, seems louder in fact against the wind whistling, the waters crashing, and the rigging sighing against its load.  There are the things that seep in; this is the depth that fills your pores.

It's strange-- I thought that being on a sailboat a person would feel an expanded connection with the world at large.  You're borne on waters that have seen worlds away and on winds that have touched mountains you'll never know.  Yet as you look out in all directions on miles of swaying water, your world contracts.  There's the boat.  There's what you feel, what the boat feels.  Your perceptions of the world change, but rather than expanded they've turned more focused, bent inward and sharpened on the moment around you.

But it's not just while you're on the water.  The rolling of the waves, the soft caress of the wind, and even the serene, careless feeling of being adrift-- on the water or in your life-- they stay with you, whispering softly for days after your feet have touched the land.  You notice the breeze and the swaying in your legs.  You stare at a glass of water and envy the glass its waves.  The memories, the feelings, the waves-- they've trickled through you, left a residue of cool salt spray.  Somehow, in those few short days, things have changed, you've changed.  You aren't who you were.  Somehow, the sea is in you.

(Note: Matt suggested adding a travel map to show where I've gone and what route I took-- what a great idea!  I've added a link on the right side of the page to a google map showing just that.  Enjoy!)

Of Paradise

I'm having a strange time in Puerto Vallarta.  I've been here four days and I guess I'm supposed to be happy, or at least that's what I'd always thought people did here, but I just can't feel it.  It's funny.  On the sailboat ride down -- me and Chuck and Gary and three feet of legroom and sleeping on the table cushions -- there I felt comfortable and, when I think about it, I guess I was happy then.

But ever since then it's felt like everything is rocking back and forth, like the world's wobbling just a bit while millionaires next to their towering yachts don't even look up and say hi as you pass.  It's all felt so empty and yet the marina here is so lush -- three pools! masseuse! parrot show at 7! -- and I remember watching a crab near the water scurry between two rocks, disappearing within a crack, and I kind of wished I was that crab.  Or even one of those rocks.

On my second day here I met a girl.  I saw her profile online and said, ''hey we seem to share a lot of similar interests maybe we should meet'' and we did and it was a date, although I didn't realize that when it started.  We walked along the sea at sunset, with waves and surf whispering softly that it was ok that everything was still rolling back and forth.  As I scanned the shore for crabs and cracks she told me of her list of things to do before she dies and of the ones she'd already done.  ''Number 47: have someone fall in unrequited love with you.''  The boardwalk passed and then we were sitting in a half-lit park, her tiny hands seeking my arms or shoulders more and more as she laughed, while I was

wondering if her list had a ''Number 48: fall in unrequited love.''

In the morning I met a couple as I sat alone on a bench trying to figure out what I was feeling.  We talked on a while, them in green shirts the color of dollar bills, while I kept wondering if they noticed the toilet paper that'd blown next to her shoe.  They told me of life purpose, that you can have anything you put your mind to and can change the weather with your thoughts.  I guess they must be right because their condo was huge and luxurious -- I saw it.  And as the evening wore on and the sun sank below their glass veranda he drank and drank while his wife, still telling me of mind control, didn't care.

And then for some reason on the fourth day I felt tired, so very tired.  And I laid in bed for hours but I never felt any closer.  It was like a tiredness that hung off you, like a sludge or leaden chains, so I went to the internet cafe and spent four hours looking at other places I could be and I felt a little better I guess.

So that's it.  That's been the last four days.  And it's not like I can complain because there's really nothing else I'd rather be doing here.  I'm just waiting for the boat races this weekend -- to crew for Chuck and Gary -- so that I can leave.  Until then I'll just watch the Spring Breakers and the honeymooners and the timeshare owners and see if I can't figure out what they're seeing.  Maybe I'll sit on a park bench, concentrate really hard and try to make it snow.  Or maybe I'll just billow a bit on whatever winds I find, rock back and forth, or pretend I'm a crab or a rock.

Like I said, I'm having a strange time here.


(As an addendum, I realize that basically everything I write-- and particularly the above-- is kinda depressing.  I'm not depressed!  It's just that I only feel like writing about the stronger emotions or experiences I have and I guess melancholy pulls me harder than happiness.  So no worries!)

5 Most Salient Memories: Mazatlán

Mazatlán in my mind is sun and sea and sky.  It is a woman named Natalia blowing smoke against the pale blue light of dawn and laughing with blackened gums.  It is arriving on the boardwalk that first morning, after a sleepless night of buses and stations, as the sun first rises from the sea.  Mazatlán is soup and jugo de res and molé, prepared that morning in loving darkness and left neatly in the fridge.  It is waves and rocks and the meditative froth that forms from their embrace.

There is a town, of course -- wide, grimy streets and taxi drivers that honk at you every time they pass.  There is a boardwalk where people are running at every hour of the day and night, and a lighthouse on a hill atop a long and tiring trek.

Mostly though, Mazatlán to me is Natalia.  I can't be sure, but when I think back it seems like she is that welcome sun, that placid sky, and the rolling of the waves.  She is that peace and tranquil hum.  And when she laughs and blows smoke against the dim morning sky, you feel like you're where you belong right then. You feel like this is home.