Remember to let her into your heart

This weekend, without doing much planning, I hopped on a plane to Cozumel thanks to the flight benefits from my new job.  At the airport, I was slightly disappointed to see that my flight was filled with old white people and men that stared just a little too long (despite my being dressed conservatively).  When our plane landed, I made it a point to tell everyone I met that I needed to practice my spanish, and that I had no idea where to go.  I must have looked like a hot n frantic sweaty mess.  An older woman who didn't speak English told me to go to the Iglesia de San Miguel, so amidst all the other suggestions from other tourist companies I'd been bombarded with, I knew this was what I needed to do (damn near poetic, right?). I'd think it was a fair thing to say that the old woman "saved" me, and I arrived in time to catch a few gospels and discover a nearby hostel.  After stowing my pack I set out to explore, and found the biggest margarita of my life, and drunk overly-tan Americans everywhere.  For whatever reason, they just didn't feel like my people.

I enjoyed meeting some of the people who lived there, but there was this instant amicability that suggested we both have very distinct and separate roles-  we're supposed to relate through commerce but no more.  I went to the city square where there was a live cumbia band and there were drunk white couples dancing in in the square, families lined up on the wall, teenage local kids walking hand in hand, and older locals who looked like they were taking their first break of the day.  Usually when I travel solo, I make it a point to stay in after dark, but I sensed that I was safe wandering around alone here, which was really nice at first.  That said, for the first time in a while I recognized feelings of loneliness, which is pretty unusual for me.

When I woke up, I decided I'd eat breakfast and decide on the day after that.  The decisions that I made after eating this meal set me up for the most epic weekend ever. 

Some friends had suggested I check out Playa del Carmen, and even though I had initially ruled it out, when I woke up Saturday I decided to hop a ferry to check it out.  I quickly found a hostel to stow my backpack, and headed to the beach where I was approached by a guy from Mexico City who was interested in my ukulele.  After swapping a few songs, he drew our initials in the sand with a heart around them and told me he would love me forever.  That was sweet n all, but I got thirsty and told him it was nice meeting him/ I needed a beer. He laughed and went on his way, and I walked around until I found the beach bar with the best music.

Just when I sat down, the band stopped, and an older Canadian couple asked me to play something for them.  I did, and from that point on they never let my beer glass go empty. We swapped travel/life stories and the woman gave me detailed information on how to sneak into Cuba. I left to go to the bathroom, and when I returned the house band called me up to the stage to play something (thanks to team Canada's dirty tricks).  I was pretty boracha by this point, so I offered to just sit in on drums rather than try to sing.  Nevertheless, it was fun and we just played an island-style Yellow Ledbetter. The couple loved it and took tons of photos.  I felt like I was their adopted daughter for the day, and they offered to have me stay at their house, but I'd already booked my hostel. When the sun went down, we exchanged contact info/ said our goodbyes, and they sent me off with the house band's CD.


On my way back to the hostel, amidst a sea of people offering cheap drinks/shirts/massages/etc.,  I met a guy named Jose who offered to take me to the "real food".  He had an honest demeanor and my intuition said agreeing to this would be a good thing, and it was. We went through some back alleys away from the beach and found these basketball courts where all the local families and food carts had congregated.   It was crowded, but he knew the guy who worked there and cut the line to order for me and I offered to buy his as well. It was a fraction of what I would have paid otherwise, and was probably the best burrito I've ever had in my life. We brought our food to his friend's cantina back in town, and he introduced me to all his friends (one of which was a professional hair braider, and the proof is below).

When we finished, he walked me back to my hostel and we said our goodbyes.  This felt like the end of my third date of the day but I guess the couple doesn't count.  But either way, there's something so intimate about any interaction when you're a lone stranger in a foreign land.

When I returned, this Argentinian guy asked me about my ukulele and if I played.  We started jamming, and I discovered that he was really freaking good... and then that evolved into recruiting a few backup singers/clappers/guys playing water jugs for drums/ maracas/etc.... which soon evolved into probably everyone from the danggone hostel plus other passers-by from the street singing various top 40/classic songs at the top of our lungs.


I was probably the only person there who didn't speak Spanish and yet I felt so connected and accepted.  In the morning I had a hard time convincing myself to take my flight back home.


I wasn't expecting much from this trip, but I have to say it's the best weekend I've had in a long time.  As mentioned on my 27th birthday, all I ever want out of life is to jam with people who don't speak English, so that happened like, all day yesterday. 

Nope.  Whoever told you that focus is the key to staying on top of the food chain is a liar.  In another time, the best hunters were those skilled in the art of spacing out.  We (so easily distracted, yet drawn in by the slightest intentional movements) are the ones who bring home the impossible kill.