Maui, Day 2

We wake too early.
I am almost universally unhappy to wake up.  I have learned to simply be pleasant until I feel pleasant, which happens almost universally after about a half hour and a cup of coffee.

The Adventure of The Day begins with sea turtles.

We have parked our car on the marina seawall and made our way to the 65' catamaran that will be ferrying us to some prime snorkeling spot this morning.  I am buzzing with excitement - sailing is one of my very favorite things.  We join a small group of people standing on the seawall across from our slip to watch a giant green sea turtle munching on algae there.  Two smaller turtles munch, too - each two feet across.  I don't know why I'm so surprised to see that they look just like paintings of sea turtles.  What a touristy thing to think.

We all file onto the boat, 22 people plus the crew and motor out from the marina.  The man at the helm is the quintessential salty sea-captain.  His leather skin and baggy clothes make him look just like a painting of a captain, too.  His two brown crewmembers do his bidding without question.  They clearly respect him, and so we do, too.

Not 15 minutes into our journey across the channel, someone shouts something and we all turn to see the splash of a humpback whale that has just breached high above the water.  Moments later, two whales erupt out of the water into the air and slam back on their great sides, about 200 yards from our boat.  We all scramble to take a few blurry pictures, awestruck by the sight of two 30-ton mammals playing "who can jump higher".  Even the captain slips his phone out of his pocket to record - it's such a rare sight to see two whales breaching.

The wind picks up, and so do the waves slapping the underside of the trampoline between the catamaran's hulls at the front of the boat.  Most of the passengers scurry toward the protected cabin, but not me.  I know that going in the cabin in such choppy water is a great way to get seasick.  That, and I am a gleeful 6-year-old again - belly-laughing at the ocean while lying on my belly on my dad's old wooden sailboat.  The roll and heave of the hull against a full sail, the salt spray on my nose, and the humming of the halyards in a stiff wind is pretty much paradise for me.  I wind my fingers in the trampoline's lacings and plant my chin on the aluminum brace of the catamaran and howl back at the restless sea.  My soul is restless, too.

The Quintessential Captain turns us away from our original destination, as the wind has made it too dangerous to make the crossing.  We head for what's described as a turtle-cleaning station.  All the local turtles come to this specific spot, and a crew of cleaner wrasse nibble bits of dead skin and parasites off the turtles' flippers.  Turtle Spa Day.  I was looking forward to snorkeling in the Molokini crater, but really any snorkeling will do for me.

We are not disappointed.  After the initial gasping shock of slightly chilly water, and a couple of choking false-starts with my mask, I forget my anxiety.  There are schools of striped convict tang, fat black triggerfish with their electric blue trim, clownish yellow tang, iridescent parrotfish and the tiny polka-dotted boxfish.  And turtles!!!  They really do glide into a single spot between two rocks and raise their fins to be cleaned.  As soon as one turtle departed, another would wander in.  I think we counted 7 big green turtles cruising around the area.  Great shoals of japanese tourists on pool noodles snapped photo after photo with their big clear waterproof cameras.  I wished I had a camera to take a turtle picture, but there are so many paintings and pictures of them anyway - mine wouldn't be any different.  So I swam on, unencumbered by trappings or equipment - trying to keep moving so I'd be warm enough to stay in the water.

I finally hoist myself up the catamaran's stairs when my toes go numb from the cold.  78-degree water is warm, but not warm enough for my 98-degree body to keep going for more than about an hour.  We lunch and catch one more dip in before sailing back into the marina.

We spend the afternoon shopping in Lahaina - all of the painted shells and brightly silkscreened t-shirts blaring "I WENT TO MAUI" hide a couple of small, worthwhile shops.  One held a print of an orchid that I loved, and another was littered with shark's teeth and antique compasses.  This tiny beach town reminds me of other tiny beach towns - a festive veneer covers a quietly desperate dependence on tourist money.  Most places selling souvenirs: "proof" you really were there, that it wasn't all just a dream of paradise.  I see so few people at the sales counters, and wonder who it is that really buys most of this crap.

