tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22732649667512865212024-03-21T06:16:49.799-07:00Nico's NonsenseA little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-49594247106803686692011-06-01T00:44:00.000-07:002011-06-01T00:44:31.490-07:00Day 104: The Last Dance<div align="center"><br />
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</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size: large;"> May 15, 2011</span></div><div align="center"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">Yesterday was my last FULL day in San Cristobal, today my bus will leave heading towards Tijuana at exactly 1 pm...Well 1 pm Mexican time, which could mean at 2 pm...Maybe even 3. Yesterday morning I had woken up with the worst migraine in the world, and as I stumbled out of bed and stumbled on over to try and look for pills unnoticed, I'm greeted cheerily by Yolanda and Pancho, as I hide my "morning face" I grumble that I have a headache, Yolanda say it's the heat, while Pancho tries to take pictures of me with his phone, but I'm certain it's because today is my last day here in San Cristobal. I'm certain that in some particularly odd way my body understands I'm going home and if I were crazy enough I would even say this is a sign, a sign from the earth, from my body, or from the tiny little<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>nerves in my brain telling me I should stay, I shouldn't go home. But instead I fumble around with a box that I believe is some form of Aspirin (but I'm unsure because it's all in Spanish) and take two with a glass of water. After taking the two anonymous pills I begin packing, begin getting rid of things I don't need, of things I probably do.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">Around mid-day as I'm sitting on my bed, painting, Pancho and Yolanda invite me over to lunch. Yolanda has prepared my favorite; fried fish, guacamole, Spanish rice, and those delicious little black corn tortillas I love too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's only three of us. The three originals, I think. The two I have gotten closest to over this three month long hiatus. The two who know me the most here. (Well beside Javo.) And as we sit there eating and laughing and talking about things that are of no importance, I get this feeling in my throat, and Yolanda would said it's a fish bone, but I'm certain I am about to cry, yet I hold back the tears anyway. And the day continues on...</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">After we've finished eating, we all share in helping cleaning up, and I finish up both my packing and my painting and what seems like an hour later, I am sitting around the table, with most of my closest friends and some who I've only met this week, eating yet again and talking about nothing and everything. A "<span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">despedida</span>" they say; a going away dinner. Javier, a Spanish guy who I'd only met a week and a half ago is making me "hash" these delicious little potato slices with cheese and who knows what else, while Sergio, a guy I'd met only two days ago is making me delicious pasta. I sit around the table, and get that feeling, that fish bone in my throat kind of feeling. But still, I hold back, and pretend I'm strong.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">After dinner, I am pulled out on the dance floor with Yolanda, Virginia (a lovely Chicagoan who I have had the pleasure of knowing for this past month) Pancho, Manuel (my chistoso) and Javier. I had spent many days out there, in that plaza (mostly Thursdays and Saturdays) across from the Posada dancing marimba with both new and old friends. And there I was, for the last time. The music began to take me away, and I drift off into memories I really would like to keep until another time. To look back on when it rains. And finally after much resistance, a small tear rolled down my cheek as Javier spun me. I wiped it away as if it were an eyelash on my cheek, a bug pestering me. And we continued to laugh too loudly and dance terribly.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Stupidly I begun crying when I had asked Manuel<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>where Javo had been. Javo was a friend of Pancho's, who quickly became my best friend (in Chiapas.) I had told him on Wednesday that Sunday would be my last day here in Chiapas, and he had to come over on the weekend so we could dance the night away one last time. He'd agreed, and I'd expected to see him Friday, or Saturday even. But here we were hitting early Sunday morning and I had yet to see him. Manuel had spilled the beans, he had told me Javo hadn't come intentionally, because he hated goodbyes. And there I was, in all my glory, in front of all my friends, bawling my eyes out. Not just for Javo who made the bad days seem brighter, but for Pancho, who taught me how to salsa dance, Yolanda, who taught me how to make rice and a really good cup of coffee, for Manuel who taught me how to laugh, and I mean how to really laugh, for Tom who helped me with my bad Spanish, for Virginia and Kelsi who bring me chocolate and remind me of home, for Bernaldo, <span lang="DE-AT" style="mso-ansi-language: DE-AT;">"mein</span> Schatz" who would let me talk his ear off for hours as long as I kept the coffee coming, for Clara and Aldo and Rita and Team Tigre and to all those who already left, and those who I will probably never see again, but still like to pretend that one day I will. The tears came down like rain, and at the moment, I could have cared less who saw me.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">So here's to the last dance, to those who made it all worth while, to leaving behind and one day coming back to them, to sticking it out when things got rough, to living it up and taking chances.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">To going home. </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"> To one dream down...and many more to go.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">. </div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-42782182689183017202011-05-24T00:24:00.000-07:002011-05-24T00:24:32.973-07:00Wake me up when it's over.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1u0TW73ZVGCjKqRYlvRHJzNi2uuUooaF2_LY2mxrA5opjUJxd2qrBu3ccAaYvYW3kRr5hwgllIM8NjDiQGV27hnltz85dt0anRUb0Kew0t7FobU1VntsvW-Psgtv215iHwTOmooofJk/s1600/tumblr_lkxz9eNI0A1qabe2lo1_500_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1u0TW73ZVGCjKqRYlvRHJzNi2uuUooaF2_LY2mxrA5opjUJxd2qrBu3ccAaYvYW3kRr5hwgllIM8NjDiQGV27hnltz85dt0anRUb0Kew0t7FobU1VntsvW-Psgtv215iHwTOmooofJk/s400/tumblr_lkxz9eNI0A1qabe2lo1_500_large.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">To somewhere happier...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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 let the dog out. And for a minute everything almost felt okay again. With my cousins here, things felt better. All of us exchanging stories, about our grandpa and the goofy things he did. Everything felt okay. Until I looked around and didn't see him falling asleep in his comfy old love seat, like usual. "Oh I'm just resting my eyes." he'd say</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My grandpa was everything a grandpa was suppose to be and more. And I can't thank my grandma enough for finding such a "gentle giant." My grandpa who loved lemon meringue pie, my grandpa who called EVERYONE "darlin" my grandpa who went on for days with his life stories...even when we started falling asleep, my grandpa who still asks me what Santa brought me come Christmas time, my grandpa who was always smiling wide in every picture we dug up in those tubs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Grandpa (choka)</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And after all the pictures have been dug up, all the posole has been eaten, the tears dried, and the family had gone home, I've ended up here. Alone. Next to grandpa's bed. Letting it all out. But still, holding it in. Because I would much rather be angry. Angry at God, angry at the doctors, but most of all angry at myself. For not being there with him these past three months. For not spending every second of these past two days I had, with him. For not running up to him and giving him a big old bear hug every chance I got. For not knowing he wouldn't make it from one hour to the next.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And I know you're gonna tell me "he's in a better place" and "that his pain is gone now" but to be brutally honest I don't want to believe you, because there can never be better if he's not here with us, telling us his life stories and sneaking sweets when no one's looking. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And I feel like I have been sitting here for hours, yet it's only 11:30 pm.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I hear the dish washer running in one ear while Sanctus Real's "I'm Not Alright" plays in the other ear. And this is literally the 100th time I have listened to this song. And I'm going on 101 and still I'm not sick of it. Still I haven't come to terms with him being gone. Because whenever I hear the door open, I jump up, hoping it's him walking through the door. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">But it's not.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And I'm certain this is the 110th time now. It's five past twelve. It's Tuesday. And I haven't really slept since I woke up early Sunday morning. And I keep thinking that I want to wake-up, that I want to wake-up from this terrible nightmare. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And then I realize I've yet to fall asleep. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">R.I.P Charles Maddux May 22, 2011</td></tr>
