Caminos Entrelazados or Intertwined Paths.



Part 2
                                                                                                      
     As Ernesto and I arrive in Chamula, we see endless street markets, towering cathedrals and chickens running a muck all around. The colors, sights, and smells seem to conquer my senses, and in submission of them, I am lead to a discreet little table, gluttoned with pan dulce. Every color, taste and flavor imaginable, little ones, medium ones and big, big, big ones. Ones shaped like plump watermelon slices, beefy little piggies, and silly looking ones that were lumpy and ugly all over, but tasted like home, like a memoir almost. My stomach bellowed for them all, though instead I bought one for Ernesto and I to share, I'd share my entire being with that man if I could, if he'd let me. 
I continue on to catch up with him.

I found Ernesto talking politics and sharing drinks with a local gentleman, a man who reminded me of my grandfather, both wise and demented, old in appearance, but young inside. I laugh at the thought of Ernesto in the heart of such a beautiful place, with money in his pocket, and a beautiful woman at his side, yet Ernesto spoke politics to the indigenous. This is why I love him, why I call him mine.
                                                     Ernesto, unlike the other men.

After discussing politics and stuffing our faces, with pan dulce, we head to our hostel to check in, and in exchange for 70 pesos (about 5 USD) we are taken to a room teeming with bunk beds and fellow tourists. The mattress, stained a yellowish brown and half the size of the bed itself, the room tangs of a hippies underarm, and there is one restroom to share amongst the ten of us.
                                 "This is living it up, Aeida!" Ernesto joked
                             "Sure is!" I announced as unpack to take a shower

 Ernesto and a fellow roommate awaited me, as I depart the shower. I later got to know this stranger as Romero, a man so tall I felt ashamed standing next to him, a face so perfectly sculpted, it was unfair really, short muddy brown hair, daunting hazels eyes and a smile so embracing that with just one smile I'd felt like I'd known him all my life. Romero had been migrating from Oaxaca, in search of "paraíso" he said...paradise, I understood. His English seemed to be just as horrid as my Spanish, so we got along well, with Ernesto as our interpreter of course.


Though I never could remember too much from that night, I remember Romero convincing us to  split a taxi to a nearby town, where he said some friends of his were having a party. I had remembered this one instance when Romero, a girl with a peace sign painted on her face and myself had walked down the street to get more ice, and as we were walking back, each of us, with a bag of ice in our hands, Romero inquired "What you come Mexico for?"

I throw a confused smile his way "The beauty I suppose"

"Ahh, okay I see, pues,a dónde vas manana?" (Where will you go tomorrow?)

"Yo no se" (I don't know) seemed to be the simplest route to the end of the conversation.

Though the truth was, I had absolutely no idea where I was going, or when I would stop going. I had left my life back in California, my job, school and my family. In search of something beautiful, something breath taking,something worth living for. And yet there I was, unsure of where I would go next. Though I believe that was the beauty of it, I had the world at hand.

Romero looked at me confused with only three words to say as he rested his hand on my shoulder in comfort
"Seguir tu corazon"

 My vocabulary had not yet broadened to this level, I looked at him confused.

"Follow your heart" the girl with the peace sign painted on her face explained.

These are the first words she had spoken all night,  and I will remember this moment always.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Wake me up when it's over.

Image
  It's nearly 6 am, the sun is beginning to rise and still I haven't slept one wink.  This past day and a half has felt more like weeks. I have spent half the night at the hospital and the rest of this morning here, at home with my older sister and my mother; digging through tubs of photographs. Searching for photos...photos for the wake. My grandfather passed away at exactly 11:30pm last night. And I begin to feel sick to my stomach thinking that less than 24 hours ago I was talking to him about my recent trip to Mexico, he'd asked about the food I ate there (he loved food) "Did you eat a lot of beans out there?" I hear him asking in his goofy old voice. And my mind begins to drift off... To somewhere happier... Now It's nearly 11 pm. It's still Monday.  And I have spent the day here at home with family, with my sisters, aunt, cousins, mother and my grandmother. We spent the day in, like crabs, only opening the door for more family members or to le
Read more

Days like you.

Image
Ernesto mi querido,        Do you remember those few nights we'd spent in Cancun? Like honeymooners, like lovers, like best friends. Laughing the past few horrible days that were behind us away. Diving down towards an endless sea. Laying lazily underneath the fiery Caribbean sun, singing and howling, dancing and falling in love. The mornings were ours to waste away in each others arms, the nights; spent listening to the waves' resentment. Our last night together you'd left a single red rose at the foot of my bed. Sheets all tucked away quietly; you and your smug smile greeting me cheerily knowing I'd seen it. Knowing I'd felt the same way. Though we both knew we were to part soon. To return back to reality. Ernesto those lazy mornings and endless nights are all I think of, they seem almost mythical now. Like a dream, and waking up is a nightmare. I long for days like those again. Days like you.                                                                
Read more

The fall.

Image
He'd told her. He'd finally told her.  "I am falling in love with you. And I wish I could find time, more time for you, stuffed in my backpack or underneath the grit of my fingernails, like the change I find in my pockets. I can't keep pretending. Acting like this feeling is non existent. It's been howling out at me for much too long now. I've tried to play cool. To keep calm and brush it off. And then. Those eyes." He'd said "It's those eyes that have brought me here, those eyes that tell me stories for days, those eyes that both mend and break my heart all at once. And I'm standing here now, like a fool with my heart strewn out across the floor before you. Because I don't want to go another day. Another minute, knowing that you're not mine to keep, knowing that I'm keeping this truth from you." ,
Read more