Dinner of the most delicious scallops I have ever eaten is cut short by our evening entertainment plans.  We hurry out of the restaurant to catch an Uber to the next town, unaware of the situation that was about to unfold.  Dr. Pops sits in the front seat, and Ducky and Dear and I pile in the back.  We're a little tipsy and already giggling.  The tiny haole driver lady makes polite conversation while I try to hold back my laughter.  You see, Dr. Pops is not a fan of Christmas music.  True to his grouchy veneer, he detests Christmas Cheer in all of its forms.  We have happened to hop in the one Uber in town that is festooned with Christmas crap, and when he huffed quietly at the Rudolph on the dashboard, we found this hysterical.  I get stink-eye from the driver in the rear view as I try to hold in my snickering.  I don't mean to mock her decorations, but we have fallen deep into a giggle loop from which there was to be no salvation.  I hold my breath and try to play with my phone, only to be met with catty texts from my seatmates.  We all quietly shake, tears rolling down our faces.  Oblivious, Dr. Pops rolls his window down to take in the night air.  "My antler!" cries the driver, only she's from the east coast so it's "Moy antlah!" "You've lost moy antlah!"

I look over to her side of the car, where a plastic and faux-fur antler is closed tightly in the window.
In addition to a christmas banner, blinking Rudolph and tiny lighted christmas tree, the car had had antlers.  In rolling down his window, Dr. Pops had sent one antler bouncing down the Lahaina highway behind us.  "You know, Blitzen only had one antler," he rapidly quips, hoping to pacify her.  "We have to go back!" she shrieks, "they don't make them like that anymore!"

In the back seat, we're unable to control ourselves.  I ask, "do you decorate for every holiday?" And dissolve into hysterics as she swings a sharp left to go back and get the lost decoration.  I'm quite sure she is going to find her antler and dump us all out on the side of the road.

After finding her fuzzy car ornament lying between the lanes and bustling back into the car, she is relieved.  "There," she sighs, "all back to normal."  More catty texts in the back seat debate the definition of "normal" as she continues the ride without comment.  She deposits us unceremoniously at our destination where we cackle and snigger our way inside.

We take in an evening of music with some wonderful slack-key guitar and ukulele players.  Dr. Pops has been following these musicians for years, and has made a fan out of me for sure.  I loved the twangy sound of their 12-stringed guitars.  Two beautiful hula dancers brought tears to my eyes as they danced the stories of life on an upcountry farm, and of brilliant Hawaiian sunsets.  I felt a sharp pain of regret that I have not spent more time with my grandmother.  My sweet Gram taught hula in the 50's on O'ahu.  Now that she is near 90 and losing her memories and faculties - the hula dances she taught remain clear in her mind.  I will always cherish the time I have gotten to spend with her: hearing her stories of island life, and watching her lovely hula hands mimic the rain coming from the clouds or the ocean waves on the sand.  At the end of the night, when Slack Key greats George Kahumoku and Sonny Lim led three younger 'uke players in a jam session - we were all mesmerized.  Their harmonies and uniquely Hawaiian sound was wonderful.

Our heads nodding, we traipse back to the condo and collapse into bed.  I count off the things I've seen and done in two days in Hawaii: whales, sailing, snorkeling, live music, fresh seafood and a grand sunset.

This is a full life.

Maui, Day 1

I wake up to the smell of breakfast cooking.
Oil and eggs and toast and pork.
I feel instantly anxious - I have a thing about food, you see.  I hate to eat other people's food. 
I wander out to say my hellos and catch up with some people I haven't seen in a year.  It will take some time to soften the mild strangeness, but we have plenty of that.
Both time, and strangeness.

We set off on a walk down the beach path.  It's lovely, winding along with the ocean on one side, and luxury resort after grand beach house on the other.  We watch be-hatted women with their small wild children and bored husbands.  We snigger like a junior high clique at overstuffed beachgoers in questionable attire.  I walk arm-in arm with my good buddy we'll call Ducky.  She is a few years younger than me; smarter and funnier and possessed of a greater depth of character.  She is the source of a primal silliness in my life.  She pokes, prods, licks and otherwise explores strange objects, fruit and social customs that might otherwise go unnoticed.  Today, she wants to know what a palm nut tastes like.  For your information, you can probably let raw palm nuts go as per Ducky's opinion, they taste absolutely horrible.

We wander past elaborate swimming pools with sandy bottoms and deluxe beach bars.
A 10$ smoothie tastes the same as a 4$ smoothie, so you know.
Ducky and I gleefully play the giant "Connect Four" game at one stop.  She wins.  This is how is has always been with us: near-constant play.  We play at life.  Most of the time, we both win.
We turn around at the end when the beach path becomes sandy, and walk another hour back to our hotel. 