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</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-71049958880622731332011-03-29T11:20:00.000-07:002011-03-29T11:20:57.433-07:00A few nights in Tuxtla<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aWat-y1rkqBWkmgvTzo2B2uFn_Tcx63jq1geUCysTm4YAkJsyCr4Bdc9peAc0GM1FVuJ_6yuVg6rzOMlSh0tjh2NFOFDNergR6jhuysR13tsAWIA8H0_ilbyS6mTDYb8b2Wp0Jn9zyw/s1600/038-2-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2aWat-y1rkqBWkmgvTzo2B2uFn_Tcx63jq1geUCysTm4YAkJsyCr4Bdc9peAc0GM1FVuJ_6yuVg6rzOMlSh0tjh2NFOFDNergR6jhuysR13tsAWIA8H0_ilbyS6mTDYb8b2Wp0Jn9zyw/s320/038-2-1.jpg" width="320" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I'd been standing in the middle of my third class. Second to my last. With this slapped in the face kind of feeling. This paralyzing feeling.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had thought about San Cristobal, and how after these last two classes I wouldn't be greeted by familiar faces as I walked home, I wouldn't take off my shoes, let down my hair and flop onto my bed. I wouldn't see Poncho's goofy smile greeting me at the front desk, or Yoli’s mischievous smirk sipping cafe con leche in the kitchen. This sudden fear ran through me like a bolt of energy. A bolt of realization. I had left San Cristóbal. I had left home. And though it was only for three days I had felt this rush of change in me. This change I still am unable to recognize. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The call had come early morning Wednesday, I had already cleaned the hostel, checked people in and out, eaten breakfast and I was now lounging in bed reading Isabelle Allende's </span></span><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of Love and Shadows</span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Nicooo, telephonooo” Yoli yelled out putting much emphasis on the O’s. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd hopped up out of bed hoping it was some long lost ex telling me he simply couldn't go on without me. It wasn't. It had been a friend of mine who needed as substitute for her class for two days in Tuxtla. Tuxtla is the capital of Chiapas and only an hour and some minutes away from San Cristobal. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The problem? I had a class at 12 pm in San Cristobal that day that would end promptly at 1:30. But I'd said yes anyways. I'd needed this. A short get-away from San Cristobal and everyone in it. I know, I know that sounds terrible…but I'd gotten cabin fever and simply wanted out. So I'd jumped at the chance, and after my 12 o clock class I'd power walked home, packed up the essentials, said my goodbyes and headed off to the bus station. It was 2 o clock, the bus would depart at 2:30. The walk between my house and the bus station was approximately 30 minutes. I was testing time, and because I am both stubborn and cheap…I would not succumb to taking a taxi. Luckily I had made it, with time to spare to buy a bottle of water. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd soon boarded my bus and was on my way to Tuxtla. It had not even phased me yet. This morning I would have never of thought I'd be here, on a bus, leaving all that is familiar to me. I guess that's life, when you take it one day at a time. With no plans or collection of "to do" lists.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso0GXyR_CLGjmiK4mLPgq5aovf_P00kZk8G4yQHl1W5hFJ4qAVjhPOpTa_0HX0YR3qFylDQZZUsyWqPgYxXOIp-lS992x_HSDt3Q_s6CWCf9J5QllXqjawjzJ3n1-Uujsb0l_yPW-rnM/s1600/058-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgso0GXyR_CLGjmiK4mLPgq5aovf_P00kZk8G4yQHl1W5hFJ4qAVjhPOpTa_0HX0YR3qFylDQZZUsyWqPgYxXOIp-lS992x_HSDt3Q_s6CWCf9J5QllXqjawjzJ3n1-Uujsb0l_yPW-rnM/s400/058-1.jpg" width="400" /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span></a></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I arrived in Tuxtla at 3:40 exactly. My first class started at 4. I had twenty minutes to get to where I needed to be, read the lesson plan and teach my heart out. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And, </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">everything</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> went smoothly….yeah right! </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm no superwoman! I hadn't written down the address of the school, seeing as though I had been in such a rush to get all my things together and go…I didn't have Internet access to get the address and my Spanish was limited. So I'd succumb to flagging down a taxi, telling him to take me to an Internet café so I could retrieve the address. This was simply wasting more time, and I'm sure the taxi cab driver was taking the long way so I would have to pay him more, I can not be certain. Though after I'd retrieved the address, we were off! The taxi cab driver said he knew the place and would take me there immediately! It was now 3:55. The trip to the actual school took longer than expected, there were stop lights and traffic and a little old lady who decided she would walk in the middle of the street for no apparent reason. We'd arrived at 4:10. I was late, and upset that the taxi driver charged me 75 pesos just for the ride, in US this is only 6 dollars and some change, but still, I was cheap. And could have used that money for hundreds of things. I had entered the school wearing a charcoal colored tube top, a cardigan to cover any excess skin, torn up jeans, flip flops and my hair all swept up in a clip. With two bags stuffed full of my life slung over my shoulders I'd asked a tall, light skinned man with ash colored hair “Are you in charge?” not even thinking twice about whether I should speak English or Spanish to him. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">His eyes met mine. “Yes, I am can I help you?” and from there on we had fallen in love…wait, no wrong story. He'd really told me that my class had been covered and my next class started at 5, meaning I had time to dump my things off in the house I was staying in and freshen up. The friend that I had been subbing for left me full access to her “bachelorette pad” as I like to call it. The place was both simple and incredible.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">There were stairs leading up to the roof, with the most incredible view of the city, the room was stocked with canvas and books galore. The books alone were enough to keep me entertained. I had gotten more excited about all the books she'd had than the breath taking view.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">But at that moment, I had to focus, I still needed to go over the lesson plans and clean myself up, make myself look more “teachery.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">The clock struck five. And I had assumed that someone would be supervising the class while I taught, or at least stay in with me for the first five minutes. I was wrong. I'd been shoved into a classroom with 10 greasy faced children with only a “They’re all yours” and a pat on the back. There I’d stood, with my lesson plans in hand, and a frightened expression on my face, the children had been gleaming up at their teacher in awe. And me,with no time to waste, I had no choice but to jump right in! The plans set out for the day were to cover feelings. So I proceeded to write on the board in big</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">black bold letters</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I FEEL…</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And proceeded as directed on my lesson plans. And it wasn't until I was three classes into it, when I had gotten that feeling. That "why am I here and not in San Cristobal?" kind of feeling. Tuxtla reminded me most of Los Angeles. The life was fast paced, people on the streets were in a rush to get to work, to home or to wherever it was they were going, that they hadn't taken the time to enjoy the beauty around them or the sky scrapers towering above them. Tuxtla treated me well. The food was good and the pay even better. After 2 nights and 3 days in Tuxtla, I'd returned to San Cristobal. Returned home. With a handsome amount of money in my pocket, and a dozen mosquito bites scattered throughout my body. Tuxtla is infamous for sucking people in, I'm told. This is why upon my arrival my boss had nervously asked if I had been planning on moving out to Tuxtla "Yes" I'd told him in an overly dramatic voice "I simply must go!" He'd caught onto my sarcasm.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">San Cristobal holds my heart. All of it. Tuxtla and all of it's money could never drag me away. Though I admit, there are days where am I rushing rapidly through the streets of San Cristobal, late for work or a meeting with a friend, not taking the time to realize the beauty surrounding me and then, there I bump into someone with their head to sky watching the clouds pass by and I remember to slow down.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">And that same feeling, that paralyzing feeling comes over me when I realize that soon I'll have to leave San Cristobal for good, not simply for a substitute job in Tuxtla or a few nights in Palenque. I'll be leaving to go home. And though I am unsure of when exactly I will be leaving, this paralyzing feeling still lingers near, reminding me reality awaits.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: red;">Traveling Tip # 3</span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">: </span></span><u><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Always</span></span></u><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"> take time to stop and look at the clouds. No matter how late you are. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">-Nico</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-27825212435038485822011-03-12T20:09:00.000-08:002011-03-12T20:09:12.905-08:00The fall.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZyq0keJqDqXyXQsnGE8UXHYpIZTqCMACsNaFpcA2V_-78BK2qioe-7SN5KEz-7DuOSAPSJxgqRpGegFtFolqwJJ9LvPz-3zP4bV-aSQ-tqYOezbWxmXWfonLv5VfFJko7J-6IRro5IE/s1600/5433782551_2a34164837_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZyq0keJqDqXyXQsnGE8UXHYpIZTqCMACsNaFpcA2V_-78BK2qioe-7SN5KEz-7DuOSAPSJxgqRpGegFtFolqwJJ9LvPz-3zP4bV-aSQ-tqYOezbWxmXWfonLv5VfFJko7J-6IRro5IE/s400/5433782551_2a34164837_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">He'd told her. He'd finally told her. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">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."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">,</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-37981813971137793922011-02-25T11:30:00.000-08:002011-02-25T11:30:39.914-08:00The Sweetest Nightmares.