My other two friends are a man we'll call Dr. Pops and his stunning wife.  He calls her "Dear", somewhat sarcastically so I'll do the same here.
Dear is a witty woman.  Blonde and fit and relaxed, she enjoys traveling with her sarcastic and sometimes codgerly husband.  Dr. Pops tries to be grumpy, but is in reality deeply compassionate and sensitive.  He enjoys a comfortable retirement from a very stressful life cutting bones apart and knitting them back together in the operating room.  They are great fun and have been so gracious to invite Ducky and I to stay with them in a condo on the beach that I could never afford. 

We make a brief jaunt into town to rent snorkeling equipment.  I comment on the volleyball-sized avocado the man behind the counter is eating, and he hands me a slightly smaller one to take home.  The gift avocado proves an excellent sales tactic, as Ducky and I end up booking the next day's adventure and purchasing two dorky straw hats to keep the sun off our faces.  Rent-The-Things Man makes the usual jokes, flirts with us harmlessly, and assumes incorrectly that we are Dr. Pops' daughters.  Ducky teases him mercilessly while he grumbles all the way back to the condo.

At 5:15, we all hurry to pack everything up so that we are on time for the day's Board Meeting.  Dr. Pops calls the meeting to order, and we all toast the flamingo pink sunset from our beach chairs in front of the condo.  No-one has any new business for the agenda other than where we are eating dinner tomorrow.  We hastily adjourn the meeting so that we can continue to enjoy our double gin-and-tonics without the burden of decision-making.  Everyone giggles at the last rays of the day. 

Dinner at the MonkeyPod cafe down the street is delicious.  My fish tacos go down well with the lovely Chardonnay.  Dr. Pops regales us with a story about the time he scored some weed from one of the waiters there.  He passes me his little vape pen under the table and I take a puff.  I never figured him for the type, but I suppose everyone is these days. 

My last thought as I fall asleep is that I am so glad I am here.

Maui, Prologue.

I always have trouble leaving. 
I am so comfortable in my life now, that urgent wanderlust that used to drive me isn't there anymore. 
That's how I know, you know. 
How I know it's time to make some drastic change or pay better attention to my better judgement.
I'm a generally happy person.  I can make the best of anything, so sometimes I miss the finer points of glaring red flags in a relationship.  I make peace with, put up with, make excuses for in the name of compromise and because that's just the price of admission.
When the day comes that I can finally admit to myself that my burning desire to get in my car and drive anywhere but here isn't just a manic tic...  When I can look in the mirror and realize that my compulsion to shave my head is not, in fact, just frustration with today's tangled tresses... When I take stock of my life and find that I'm still alone in it - lonely for a partner who is meeting me halfway, rather than sucking half my life...
That's how I know it's time to move on.
I seized on the chance to join good, old friends on a tropical adventure right at my breaking point.  I had realized the real root of my lust for major change and just started to turn the corner toward something new and terrifying when I got a call:
"Hey, you wanna go to Maui?"
Balls yeah, I wanna go to Maui in December.

How romantic, for sure.  But come the day of, I had done no packing and no preparation.  I threw my clothes in hastily, and dallied til the last second with my sweet dogs. 
I have so much more that I'm leaving behind now.  I have such a rich and satisfying life - I know I'll have fun, but I don't need so badly to escape it anymore.  Usually, I have some raging and careless passion that I'm carrying with me when I travel.  I fling my worst self into strangeness and danger just to stretch my aching soul.  Caged in too long, Icarus and I like to see what we're made of.

I sleep on the plane.  Napping is my superpower - I can sleep anywhere, any time.  But airplane sleep is rarely good and I often dream fitfully.  I dreamed that I wanted to wake up, but couldn't.  I dream that I am too sleepy to do whatever needed to be done.  In my dreams, someone needs me but I can't ever move to help.  I'm always glad to wake up conveniently an hour before landing.

It's still a little strange to travel alone.  I am good at traveling, navigating airports and transportation when I have someone else that I am guiding.  Traveling alone makes decision-making difficult.  I have no-one to bounce things off of, so I must do what works best for me.
Ay, there's the rub.
I have no reflective character, no other half so I have to figure out what makes me happy and whole.
I've spent so much time making sure someone else is happy, I don't know how to do it for myself.

I find my way to the other side of the island, to my friends already asleep.  I'm happy to get some time to settle my travel nerves; read my book and simply listen to the ocean in the dark.  I hope my friends will be glad to have me here and that I will not be a nuisance.  I drink too much sometimes, and I don't want to annoy them so I must be careful.  I hope that I will be glad I left my dogs and my life and my family.
I hope I can be helpful.

Maybe now that I'm taking a trip for its own merit instead of escaping some narrow reality- it will be more peaceful.

The Disclaimer

The following is my journal from a trip to Mexico City in December 2011. It's mostly based in reality, but I may adjust the timeline or content here and there for entertainment and protection of the innocent. Y'all enjoyed the Italy stuff so much, and I loved having a day-by-day account so much that I figured I'd do it again. It's easy to write with such great material.

Mexico City - Day 1: Everything is everything

Got picked up in, yes, that pretty epic airport reunion. Back to Casa de Carlos squared in the "limo" driven by the driver who also lives at this hotel owned by his dad. Carlos senior is jolly, intelligent, and warm-hearted. I think he's more than a little bewildered by me, but treats me like family anyway. The hotel is more of a guest house, with only 8 or 10 rooms, typically only rented to airline staff. It's clean, very secure, and I get the idea that it's in a near constant state of construction. Carlos and I are a little nervous of each other at first, but we quickly fall back into old banter, and stay up late sharing stories and catching up on the last 6 months. It's wonderful to be with an old friend. I awake in the morning to 4 car alarms, honking, 2 dogs, and a woman yelling "Basuraaaaaaaa!". She gathers the trash, I'm told. There's also a man selling propane, announcing its availability with a hearty "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas!" every few minutes. I can only smile, and delight in the little things that make international travel so rich and interesting. All tropical countries smell the same. Breakfast is of a cup full of fruit- papaya, guava, pineapple, banana, honey, and awesome from a small fruit stand where I'm introduced as the girlfriend. Girlfriend I am, then, for a week. It's the best way we can describe this - needing to distill some word out of our complex relationship so that others know how to relate to me... I suppose the reason that the usual labels don't work for me is that I don't follow the script. More than friends, more than just lovers, but not exclusive by any stretch- no commitment, no jealousy, no expectations, just loving as we will. This is perfect. We rode the wonderfully colorful Mexico City subway (the Metro) to the Zocalo. This is the huge square where Christmas happens in Mexico City. It's a caricature of winter, with people making snowmen from manufactured snow, soap-bubble flakes being blown into the air, ice-skating in a slushy rink, and paint-frosted roofs on carnival shacks hawking cup-o-soup, donuts, and questionably edible orange puff treats, all surrounding a huge AstroTurf Christmas tree. The buildings around the square are draped 8 stories tall with parade ornaments and lights. I hope we get to come back at night for the lights. It is a slightly muggy 75 degrees outside. I am wishing I had worn a skirt. We buy fries at the McDonalds to use the bathroom. I have a rule - I never eat at McDonalds in the US, but they have reliably clean bathrooms in other countries. I'll happily eat grease bomb fries for a toilet with a reliable supply of soap and paper. The cathedral across the street from the Zocalo is like many I've seen: made of marble, ornately carved and spectacularly decorated with statue after statue of saint-this and king-that. I remark that I wish I had been raised in the church sometimes, just so that I would have some of that knowledge. Carlos replies that he was, and he still doesn't. On the way out, I'm struck by the enthusiastic spikes on the fence surrounding the cathedral. I suppose it should have frightened me a little- such concern with security at a place of worship- but I was simply amused. Mexicans are a passionate people- living with gusto (literally?). Fences are not simply fences, they are FENCES! Carlos and I laugh about parties being PARTIES!, food is FOOD! and love is LOVE! in Mexico. "We don't do anything half-assed," he says. Me gusto. We meet up with Carlos' colorful friend Eric, who spent some time in prison, and is now teaching English and riding the thin line between macho Latin dude and funny people lover guy. They joke about everything, "use horchata in a sentence" making fun of their students, but they clearly love and devote a lot of time and energy to them. Here, as I'm writing, I hear the gas man shouting "Gaaaaaaaas!" We pick our way through the first few blocks of the market that's around the corner from the Zocalo. All the things are for sale here. The Christmas light store was my favorite. Bullhorns make salespeople more effective, in Mexico. Markets are MARKETS! Everything is designed to be packed up instantly for whenever the police decide they're tired of one or another little stall, or someone neglects to pay the required bribe. It's widely accepted that while the police enforce the laws, they are also highly corrupt and usually involved in breaking them. We eat street meat: fatty, greasy, spicy, amazing. We find a bar, and after one beer worth of ogling the hot blonde girl in tight pants, Eric introduces himself and it's all downhill from there. The thought occurs to me that it's 3pm on a wednesday. I haven't been in Mexico 24 hours, and I'm already drunk and chair-dancing with two pretty Mexican girls and their 4 gay friends. One of the girls takes more than a passing interest in me- she knows enough English to tell me I am "very beautiful" several times. I do my best to skirt the issue, and we eventually exit gracefully, but not without exchanging phone numbers and making friends with about 10 other people in the small bar. (yeah, yeah- run-on sentence and all that.... I write a lot of those. I missed the finer points of grammar, hoping I could make up for it in spelling and content. Don't judge me.) We decide we are, so far, winning Mexico. Evening was spent giggling for 5 hours with Carlos' family. His dad, stepmom, bouncy aunt and cute teenaged cousin treated me like family instantly. We cranked up the volume and flipped through someone's iPod, singing along and making up dances. After consuming a respectable amount of beer, we made our way to his grandparents' house- a nice place in the suburbs. Everyone curses heavily in Spanish. I understand enough to get most of the humor. Carlos tells everyone that I am trying to learn more of the language, that I understand a lot and to not bother with English. I think he thinks I understand more than I do but laughter doesn't need translation. And, I think it puts everyone at ease if they don't have to stop and wait for me to catch up on the meaning. Really, I would have had a wonderful time if I hadn't gotten even a word. I was able to get in on the jokes now and then, and everyone laughed even more. The humor here is pretty crude, by our standards: I would never make poo and sex jokes in front of my grandmother, but the graceful matriarch of this family pulled no punches. By the end of the night, we had inside jokes galore, a good beer buzz, and sore cheeks from laughing. This family reminds me of mine, only louder. I was so tired from jet lag and the altitude that I slept on Carlos' lap all the way home. I forget how exhausting it is to work in two languages, listening intently to every word that's said to catch one out of every five or ten that I understand. Responding is easier; I am able to get my point across pretty well with my relatively limited vocabulary. In Mexico, family is FAMILY!