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcGky59WmOMxFeRlXv6pxg3mkpiGpIEl47AdlKNAZW3R4za5pp5z17sk9xP4-F8bPI5wBlsiijx0qGbxJYL9JdZ59qyftDonioxpxtCSgrjXSzzBvAyvFwlVWf3_pUnfb1RZtJOHrs6A/s1600/2qs2j9z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcGky59WmOMxFeRlXv6pxg3mkpiGpIEl47AdlKNAZW3R4za5pp5z17sk9xP4-F8bPI5wBlsiijx0qGbxJYL9JdZ59qyftDonioxpxtCSgrjXSzzBvAyvFwlVWf3_pUnfb1RZtJOHrs6A/s400/2qs2j9z.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">These past few days I've been having this reoccurring dream, this reoccurring nightmare. I'm still unsure which. In the dream, I wake up one morning in San Cristobal and out of nostalgia and stupidity, I book the soonest flight back home. In the dream there is no time frame, I do not take a 15 hour bus ride back to Cancun or spend the day on a flight back to Ontario. I simply decide I want to go home, and at home I am! Of course everyone is happy to see me and I reminisce on the people and places I've met and seen. The dream never seems to drag on. Like most dreams it starts just as quick as it ends. In this dream, I can never remember too much of anything, except for one feeling. A heavy feeling of heartbreak of regret. Of anxiousness. Is that a word?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ehh, anyhow. I awake to a world unknown. With the covers pulled over my head, for a second, I am unsure of whether reality was really a dream, or dream a reality. I peel back the covers slowly each time and see the oak wood of my dresser next to me. A feeling of both disappointment and relief hovers over me. I'm unsure of whether to be happy I'm in San Cristobal or to feel sorrow for not being home. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I simply go on with my day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Soon it will be a month since I have been in San Cristobal de las Casas. People come and go. People from Austria, Japan, Quebec, and all over Southern and Central America, my favorite are the Argentinians. Something about them, maybe it's in the water, but they are simply the sweetest, most hilarious people you'll ever meet, honest. Wait where was I going with this? Ahh yes, okay, over this past month I've seen so many come and go already. As most of the others locals are smart to not get too attached, I've seized to learn my lesson.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4stOYfnVQ3SfKmBkYd3BMdptl5hsfKjnxmetg7JgWH3DVRSo3GoQf4sDP619e1J1ViaFHl4eMwc1z7Ht48R_aGGaWVnpUdaLyxjoMmmBD84C74I2gAO5qYP-5UXgRgbLO7KdB_9SzRXk/s1600/2nvs9c3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4stOYfnVQ3SfKmBkYd3BMdptl5hsfKjnxmetg7JgWH3DVRSo3GoQf4sDP619e1J1ViaFHl4eMwc1z7Ht48R_aGGaWVnpUdaLyxjoMmmBD84C74I2gAO5qYP-5UXgRgbLO7KdB_9SzRXk/s320/2nvs9c3.jpg" width="312" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Whether I'm awake or asleep I have started to realize a change in me. A me I hardly recognized, due to a short hiatus. A me who appreciates the comforts of home, but more-so the nakedness of being all alone in a foreign place. A me who is once again happy. Not through alcohol, men or materials even. I am simply happy in my own atmosphere. Happy waking up each morning to a fresh brewed cup of cafe con leche from Yoli (the hostel mom) to Pancho's loud but welcoming voice echoing throughout the hostel each afternoon, and to sitting around the dinner table at night watching boot leg scary movies on the hostel's ancient television set. My life in San Cristobal is not that of daring adventure, or one of endless romance. Life here is simple. It is no Cancun, I admit, the nearest beach is 4 hours away, and the weather here, greedily changes it's mind often. The cats here are skinny, the clouds often hang low and every morning the cathedral bells ring loud.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Mom, this place is a utopia, sometimes I fear of waking up in High school Musical plastered sheets, and sometimes even in multicolored cobijas. At times I wish the two could collide, both paradise and reality.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Both High school Musical sheets and multicolored cobijas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">. </div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-43805001219308662452011-02-16T16:02:00.000-08:002011-02-16T16:02:02.886-08:00Tostadas, familia, and oh so much more.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHz9-CWmDwlpYbX2VL9c5iy7fFS8OUwLyvm0DsSGtOhooWBSJeaF09uZ9F7gT4oXrsNuUOM_7cNQiB8xJYYP-W_e8zBajtqWUP0hRSjE4sKoKjAx9qMEE5iu6OZ1T7SVvzEqcmMNXYZ1k/s1600/367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHz9-CWmDwlpYbX2VL9c5iy7fFS8OUwLyvm0DsSGtOhooWBSJeaF09uZ9F7gT4oXrsNuUOM_7cNQiB8xJYYP-W_e8zBajtqWUP0hRSjE4sKoKjAx9qMEE5iu6OZ1T7SVvzEqcmMNXYZ1k/s400/367.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palenque, Chiapas</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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It's been almost a week since I’ve returned to San Cristobal from Palenque. Who knows, maybe even less, I've always been terrible with estimation. Regardless of the actual time, it's felt like years. I've gotten to know the place and the people so quickly and can hardly imagine leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New faces and stories are seen and heard each day by travelers from all around the globe, and each time they head off to further destinations, we are forced to say goodbye and go forward. As hard as one can try to detach themselves you simply cannot help it, you fall in love.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Recently I'd celebrated a 22<sup>nd</sup> birthday, and being amongst people I hadn't even known a month ago, I expected nothing more than a “Feliz Cumpleaños” if even that, to me it had simply been another day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though come nightfall I had been surprised by the entire hostel with an enormous cake, and off key singing of <span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">Feliz</span><span lang="ES-MX"> </span><span lang="ES-MX" style="mso-ansi-language: ES-MX;">Cumpleaños</span>. My heart melted as quickly as the trick candles did. Jonathon, an American man who had lingered here from California, and spoke terrible Spanish banged his fork against the table, to catch everyone’s attention “Un tostada” he’d shouted “Un tostada para Nico” he repeated. We’d all looked around for these so called “tostadas” and burst out in laughter, in realization that he was trying to give a toast…not a tostada (a delicious little fried tortilla with beans and such on it) as the night tip toed on we’d laughed and danced the night away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we do most nights here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHwxObDDRypkxFXmElIYAXKy5r2840I1yRS_56ie8ZeTofH5CgAgM4cgNjo3UblCGzN5NI_EdO9rtWfEVZsd-9hYEpLWjrKLAPZbczk-YGH2WIWjEQvhZSjy4oESTSiFK_J4zrQepyuc/s1600/mex+%252827%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHwxObDDRypkxFXmElIYAXKy5r2840I1yRS_56ie8ZeTofH5CgAgM4cgNjo3UblCGzN5NI_EdO9rtWfEVZsd-9hYEpLWjrKLAPZbczk-YGH2WIWjEQvhZSjy4oESTSiFK_J4zrQepyuc/s400/mex+%252827%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Cristobal, Chiapas</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Last night in the kitchen as we’d cooked a farewell dinner for a couple from Argentina Yoli, the “Hostel mom” had said “Somos familia” and though my Spanish is still progressing, I’d understood exactly what she’d said. We are family, no matter how long or short of a stay someone has spent in Posada 5, in San Cristobal they have become part of the family, part of something some hardly recognize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">And I wish to never leave or forget this place. Well, I’ve semi-gotten my wish. I’ve landed a job teaching English at a school here in San Cristobal de las Casas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was told “You’re like an angel who’d fallen out of the sky” when found by the Director of the school, because an English teacher was very much needed at the school and well, here I am. Ready to weather this out with them. I had simply planned on staying out here two weeks, three weeks tops, and have been caught up in this beautiful little routine. I will be out here for all of next month, I’m sure of that…as of anything further than that…quién sabe? (who knows) All I know is, that I start work tomorrow and I’m happy. I’m experiencing life a little differently, coming out of my comfort zone of materialistic items, cookie cutter living, and warm weather.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Mostly, warm weather. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-15366812455718884832011-02-11T17:33:00.000-08:002011-02-11T17:33:41.886-08:00Defeat.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpXHWWvqfjAOgCJ-wMKLBmNvmU9dQgqH534Cfit9ZwRIHEjfKDwHGgcXKNcxQGvC_QqtsCHZxdbbNbXZCj2T_4qTI-wIDfDZpcS4YOtDeHhn2ZBjTGNH-NUautt00_YAW0-H6VPqYg4w/s1600/043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpXHWWvqfjAOgCJ-wMKLBmNvmU9dQgqH534Cfit9ZwRIHEjfKDwHGgcXKNcxQGvC_QqtsCHZxdbbNbXZCj2T_4qTI-wIDfDZpcS4YOtDeHhn2ZBjTGNH-NUautt00_YAW0-H6VPqYg4w/s400/043.JPG" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ride over to Palenque was a cold and nauseating one. A five hour trip that felt more like fifteen. Half way into the trip I felt the need to violently vomit all the floor of the bus, or wherever convenient. I looked around for something to throw up in, or on if needed. As I came to the conclusion that my purse was the best and least embarrassing option, my stomach had settled. <i>"Oh thank you God!"