Mexico City - Day 2: Los Pyramides

We awoke again to a chorus of car alarms and people shouting, namely the "Basuraaaaaaaa!" lady, and dressed quickly to make our way with Carlos Sr., "Tosh"' as Carlos calls him, and his sweet and hysterically funny girlfriend of 11 years- Vivi. She's thin and beautiful, with curly hair and a bright smile. I still do not understand why they call her "La Negra"' even after Carlos explaining that "she's the closest thing we get to black people here." Is it the hair? Driving in other countries is always an adventure, as the traffic rules here are more guidelines than rules, and you have to be very aware of the precise dimensions of your vehicle because that spatial awareness will be necessary for you to make any sort of turn or lane change. (again with the run-on sentences...) There will rarely be more than a few inches to spare. We drove north, through what they called the slums: hillsides packed with concrete box houses piled haphazardly atop one another as far as the eye can see. I did a school project with my dad once on the Hopi Indian houses where I built some clay squares on the side of a foam hill. These reminded me of that project, only in cartoonish color: if you have enough money, you can paint your house a garish pink or turquoise. Juxtaposed in even greater contrast than it might have been elsewhere against the grey of everything else, they were somewhere between cheerful and clownish. We drove finally out into the countryside, past giant agave plants and cactus to the ancient Aztec city of Teotihuacan. Had a lunch of wonderful soup and fajitas. Both Carlos' (Carloses? Carlos squared? The Carlos?) and Vivi patiently explained things on the menu to me. I realize that I rely too heavily on Carlos as a screen through which I'm experiencing things here. I do know enough Spanish to order my food, but I'm nervous about saying something wrong, so I defer to him. He is patient and encouraging, but I think he's a little annoyed, so I make a better effort today. I ask more and devote more of my energy to learning new words, too. Everyone chatters away in Spanish. I get a little more than a third of whats being said, but getting the gist is fine. We all drink some excellent tequila in honor of the waiter's birthday. The Carlos and Vivi make fun of everyone and everything. We laugh constantly. I have decided that my favorite vacations are the ones where I don't see any white people. I have loved jeweled beaches and ancient marble, but I get the most out of the little things like street food, local markets and the back streets that lead away from the tourist attractions. Getting to spend my time in another country with the people who live there, doing the things they do every day is a rare experience that's an oft-trumpeted ideal among traveling Americans. Some enjoy the cruise-ship style vacation, with umbrellas and invisible waitstaff. My generation, however, is looking for an adventure off the beaten path. It's important for us in our wanderlust to stay wary of becoming patronizing. I'm reminded of the hill tribe villages in northern Thailand: billed as an 'authentic' experience, it's nothing more than perpetuating the tragic dependence of a caricature of what once was a colorful and rich culture upon well-intentioned but poorly aimed "adventure" tourists. I don't want to be *that* tourist, but I don't want to be that hipster post-tourist poseur either. But more than any of this, I'm here to share these experiences with a friend. I'm here to explore a rare and priceless connection with another human being that could be happening anywhere in the world. The fact that it's happening here and there are other things to look at along the way is just icing on the cake. We cross the street to a huge old pyramid of stone. I'm told it's 2000 years old, and was a place of worship for the citizens of the city. There's a wall around it, and just inside the wall are a few men hawking jewelry and carved flutes. We smile and wave them politely away - I love how polite the hawkers are here- they approach, but aren't pushy. The trappings of this tourist trap are unostentatious. Surprisingly, the locals definitely outweigh the foreigners. 