</i> I'd announced a little too loudly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the grueling bus ride came to an end and I'd gotten off I’d met an Argentinian couple, and split a taxi with them to El Mono Blanco del Panchan (something about a white monkey) a grungy little Hostel conveniently placed in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Literally. We had been dropped off in the middle of the rain forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was definitely not how Ontario Mills Mall had depicted it at Rainforest Café, there were no singing alligators or friendly little monkeys. In fact, the monkeys sounded more like hungry tigers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once we'd found civilization, we'd decided two of us would share a room, as the other had plans of her own, which had worked out perfectly seeing as though there were only two beds available. Until Alejo, my roommate a twenty something year old Argentine, who was tall dark and slightly handsome, abandoned me! He had ran into some friends and planned on bunking in with them instead. So I figured I would move to another room as well (single dorm) which had been cheaper. Cheaper for a reason I'd thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've had closets bigger than that…come to think of it, it probably was a closet, and someone had simply decided to throw a bed in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>"Four dollars a night and not even a toilet or a sink to wash my hands in!"</i> I'd huffed! Why did I even leave San Cristobal in the first place? I'd pondered. Until I remembered, sweet epiphany! Alejo and I had left the back door to our more expensive, cabana open! Which had come complete with both shower and toilet. I'll just sneak in through the back and use that restroom whenever I need to, I'd thought, and it seemed a swell idea until just after I'd snuck in, used the restroom and was on my way out…there it was on the door,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a four inch long cockroach twitching her crunchy little antennas right at me…okay maybe she wasn't really four inches, but still, gross enough to keep me hostage in that restroom. She was not there accidentally, and both her and I knew it, she'd been hired. As an attack dog of sorts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVPYtfCuARUhYlmyUzSiz9dflytacAk-mH2D_9kigZIF_NJLp9BgYs6p8efw6Mlj9CJbL1ZzBlsrCwt1iqdKIEVQC-c6waONh53i58-GyamoOMT3XtSxvn1X3R0TIfE02SLPcT79igiM/s1600/057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyVPYtfCuARUhYlmyUzSiz9dflytacAk-mH2D_9kigZIF_NJLp9BgYs6p8efw6Mlj9CJbL1ZzBlsrCwt1iqdKIEVQC-c6waONh53i58-GyamoOMT3XtSxvn1X3R0TIfE02SLPcT79igiM/s400/057.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Mono Blanco del Panchan, Palenque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>But, wait! I thought, I'm bigger, smarter even. I still had a chance at victory! I'd looked around the restroom for something to throw at her, to shoo her away, soap perhaps? No too big, too noisy. I might get caught. Another sweet epiphany! Toilet paper! I could wad up pieces into tiny balls and throw them at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had crossed boarders, snuck into ruins, and swam with sting rays and there I was, a twenty one year old woman wadding up pieces of toilet paper to throw at a roach no bigger than my thumb “This is punishment” I muttered. For sneaking into the restroom in the first place. For leaving San Cristobal. I'd thought of my comfy little hostel back in San Cristobal, complete with a restroom, and no roaches. Oh how I longed for it.<br />
<br />
Victoriously, after<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ten minutes and twenty wads of toilet paper later, I had shooed her away. I had made it out. Alive. With not a scar on me. And when leaving that restroom I had realized that though I had won the battle she had won the war. For because of her, I would never again use that restroom…well at least not at night.<br />
<br />
<br />
Traveler tip #2: Always, always, always bring toilet paper...you never know when it may come in handy.<br />
<br />
. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-71294725132722556822011-02-08T16:32:00.000-08:002011-02-08T16:32:45.428-08:00If you love something, let it go?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIiK-jCBPe_g5Zixq4Zn0P3kqAbYKHMSoMs5VOu0mXyk-NT_e4x8Ol5UUGuqrL8wBAl_-S4ACk3bs4l8is-uqc_5XRWRsrggdn8Qf-mMRvVEg007YfFkVD8rOvuLnfmUh273iBaU1tXg/s1600/work.5735871.1.flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf.cuban-tres-player.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIiK-jCBPe_g5Zixq4Zn0P3kqAbYKHMSoMs5VOu0mXyk-NT_e4x8Ol5UUGuqrL8wBAl_-S4ACk3bs4l8is-uqc_5XRWRsrggdn8Qf-mMRvVEg007YfFkVD8rOvuLnfmUh273iBaU1tXg/s400/work.5735871.1.flat%252C550x550%252C075%252Cf.cuban-tres-player.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I've spent six days in Chiapas so far. Yet it feels more like a lifetime. I've fallen in love with the people, the sites and the place as a whole. There have been many times this week that I have thought of leaving and going off to Palenque, Guatemala or even back to Cancun, and I simply can't bear the thought of leaving San Cristobal, Chiapas. It's taken all of my heart. I am like a hopeless teenager in love. A lump begins to form in my throat even thinking of leaving.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The past few days I've spent seeing the city of San Cristobal de las Casas and all it has to offer, dancing terribly to Salsa music with friends, broiling up new things in the kitchen each day, walking through endless miles of markets and just simply seizing the day. Each day seems to linger on longer than the next, and I am simply "conteno" as they put it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cKUTebDF8XSUPpGkurL4Yabb7U79vlUe7qgavg6x22gQBzBIxqZqxO5lzGemcKNYKbZJTeUIgEe3qupOHITrIBwB_huFrSpoW1WSrdbpe4FO3L6jZZ78v84frETv2cd8_NCrauMLhEc/s1600/6375_1182663762682_1110840668_566533_5840721_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cKUTebDF8XSUPpGkurL4Yabb7U79vlUe7qgavg6x22gQBzBIxqZqxO5lzGemcKNYKbZJTeUIgEe3qupOHITrIBwB_huFrSpoW1WSrdbpe4FO3L6jZZ78v84frETv2cd8_NCrauMLhEc/s400/6375_1182663762682_1110840668_566533_5840721_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palenque, Chiapas</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Yet, I have booked a one way once again. Tomorrow I will be on my way to Palenque. A five hour bus ride away from all that I love and adore. Already I'm getting this feeling of heartbreak, of fear. The kind of feeling I got when I'd left home for this trip. Truly San Cristobal has become home, so suddenly.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I will spend three to four days in Palenque, camping underneath the stars, and beside the ruins, then after who knows where. Possibly Guatemala, Belize, I hear Costa Rica is cheap! Or even back to San Cristobal, back home. Whether I follow a path to Guatemala or take a ferry to Costa Rica. As cliche as it sounds, I'm certain of only one thing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">San Cristobal de las Casas will always hold a little piece of my heart. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-80617677353578318262011-02-06T19:29:00.000-08:002011-02-06T19:29:49.991-08:00So this is love?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPtQ1MWFR6JkOU7TnqEinX03k7yKZoPtcjK0yQOInwgUixnehfXaw_O932yBwvQGHQSpl9pGEEU1K3ny-iZ97fUxAVdW3L6YFSWACYbb0mYwr2QvcOXywRKp1vdjF3Y1zDCm81vuSYnU/s400/045.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oventik,Chiapas</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguPtQ1MWFR6JkOU7TnqEinX03k7yKZoPtcjK0yQOInwgUixnehfXaw_O932yBwvQGHQSpl9pGEEU1K3ny-iZ97fUxAVdW3L6YFSWACYbb0mYwr2QvcOXywRKp1vdjF3Y1zDCm81vuSYnU/s1600/045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a> As I write now, I see the city lights beneath me, and hear songs of love strumming on the guitar beside me. I've fallen in love. And so quickly, I'm almost ashamed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mornings are spent walking through markets that go on for days and days, afternoons are spent lounging in the kitchen, sharing stories and laughing with the locals and foreigners alike and our nights, our nights are ours to dance away. To laugh, to sing, and fall in love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An innocent kind of love. A “can I hold your hand?” kind of love. A love you can't comprehend until you've lived it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In leaving Cancun, I'd thought I was leaving paradise, but in coming to Chiapas, I've realized I hadn't experienced paradise until just then. True paradise is not; beaches, snorkeling, and beautiful faces. True paradise is finding beauty in a place. Seeing prosperity and poverty, the indigenous and the tourist both dwelling as one. I can hardly put to words why I've fallen so hard. But I suppose that's how love leaves you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Speechless. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">. </div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-64946918540420015152011-02-03T18:58:00.000-08:002011-02-03T18:58:58.996-08:00San Cristobal de las Casas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisj-UoDqRZutSDLQFUCEvZVm-GoQDrKrfPGTUIQ_LCS8aEXGbQ3T_cOeRWgdxxkSrGZXYMkOLIlOEUB_ZY_v9SdIH80uVI6mhtWRHk0xHp5_sPo-TVDfY7yxOHa1RTnv57XZRDMa0BCpU/s1600/060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisj-UoDqRZutSDLQFUCEvZVm-GoQDrKrfPGTUIQ_LCS8aEXGbQ3T_cOeRWgdxxkSrGZXYMkOLIlOEUB_ZY_v9SdIH80uVI6mhtWRHk0xHp5_sPo-TVDfY7yxOHa1RTnv57XZRDMa0BCpU/s400/060.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal">I officially landed in Cancun on the 1st. With a major migraine and a bit of nausea to go along with it, in arriving, I simply wanted to fall asleep and die. Instead, I spent the night by the beach with some fellow travelers from the hostel I stayed at. A convenient little hostel right in the middle of everything you need, called Hostel Quetzal.The next morning I was unsure of exactly where I wanted to go, so I'd packed everything up and gone off to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the bus station...ready to take the world, booked a one way to San Cristobal de las Casas and didn't look back.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbn2brfrUHDW0Eu3N4TgjsxIhLijzM3j_Rg2KeDeX4ADkfkQ8ucBo1bPieT-CNp1OotOeIM6IwLcflsErIEc31cG8tA3U5zfHXMjMjWzlkYVrCYblCrt2a6R6PyIaZpk7wEImkuGx0AI/s1600/121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkbn2brfrUHDW0Eu3N4TgjsxIhLijzM3j_Rg2KeDeX4ADkfkQ8ucBo1bPieT-CNp1OotOeIM6IwLcflsErIEc31cG8tA3U5zfHXMjMjWzlkYVrCYblCrt2a6R6PyIaZpk7wEImkuGx0AI/s400/121.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">So, here I am at a quiet little café <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in San Cristibal de las Casas; the café is comparable to those seen in French films, the chairs are curly and fancy and every few minutes a boy looking to shine shoes walks in. Luckily I'm wearing sandals, or I'd give in. Though the 15 hour bus ride out here was no penny pincher, the town is absolutely dirt cheap and I love it. Hostels are no more than 5 dollars a night which includes an open kitchen, free coffee, a hot shower and Internet. They had me at free coffee. Unfortunately tonight I am staying elsewhere. Before finding this little piece of heaven, also known as Posada 5; I had gone to the first place I'd seen. Tonight I stay in a grungy little Hotel with cold showers, stinky rooms, and a toilet that hardly runs. What can I say? I was tired and compromised for less. Tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free coffee and hot showers await. </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">I have been here for less than 24 hours and already I find myself in love. With such a place as this. At night the streets are full with vendors, laughter and music all around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children are seen walking the streets selling whatever they can, to whomever they can and you just can't resist. With faces covered in food and dirt, and shoes two sizes too small. I just can't help but see a little piece of my son, and my sister in them, and I am nostalgic for home, nostalgic for a familiar face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But still, I am as happy as a bird with a French fry and awaiting more beauty yet to come. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Travel tip #1: When you here a tsh tsh from a stranger; it's usually best <span style="color: red;"><u>not</u></span> to look.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">-Nico</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-13576943226257609532011-01-30T01:20:00.000-08:002011-01-30T01:21:16.897-08:00Countdown: 2 Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3zhm5OxDL8Ag_ft976z-sfyM7QOHQ9mbZtBhtgtnACG5Htz_UDilFVn_AFpNPBEnBFK4kABZ3Nj2Obtn_R7g75OOFfTleCDf-7EPvXvqIPAl3LJsP6ZBw2VJ2x_VF8lM9G-USZefSsk/s1600/Blogworld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3zhm5OxDL8Ag_ft976z-sfyM7QOHQ9mbZtBhtgtnACG5Htz_UDilFVn_AFpNPBEnBFK4kABZ3Nj2Obtn_R7g75OOFfTleCDf-7EPvXvqIPAl3LJsP6ZBw2VJ2x_VF8lM9G-USZefSsk/s400/Blogworld.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Early this morning It had come to my mind that I had actually bought a ticket to Cancun. Err. Well while last year was all talk; with me ranting on and on about how I was going, packing up my stuff, with money in hand...I had somehow always ended up staying, with a new tattoo or a laptop to fill it's void. This year I've started my own quiet war. Spontaneously buying the ticket, telling absolutely no one until a few days before and still, I have not packed a single thing. This lump of fear rose in my throat while thinking of being out in the big bad world without familiar faces. Mostly without mom to save me. Oh gosh did I just admit that?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">A recap of my trip in 2009. When I had landed in Cancun the first thing I did was write one of my best friends, crying to her about how much I wanted to be home and how crazy I was thinking I could actually stay there for four weeks! After being in Cancun for a few days I had grown to love the place, the people and everything surrounding. After 4 weeks, I never wanted to leave! I thought 4 weeks just isn't long enough!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is certain to happen again. Trust me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">To make things even crazier; my airline of choice <a href="http://www.expedia.com/">(Expedia)</a> calls me up this afternoon telling me my flight has been cancelled due to this, this, and that. My initial reaction is okay, so now I have an excuse for backing out. Until the lady on the other line asks if I'd like to change my flight to an earlier date or a later date. And as much as I know I'll miss home, and cry and kick and shout...I tell her "Give me the earlier flight doll." Or something like that. So here's to skipping a whole day. One less day of anticipation, and excitement. But mostly, one less day of wanting to chicken out.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">One less day of missing home; while I'm still at home...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Nico</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-16800544924261641242011-01-27T12:58:00.000-08:002011-01-27T12:58:58.158-08:00Countdown: 5 days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSEvJAfh-zeuf714kPr48I65GZFzpsNOcGVvN_6VbIxBDbJ3pjxIo87i15aQQAteBggNbLdm1u16jFBT-CYt8cEtqGA1zGlIYHaNo-LxhdBy7JhS949YGAMELV0ZeGygSmNNrrXZLXEw/s1600/photoggggg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaSEvJAfh-zeuf714kPr48I65GZFzpsNOcGVvN_6VbIxBDbJ3pjxIo87i15aQQAteBggNbLdm1u16jFBT-CYt8cEtqGA1zGlIYHaNo-LxhdBy7JhS949YGAMELV0ZeGygSmNNrrXZLXEw/s400/photoggggg.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Only five more torturous days until I leave for Mexico. The days seem to be getting longer and longer. Don't get me wrong; this torture isn't family or friend related. It' more of an inner battle. A battle I just haven't been able to win. Day after day I find myself without.... If I go on any further I feel I will have revealed too much now. I'm holding back. Just know that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Is this my quarter life crisis sneaking up on me again?What am I doing and where do I want to go with it? <em>Fink's</em> <em>"This is the thing"</em> is playing in the background and I feel like breaking down. Into a million little pieces. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Right now all I look forward to is waking up to the waves crashing beside me and a warm cup of Pocna's café con leche. Snorkeling beneath Tulum's beautiful waves and soaking up some cancerous Caribbean sun. I can't help but to recall 2009's trip. A four week trip that took me throughout Tulum, Cancun and Isla Mujeres. And in coming home I had slipped into a state of depression. A yearning for everything I'd left back in Mexico. A depression which took a lonnngg time to get over. If I ever did. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I suppose today is just one those days. One of those days I can't help but breaking down for no reason whatsoever. For everything I've been holding in. Here's to 1 less day. And five more to go.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">-Nico </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-7232827242913890722011-01-25T15:46:00.000-08:002011-01-25T15:46:34.564-08:00With the world at my feet.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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As February begins to roll around I pull out a box from the linen closet and dig through last years journal. Last years happenings. One thing that stood out to me most was reading this "I'd rather live in a beautiful dream than a depressing reality." -Self<br />
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Stop me before I go on. I sounded suicidal, I know. Though I wasn't, I was in a pretty harsh situation, wrong people, wrong way...wrong dream.<br />
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When first making "Nico's Nonsense" my objective was to make it a Travel Blog...and it's been everything but! Last year around Janurary; like many others I had made resolutions. One which I had promised and swore I would leave the country again and failed to do so, while this year I have promised nothing of the sort and only rest on hopes and dreams. I have this continuous hunger to experience so much more than ordinary, to live life to the marrow, and trod where others dare not.<br />
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So here's to it, this year; this time around is about doing what seems silly and crazy and just plain stupid! I have insanely boughten myself a ticket to paradise. A ticket which will take me through the jungles of Chiapas, the secluded ruins of Tulum, white sands of Cancun, and the quiet beaches of Isla Mujeres. And wherever else I end up along the way is simply bliss. Call me crazy, irresponsible or even plain dumb...my ticket is booked and I leave on the 2nd!<br />
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When chasing after your own dream; whatever it may be...I hope you always know that "For what it’s worth, it’s never too late, to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit... start whenever you want... you can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that stop you. I hope you feel things that you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again."<br />
-Benjamin Button<br />
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Here's to living a life of noisy fulfillment! [;<br />
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Nico<br />
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.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-77465742880915398692011-01-19T22:45:00.000-08:002011-01-19T22:46:28.011-08:00I want the...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBrHaVYEU7moaD_ksBDl_7enyI5WgyiwZYm8FluL7JDMS6_rtQdWKHxQYdFlk2e1i5QHPF13Gg35IZBpg22EV4C1EoqhGCKHR6boSWetnS4TE1om6QcyRbGkKV2uuHTEVZjepIlMEhU8/s1600/04.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBrHaVYEU7moaD_ksBDl_7enyI5WgyiwZYm8FluL7JDMS6_rtQdWKHxQYdFlk2e1i5QHPF13Gg35IZBpg22EV4C1EoqhGCKHR6boSWetnS4TE1om6QcyRbGkKV2uuHTEVZjepIlMEhU8/s1600/04.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5CwVNYj0P6hfZvSw4S2kTn74qi9NO4d2kUVRR-_ypXDJIEXqKbmO23HLUqsdHaSErdtDe_5q_gVD4UJkaTVJ4g52pIQYLHx4N3k1ZJlEVbcvjnU1JiPb9nbdDP02uIAFrUTppzwaQ7F4/s1600/14t3192.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<div align="center">Open the door for me kind of love</div><div align="center"><br />
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</div><div align="center"> I want the stay up until four am on the phone listening to each other breathe kind of love</div><div align="center">The playing footsies under the table kind of love</div><div align="center">The "Did he touch my hand on purpose or on accident?" kind of love</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">A can I hold your hand kind of love</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"> The butterflies in my stomach kind of love</div><div align="center">A let's pray together kind of love</div><div align="center"><br />