200 or so of stone steps that have been restored to their original terrifying steepness bring the 4 of us to the top, where Carlos and I sit on a ledge and paint each other pictures of what the people of Teotihuacan must have seen from there, so long ago. Per usual, we describe a gruesome scene, discussing the strange beauty of the pyramids covered in the blood of thousands of prisoners of war. We wax unironically poetic, quietly wallowing together in the drama and tragedy of our relationship and we promise, there atop the pyramid of the sun, to always love each other. And that in 10 years, if we haven't found someone better suited to our individual quirks that we'll find our way back to each other. Asking "who else?" we share a poignant kiss. Who else, indeed? Carlos, with a flair for the dramatic, brings an intensity and a creativity out in me that I feel like I had forgotten. He understands a big part of me- the performing part- in a way that others don't. We are both born performers: we live and die by the attention of an audience, and the satisfaction we can only get on a stage is the yardstick by which any other satisfaction in our lives is measured. Somehow, discussing life, love, and the pursuit of happiness, and declaring our undying love for each other doesn't seem at all ridiculous there atop the Pyramid of the Sun. Somehow it's quintessentially *us*. We descend, and walk off toward a smaller pyramid to the right- the Pyramid of the Moon, taking time to play with cartwheels and handstands on top of the crumbling walls. Carlos gets bitten by an ant. His dad takes pictures. We are uncharacteristically quiet. We return to the city in heinous traffic. Traffic in Mexico is like traffic in Seattle, only if it were in Seattle, it would stretch from Everett to Tacoma without relief. Stopping on an errand, I'm left alone with Vivi for a few minutes, and we make small talk in both languages. I learn the story of the birth of her 12 year old- when people learn I'm a labor & delivery nurse, they frequently share their birth stories- I love this. We get dressed up back at home, and take the metro and a taxi with Eric to a part of town called La Contessa, where there are hip and metropolitan-looking bars everywhere. We get a table upstairs in a sleek place that has blue lighting. My backless top draws a lot of attention. We get a table next to a door that opens into a giant walk-in freezer. The walls and bar and furniture are made of ice inside. An ice bar in Mexico City! We instantly adopt a lovely couple that are a little quiet and look nervous about our boisterousness. They talk to me in polite, broken English and I try to talk back in Spanish as much as I can. I'm doing better today in Spanish, having learned several new words this morning. Bottle service is required, so the 5 of us put a bottle of Stolichnaya to good use, and are soon the only people in the bar dancing, definitely having a better time than anyone else. Leslie and Manuel are still a little unsure of us, but are starting to cut loose a little. We of course learn the cheer that I have been teaching everyone I meet in bars for the last 4 months. I am always surprised when everyone enthusiastically takes part. Carlos and I laugh and take to the dance floor at one point, and as we are wont to do, improvise some flashy choreography that draws the attention of this half of the bar, and the applause of our table mates. Life is good. After shots and dancing in the ice bar, Eric's ex girlfriend Mary joins us, and we proceed with an epically fun night: drunkenly singing along with the Black Eyed Peas and Pitbull. Leslie and Manuel finally cut loose- laughing, taking pictures, and singing. There is no language needed, just noisy bar pantomime and lots of liquor. We kissed the bear carved from ice and laughed our way out. As far as we were concerned, no-one in the place had ever in their lives had as much fun as we had that night. I have had some good times in New York, Washington D.C., San Francisco, and Jamaica, but this may have topped them all. We walk for what seems like miles to get back to Eric's house- now using more English than Spanish, which is a nice rest for me. I felt bad for Mary, being the only one who didn't speak English. We drink and smoke, Eric and Mary make spectacular quesadillas, and we curl up to sleep for an hour on a couch that would not have been nearly so comfortable if we had not bellies full of Stoli and cheese. The Metro opens at 5. At 6, we stumble and grin through walk-of-shame back to Casa de Carlos. Riding the metro at 6am in last night's clubbing clothes is a surefire way to draw more than a little attention. We're used to it, and ignore the stares as we cuddle in the corner.