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</div><div align="center">The kind of love where you ask to kiss me</div><div align="center">A meet the parents kind of love</div><div align="center">And a "I hope my mom loves him as much as I do" kind of love</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">That kind</div><div align="center">Where we wait until marriage. </div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"> Despite our pasts</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">The old and brittle rocking chair kind of love</div><div align="center">The Notebook kind of love</div><div align="center"> An innocent kind of love</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">No storybook kind of love</div><div align="center">Because this love will never end </div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-2106985517841742882011-01-17T12:56:00.000-08:002011-01-17T12:56:11.693-08:00Chasing Routines.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAKaqubzOec_-3htcAcmp0QJmwFMn1HVYKP5vjhLGvzShNRWbx2-WGBlU_jvTWmQciLtCWYIIW3H-7-KYDzJaE4TddNwx5w5rdgQ1QxwggQK23r3EQMIAC-hSYmZb9LkTH2SPq2oJujQ/s1600/0jj1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjAKaqubzOec_-3htcAcmp0QJmwFMn1HVYKP5vjhLGvzShNRWbx2-WGBlU_jvTWmQciLtCWYIIW3H-7-KYDzJaE4TddNwx5w5rdgQ1QxwggQK23r3EQMIAC-hSYmZb9LkTH2SPq2oJujQ/s400/0jj1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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I feel so caught up in a routine I'm uncertain I even want to be in. I'd like to pack up and take the soonest flight out to South America. Live like the hippies do; on peace, love, hopes and dreams. Each day to the next, not worrying about routine or bills to pay. What I want is not a way out, but a way in. A way into a life that is so much simpler than this. One people call "paradise" and relate to myths. I've seen it, been there and felt it. And can't help holding onto this nostalgic feeling every minute of the day I miss it. "You may say I'm a dreamer...but I'm not the only one." There is a whole world of "dreamers" out there we cease to come across, a world of dreamers who have put their dreams to play. As I sit here in nostalgias arm hold I wonder when I'll return, and how many people will scoff, for me doing so.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-19382669627469866632010-12-14T02:00:00.000-08:002010-12-14T02:10:13.195-08:00Days like you.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhajvgX2jmQ0bMOyWTjqFLXxqoj19QNyTwwa6tDVkwj6_2DJzMEg27_MhL3KSna8EU5ZyFUhoFhkmhOBf972DzcKKsK3ZuuvwVjkSd-4D5oy2o7Z7_VDOJrFCL7bJGBcNszqK9GeQRbhvc/s1600/naydf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<br />
Ernesto mi querido,<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
Aeida<br />
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<br />
.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-36004436496223409232010-11-27T10:52:00.000-08:002010-11-27T10:52:30.051-08:00Caminos Entrelazados or Intertwined Paths.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuw23XT6coe7UjBXJGtkeWbStFajxeXu2tV0aOk4D8Ox85u1pru30rksUiZK1Cd_ciIx53FRXoREI6HPfYJzSClmhePrKtAPJC-2IFE7AVv8qURBeWuOzaQ7PFaqVzgGZ23ZXl8aKrUmw/s1600/4447_85702610185_85450670185_1979449_73599_n-1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuw23XT6coe7UjBXJGtkeWbStFajxeXu2tV0aOk4D8Ox85u1pru30rksUiZK1Cd_ciIx53FRXoREI6HPfYJzSClmhePrKtAPJC-2IFE7AVv8qURBeWuOzaQ7PFaqVzgGZ23ZXl8aKrUmw/s400/4447_85702610185_85450670185_1979449_73599_n-1-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Part 3</u></span></b></div><br />
Early next morning I am awoken by the sun, quietly sneaking up upon the spiteful hills. As I sat there on the blistering edge of the the bottom bunk, I sprung up in anticipation,as the bed let out an awful cry. I decided that I would go in search of what I came for. Paraiso, as Romero has, and in deciding this, I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach, excitement, anticipation,and fear. A feeling that makes you want to burst out laughing and break down crying, all at once.<br />
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I'm startled by Ernesto's footsteps walking in the room with two mango's in his hand he asks "Breakfast?"<br />
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I smiled as I grabbed a mango. "I know that look" he said as he bites into his mango, subtly puncturing the soft of the skin, absorbing every bud of taste it had to offer, as if this were the last mango he would ever eat. I am distracted and have heard nothing of what he's said.<br />
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"Huh?" I question<br />
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"Where to today?" He pries<br />
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"Oh, I don't know..." I lie<br />
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"Paraiso?" He chuckles, and it's as if he's read the most inter-depth of my soul, it's as if I am standing there naked in front of him, in front of all of Chamula.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tulum.MX</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
We had decided on a place Romero had gone on and on about the night before. A place he called paradise, a place everyone else knew as Tulum, Mexico. We packed our things and had forsaken Chamula, in hopes of a flawless Tulum. The ride over had been gruesome, there were chickens, dogs, and even a small pig that took passenger. I still laugh at the site of Ernesto and I sharing a seat, because a chicken next to him had left a caca on his seat. With Ernesto asleep on my shoulder, and the animals finally at ease, I pondered, why I'd fallen so hard, for a man I'd hardly even knew. All my life, I believed not in love at first sight. "Fools" I'd mock as I passed couples so lost in each others beings. And yet here I stood, a hypocrite, a pharisee of sorts. I wanted to be near him always, I wanted to know him, inside and out, I wanted to know the wrinkles in his long slender fingers. the anguish beneath his eyes and the covert arc upon his lips.<br />
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And just as my hypocrisy began to amplify, the bus jolted to a halt, and there we were, in paradise. As Ernesto and I are getting off the bus, he stops everything he's doing and turns around and kisses me. A moment that makes me feel like punching him, though I kiss him back instead. Our first kiss. With the scent of pigs breath lingering in the air, and an elbow poking into my side, I am in complete shock, felicity and anguish all at once.<br />
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I am in paradise.<br />
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.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-29809317215314232962010-11-22T21:01:00.000-08:002010-11-22T21:01:56.885-08:00The Great.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNgiODkYRE3ddA22std19nDtMlRFHKBRWWaf973s40qovnC11CILcR6nrvLoMt3JQvB270ToPB0yWB9s1zNyVD9Qf2Hw0u5-NTy2_c8i0ePVS737sT3w5x3s1Txcpa1M54j1PV0Rul88/s1600/xfck5u.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxNgiODkYRE3ddA22std19nDtMlRFHKBRWWaf973s40qovnC11CILcR6nrvLoMt3JQvB270ToPB0yWB9s1zNyVD9Qf2Hw0u5-NTy2_c8i0ePVS737sT3w5x3s1Txcpa1M54j1PV0Rul88/s400/xfck5u.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEAU29sQABi_5oiwNvETkJ7_tz26S4D2hjrVj5ZgMzeOWb9nvkout7c8fEbj2N4GOfrrDT_fgIV9XdZodYaAf0_n0Gm2sFxEDx9MCPg02v9k_puw0hcZV5k_x_q2j9Sg5nqb9YunvJh4/s1600/34zhzma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Lay my head on the sober of his chest</div><div align="center">Rest my hand in the tender of his</div><div align="center">Kiss the firm of his chin</div><div align="center"> No longer head west</div><div align="center"> I've fallen in love</div><div align="center">And he hasn't a clue</div><div align="center">It's only because he reminds me of you</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-26409053558834250082010-11-17T01:04:00.000-08:002010-11-17T01:04:17.199-08:00Wherever you are.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-k_xUrxX4lQS-54HABkuJ69V5jc3LLoSil5THc_0yGukp2ezYrrfSMr16cAJqxbB_3tRhFWkfK2MzWtnATVR1_YV4G2rb72-rQaOeZZEH4gVzTK2YTIKdcBKftUNHFRWFR2ZwIIeHxY/s1600/4981_90571725185_85450670185_2052176_7080918_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-k_xUrxX4lQS-54HABkuJ69V5jc3LLoSil5THc_0yGukp2ezYrrfSMr16cAJqxbB_3tRhFWkfK2MzWtnATVR1_YV4G2rb72-rQaOeZZEH4gVzTK2YTIKdcBKftUNHFRWFR2ZwIIeHxY/s1600/4981_90571725185_85450670185_2052176_7080918_n-1.jpg" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-44086930776050339262010-11-15T20:49:00.000-08:002010-11-15T20:49:31.413-08:00Giza.<div align="center">I am sitting on the bus. The roads here, aren't paved, it's been a harsh and enduring ride, my head, resting against sweat stained windows, my eyes closed, though I'm not asleep. I am partaking in this moment, this dream. A day I have dreamed of since I was eight years old. And since, this is all I've ever really wanted. No luxurious cars, dazzling diamond rings, or white picket fences.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbBzKDcCf4V-IQt2t55_AdBc_SfzG4RBzk51Xk_N4WP6F0tsJj87ihq5mN6Orz7AUYNoySfAz4Lfv-Rn1F4ra0BWi6rAnOdTRAF7X0MXy6aOStMvskAWnBjDVx2cbTz9QceXv-rP4Fgc/s1600/WhiteFence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvbBzKDcCf4V-IQt2t55_AdBc_SfzG4RBzk51Xk_N4WP6F0tsJj87ihq5mN6Orz7AUYNoySfAz4Lfv-Rn1F4ra0BWi6rAnOdTRAF7X0MXy6aOStMvskAWnBjDVx2cbTz9QceXv-rP4Fgc/s400/WhiteFence.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeD9vEvVvjslYH3ZkOjnq6zZrpcZHR1CMnKuYkz1hTFQydIXohOjDi7L26lBh-TiZP0ZCRRqwyygh5hciGkdG2JI01hph5swpLJrtkFQrXGBFIavQkHm2r6_fpqncr72pIgJR6e7lNN0/s1600/gizaalex-final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><br />
<div align="center">I hear faint voices of fellow passengers, talking amongst themselves, tourists mostly, excited an anticipating our destination. As I am. And suddenly the bus jolts to a stop, I open my eyes as we pull in through wooden gates, where guards have let us pass. We're finally here. My heart races,though I hesitate in getting up, this all seems so terribly unreal, and if it is I hope to never wake. Two women push their way out the door, and I follow, still hesitant. One foot in front of the other I think, stepping down the rickety, worn steps. With dirt crunching beneath my feet and the smell of camel droppings lingering in the air, a sudden silence falls over the moment. I look up, to see the reason for such silence. And at this one moment tears begin to start streaming down my cheeks, and I'm am unaware of it until I taste a salty reminder, on the crest of my lips. A sight so unfathomable, you can't capture it's true justice through photos, or even words. I am in complete awe, and I don't want to move, speak or even breath. I want time to stop in its tracks, because this, is absolute beauty, absolute happiness, success, clarity and disarray.</div><div align="center">My life feels so...I can't even form words to explain...</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeD9vEvVvjslYH3ZkOjnq6zZrpcZHR1CMnKuYkz1hTFQydIXohOjDi7L26lBh-TiZP0ZCRRqwyygh5hciGkdG2JI01hph5swpLJrtkFQrXGBFIavQkHm2r6_fpqncr72pIgJR6e7lNN0/s1600/gizaalex-final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeD9vEvVvjslYH3ZkOjnq6zZrpcZHR1CMnKuYkz1hTFQydIXohOjDi7L26lBh-TiZP0ZCRRqwyygh5hciGkdG2JI01hph5swpLJrtkFQrXGBFIavQkHm2r6_fpqncr72pIgJR6e7lNN0/s400/gizaalex-final.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center">Then I hear it. Reality questions "Excuse me Miss, isn't this your stop?" My focus is gone, I turn to realize where I really am, on the bus...to school that is.</div><div align="center"><br />
</div><div align="center"><br />
</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-9865614575859712782010-11-08T19:57:00.000-08:002010-11-08T23:49:00.023-08:00Caminos Entrelazados or Intertwined Paths.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtnB2Q_WqJRlAYKdPVmEtpy7LIOo0uC5EiKK8a49DFh7MBCRRcD0qXo1FnUhHz9cZFVsQW5Mzaru1vL9Yww_70MAQOmD8HcI9oVrgtWtddgETf6GdZyM5i_6gYt6gKsijZiiwcg_SlEY/s1600/allex2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtnB2Q_WqJRlAYKdPVmEtpy7LIOo0uC5EiKK8a49DFh7MBCRRcD0qXo1FnUhHz9cZFVsQW5Mzaru1vL9Yww_70MAQOmD8HcI9oVrgtWtddgETf6GdZyM5i_6gYt6gKsijZiiwcg_SlEY/s400/allex2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></b></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><b><span style="font-size: large;">Part 2</span></b></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> 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. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I continue on to catch up with him.</div><br />
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.<br />
Ernesto, unlike the other men.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
"This is living it up, Aeida!" Ernesto joked<br />
"Sure is!" I announced as unpack to take a shower<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLLTs5zr59HrEiWbEcOoVurocKcEA5F2-AyGcNp03XdEYqhggaH0Q7WylDrfBpJVC-efcoz2mD2bKlcr2boqRmY2m7Pu03Xc-uoMXnCoP5t9wr3nFvQpSNyXYlYilFMmHyzMOAWb6NgQ/s1600/best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiLLTs5zr59HrEiWbEcOoVurocKcEA5F2-AyGcNp03XdEYqhggaH0Q7WylDrfBpJVC-efcoz2mD2bKlcr2boqRmY2m7Pu03Xc-uoMXnCoP5t9wr3nFvQpSNyXYlYilFMmHyzMOAWb6NgQ/s320/best.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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 "<i>What you come Mexico for</i>?" <br />
<br />
I throw a confused smile his way "<i>The beauty I suppose</i>" <br />
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"<i>Ahh, okay I see, pues,a dónde vas </i><i>manana</i>?" (<i>Where will you go tomorrow</i>?)<br />
<br />
"<i>Yo no se</i>" (<i>I don't know</i>) seemed to be the simplest route to the end of the conversation.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Romero looked at me confused with only three words to say as he rested his hand on my shoulder in comfort<br />
"<i>Seguir tu corazon</i>"<br />
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My vocabulary had not yet broadened to this level, I looked at him confused.<br />
<br />
"<i>Follow your heart</i>" the girl with the peace sign painted on her face explained.<br />
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These are the first words she had spoken all night, and I will remember this moment always.Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-10521182517560487302010-11-07T22:01:00.000-08:002010-11-08T11:01:34.764-08:00In search of<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpSDBdt8SrU9nRVsyIcb4HwW4ffu47Q9YNLj_y32n-yhiK2WfrkXvm-0EjPvrX4HiZf7FCJ-foqP7eSVhla5RJO6N_UH3i1DCwsda0bCl4cJUSgsrseQ1wx8v1r9BA6TZyoqa7uC4eRk/s1600/444.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNpSDBdt8SrU9nRVsyIcb4HwW4ffu47Q9YNLj_y32n-yhiK2WfrkXvm-0EjPvrX4HiZf7FCJ-foqP7eSVhla5RJO6N_UH3i1DCwsda0bCl4cJUSgsrseQ1wx8v1r9BA6TZyoqa7uC4eRk/s400/444.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimPvyL2mPCovuRLnw_UjlxeVzNGfxIYbHME2VbJgN3TCtky85y5CrIXJMUgJYHA-SRaPNcL6790cYAmFB7hch7qrsNvmCiPXpKejwen6-q3TawBGQMW4X1CeIKFyc1UzIQmJuP7UGlAb4/s1600/lib.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div align="center">She wandered aimlessly through the bookstores aisles</div><div align="center"> In search of him</div><div align="center"> A shirt, a hand, a shoe even </div><div align="center">Yet found nothing</div><div align="center"> No one</div><div align="center">Not even a scent to hold onto</div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-41936977461956387492010-10-03T23:18:00.000-07:002010-10-03T23:49:42.659-07:00Caminos Entrelazados or Intertwined Paths.<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxzGk9TMnG4zg3T897Hy0E66XmzaG3y49hc0jyf85bT0Rpghb6UGPVwtXMthw_HNiNurp6hFGdY68BlV3ZMC3Y7ph-2MdYAeb5YuhpCASOwv94gqyV5syj5dRq5dAZ4rzXQttCaYCunM/s1600/market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxzGk9TMnG4zg3T897Hy0E66XmzaG3y49hc0jyf85bT0Rpghb6UGPVwtXMthw_HNiNurp6hFGdY68BlV3ZMC3Y7ph-2MdYAeb5YuhpCASOwv94gqyV5syj5dRq5dAZ4rzXQttCaYCunM/s400/market.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <strong><u> Part 1</u></strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’d met in el mercado, a small one, right in the heart of Chiapas, Mexico. The one on Guyava St. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>across from the Library. Both of us marveling at the beauty of a Country that wasn’t <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>our own. Though the color of our skin, made us seem to fit in. Indigenous almost.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was there in search of a scarf to compliment the dress I’d bought there the previous day.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“El Amarillo." (the yellow one) he whispered as he passed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just the sound of his voice, like the first strum of a guitar, the last dance at a wedding, brings chills to my entire being, even to the innermost depths of my soul. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I turn and his smile meets mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bit crooked, but welcoming. Familiar, and stranger all at once. Like leaving home, like coming back and starting all over again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Like breathing for the first time. Like being in a place the last time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Have we met?" I ask, even though I know we haven’t, I would’ve remembered those eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So rich of a brown they almost looked black, like an endless pit, a place of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>guile, a place of refuge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With hair so thick and lush of a brown, I contemplated running my hands through it, a nose more like a beak, and hands so dense yet vulnerable. In this one, mere moment, I couldn't help but fall in love.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Not quite yet” he continued, as his hand reached out from the inner depths of his coat pocket.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m Ernesto, and you are?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Aeida” I shyly proclaimed</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ahh,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eres tourista?” He asked </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“ Si, Si, y<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> t</span>u?” I reply in my white washed Spanish</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He replies yes, and seems to tell me his life story all in one sentence, all in a language I hardly understood. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Ehh, no nintendo mucho espanol?” I stupidly answered, as he laughed at me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A laugh, that sounded<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>more like a hiccup. A laugh that became my getting through the day, my getting through the nights. The nights with him, but mostly the nights with out him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh Ernesto, sometimes I wish you’d never have come up to me in the market that lazy afternoon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes I wish I would have just told you to go away, to go bother some other hopeless damsel in distress.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mindlessly, I grab <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>chivalry of your palm, as you reach out and ask me to dinner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I accept, and we become a love story that was not. With only time to kill and adventure to chase.</span><br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW57i_LJKlwpNqBPnGRg0CGr4hrFgrUi3GPaG16MxHcWQEHgN9IRmGMkbM1NT-Q-ZaWijDHLXQqpU4_4t_BES6Qa9M9Vq-0ttH6htni89r6KTBME_nFqe4oTEjkAjFOkUnU28hn8-MHps/s1600/Ernesto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW57i_LJKlwpNqBPnGRg0CGr4hrFgrUi3GPaG16MxHcWQEHgN9IRmGMkbM1NT-Q-ZaWijDHLXQqpU4_4t_BES6Qa9M9Vq-0ttH6htni89r6KTBME_nFqe4oTEjkAjFOkUnU28hn8-MHps/s400/Ernesto.