Mexico City - Day 3: Coyoacan

We awake in the afternoon, and get lunch at a lovely little cafe in the spiderweb neighborhood next door. These flautas cure my hangover instantly, and are some of the the finest things I have ever eaten in my life. Carlos, predictably, gets a hamburger. We discuss our dissatisfaction with foreign food- American food in Mexico just isn't the same, either. We navigate the Metro again, and here on my 3rd day I now understand all the signs and how the different levels work, and finally hear the beep the signals that the doors are closing. Up to this point, I was always amazed by how everyone seemed to just know when to step back or get eaten alive by the unforgiving things. "No," Carlos smiled at me: "Mexicans are not genetically engineered with a subway-door instinct." First rule of the Metro: you do not trifle with the doors. Doors are DOORS! And they pack a wallop, so you listen for the beep. Next, a bus takes us to the little bohemian market in the Coyoacan neighborhood. It reminds me a little of the river walk area of San Antonio, or Chico, with well-kept streets and quaint brick walls. I expect a flamenco dancer to flounce around the corner at any moment. The market here is lovely, all sorts of lovely trinkets and baubles are there. Unlike some other markets I have been to, most of the stalls have unique wares- from miniature glass hummingbirds to intricately painted plates to leather wallets and purses and bracelets. It's very different from the cacophony of the Tepito area. Carlos buys a fire staff. I squeal with delight at the feather headbands. There are a few more white people shopping here, but it's still mostly Mexicans. We leave grinning, and take turns spinning the staff outside. It's a couple of hours until the party we will be attending tonight, so we wander. There's a sweet little park here, with children playing in a fountain and perfectly manicured boxwood hedges that curve and swirl around the trees. This Mexico city is quite charming. We find an amusing street performer with a bullhorn. Carlos translates his jokes to me, and we decide to follow the crowd to see where he's leading us: the Pied Piper in stripes and suspenders. We take our seats in what looks like it was once a sports court of some kind. This was a good idea. Two street clowns entertain us for the better part of 3 hours. Carlos graciously translates the jokes for me when I don't get them, but still- a clown is a clown. Slapstick humor needs no translation. They chose Carlos for the audience participation part (little did they know) where he made a perfect addition to their show: not quite stealing it, but playing along better than their usual rubes. They nicknamed him something that translated roughly to "The Pole Dancer" after making rude gestures with his new fire staff and poking fun at his ruggedly handsome looks. We left giggling, with laughs and slaps on the back for Carlos for being a good sport, and got some street food for dinner. We got a cup of coffee in a cafe around the corner, and watched the news about the earthquake that had just happened. We were apparently oblivious, walking through the park. I can't imagine that the two of us would be so wrapped up in our little world that we would miss a 6.8 earthquake... At a table in the back of a bar around the corner we joined a birthday party for Carlos' cousin. His friends, all actors, were polite and chic, engaging me despite my jeans and hoodie and poor Spanish. We drank and laughed through the night.