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Early the next morning during coffee, we decide to stick together and headed off to a small indigenous village in Chiapas called Chamula. Instead of taking a taxi, like any sane human being would, we walk. Thinking it's only so far away, we realized we were wrong. Walking down an endless highway with our luggage on our backs, and our hands intertwined, I supposed we looked like rebels, It was us against the world. We would not succumb to paying a whole eight dollars and change for a simple taxi ride to the next village over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ernesto notices I'm getting weary and shouts "Come on Aeida, wave your arms like this, it helps!" as he flapped his arms like a bird. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Almost angelic it seemed. He and I, walking in the blistering Mexican sun flapping our arms like pigeons. Like fools. </span></div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-38297781240666287912010-09-28T20:01:00.000-07:002010-09-28T20:01:52.580-07:00Nine Again.<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Today, I want to be nine again. I want to live life without consequence, live life in utter fulfillment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I want to play in the rain, laugh at the silliest of things, and color outside the lines.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I want a milk mustache, a chocolate one preferably, I want to hula hoop until my legs fall off, and run barefoot through the leafy green grass.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFukZw6Z8cRvN842CTCCa3ATM2bT-LapUM9P2X_u_fB8XK7n5OphnngRN4hAmh7vNU1vwdKO5nr3rqo-HRp8AJ3BaZBJQRLlarTfLLjjWNeM5SmPNJcgBOjQ0peQyOtdnXHjDvL_OMpBk/s1600/five+again.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFukZw6Z8cRvN842CTCCa3ATM2bT-LapUM9P2X_u_fB8XK7n5OphnngRN4hAmh7vNU1vwdKO5nr3rqo-HRp8AJ3BaZBJQRLlarTfLLjjWNeM5SmPNJcgBOjQ0peQyOtdnXHjDvL_OMpBk/s400/five+again.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, to be nine again. To let loose, minus the insecurities, to fall in love with the boy who eats the sandbox sand, the one who likes the way the glue feels peeling off the tips of his fingers, and is king of the tether ball court.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To be friends again, and not cliques.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To jump rope, to hand ball, and giggling at the boys and their cooties, to overcoming hopscotch and your ultimate fear of dodge ball.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To come home to moms homemade "pasghetti"</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To cartoons and clouds, endless adventure and curiosity</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To sisters and brothers and cousins.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To Bonnie and Clyde in the back yard, to club houses and blanket forts made out of chairs, brooms and vacuums </span></div><div style="background-color: transparent; border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; color: black; overflow: hidden; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> To Sega and Nintendo, to Easter Egg Hunts and eating at the kids table, to tree climbing and bone breaking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> To losing and winning, laughing and crying and to mom who made it all better with a kiss.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> To be nine again.</span></div></div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2273264966751286521.post-25641884036753914782010-09-21T14:39:00.000-07:002010-10-14T12:29:38.833-07:00More than an outbreak.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFdsAJQg26XYoo0MQAIA0ZdPdpTBhoT5uKuKb2r58BpI0q3eTxzMAON75h2ipIKKV3WC_wCNpl7jCzmLbMilEtBAR83dUWFEPHR6mgg2l1JGJg9RW1m_npqX5_5eXVqLJPEDhfPxgRGw0/s1600/querida.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri";"> Isla Mujeres, Quintana Roo; a place of beauty, a place of happiness, but most importantly, a place of love. In coming to the municipal, little island, located off the northeast coast of the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yucat%C3%A1n_Peninsula" title="Yucatán Peninsula"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">Yucatán Peninsula</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">, I expected nothing short of a tourist trap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A place only interested in the money in my pocket, they sure proved me wrong. Arriving in mid-April, my first task was to find a cheap, clean hostel, right in the heart of the island itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A fellow traveler I’d met earlier that week, in Cancun suggested a place named;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pocna Hostel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">“It’s good price” he told me, in his broken English.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">I was on a budget, so I budged. Walking in, I was greeted by cheery foreigners like myself at the service desk, given sheets, a pillow, and a sleek red wristband that read “Mi casa en el Caribe” I thought nothing of it at the time. My goal in coming to the island was simply a resting stop, between Cancun and Chitzen Itza (our next destination.) My first night on the town included; mingling with tourists, and foreigners alike, at the hostel’s beach bar. That night I’d met people from all over the globe, every religion, nationality and color. It was refreshing, I thought, though my goal was not refreshing, it was breathtaking, adventurous and romantic.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-RcvWM5Hj_vKOWf9XSAONO4B_31IIl8WIolsmqjRTd2mSwKngIqmiwFXytcQc4q4d2xGnGu009nKKKExhnl6RbbPOi5efZnY-rNzwlHVm9bwfEY5gduzEPU1eObnTnT_8h13cLeMM2o/s1600/use.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis-RcvWM5Hj_vKOWf9XSAONO4B_31IIl8WIolsmqjRTd2mSwKngIqmiwFXytcQc4q4d2xGnGu009nKKKExhnl6RbbPOi5efZnY-rNzwlHVm9bwfEY5gduzEPU1eObnTnT_8h13cLeMM2o/s400/use.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"> Chitzen Itza.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">What could be more romantic than Chitzen Itza’s towering pyramids? The ancient stories still lingering in the air, and the ground beneath. I got tickled just thinking of it. Waking up the next morning, in hopes of leaving the island to Chitzen Itza, I heard raindrops, trickling down the sides of my tents polyester rooftop. I was stuck; the ferry back was closed until the rain wore down. I remember stepping out of my tent, angry and bitter at the weathers timing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I felt warm rain drops trickle down the tip of nose, my anger seemed to dissipate, and I become relaxed and at peace. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I head over to the hostel’s dining area, where toast and coffee are complimentary, and the news is playing on the television. Everyone seems so glued to the headliner story, I get my coffee and join them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Swine Flu outbreak across Mexico and U.S.,</i> the television projects, my initial thoughts are</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Oh no, I ate pork last night.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the story goes further on I laugh off my ridiculous initial thoughts, the news begins to describe the outbreak as pandemic and that any trips into Mexico should be cancelled, and tourist who were there now should book the soonest flight home, after decontamination, of course. Panic began to form in the faces of my Hostel mates. The locals seemed to simply shrug it off, and go about their daily routine. The rains wore down, and the warm Caribbean sun returned to its rightful place in the sky. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Coming back to the Hostel, that night, everyone simply seemed to have disappeared. More and more left each day it seemed, with a few trickling in here and there, I decided going home was out of the question, and leaving to Chitzen<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Itza was just too risky. It was Isla Mujeres or bust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Isla. Mi querida. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri";">Early each morning I’m awoken by the sounds of the bongos playing in the distance, a cold shower and a warm cup of coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the afternoon’s peak, the remaining of us flock to the beach, lounging in hammocks and basking in the sun’s glory, letting the drift of the waves carry us off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My nights are spent by the beach bar, dancing with the locals, singing terribly off key, and laughing at absolutely nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We become no longer local and tourist, we simply become, family, a part of the island and all its entirety. Life itself seemed entirely worth living. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fall in love…with a place and the people residing, because for that moment, I simply enjoyed life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> <span style="font-family: "Calibri";">I came to realize that in searching for breathtaking, adventurous and </span><span style="font-family: "Calibri";">romantic elsewhere, I’ve found it here, right in front me the whole time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And what seems like only a week, is really a month, the shortest month of my life, it seems. Soon enough the swine flu, wears down and It’s time to depart. I have only a week left of my travels, and as much as I want to stay stuck in this beautiful cycle, I know there is much more beauty to be seen and laughter to be had elsewhere. And in leaving Isla Mujeres, I come to realize that in making the decision to stay on the island during the Swine Flu epidemic, as opposed to running home, I came to experience something that not many will ever experience in a whole lifetime. I experienced life with the innate, with the truly genuine, and truly loving.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isla Mujeres, Quintana Roo, undoubtedly became “Mi Casa en el Caribe.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My home in the Caribbean. </span></div>Nicohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02727491615098852033noreply@blogger.com3