That Time of the Year

If you've followed the metamorphosis of this blog, you could probably surmise how huge July is for me, it being the singular, most narcissistic month of the year because it's my birthday month.  Sara Bareilles has a new album out and I was listening to her commentary about a song she wrote called "December", her birthday month.  It turns out, we share the pensive mood surrounding our birthdays.  There's this covert pressure of being somewhere better than you were the year past, and for me, the leading days are the tentative approach to the day where I muse on the weighty question - Am I a better version of myself than ever?  

After four months of putting up (sometimes with hands flailing in the air in frustration) with a torn knee ligament and meniscus due to a ski accident in March and barely dodging knee surgery, I'm finally back on the yoga mat again.  And in a brief lucid moment in savasana when I was gazing at my life impersonally as if it weren't even mine, a settling feeling of contentment washed over me. 

I had spurts in the past where sadness loomed like an ominous cloud - not for things I could not possess or acquire, but because I was unrecognizable to myself.  But now, that's a distant reverie.  A full week before the actual date of my (auspicious!) birth, I have calm.  I have equanimity.  I celebrate not just another year of my life but I celebrate that I do so with recognition of who I am, where I belong, and what my place is in this world.  I am grateful and I realize that this is a gift, this clarity that life is about earning and deserving the great things - not the ephemeral, material ones, but the intangible, ethereal ones, the ones that take a lot more painstaking work.  And I pray for an unstoppable momentum to be the best human being I can be yet, year after year after year.  

Namaste.   

Paradise Found!

I was listening to an interview with intrepid traveler and writer Paul Theroux once. He said when asked what his favorite beach is, he would reveal his THIRD favorite one, but never the first. I feel entirely the same. There are places too special that there is a fear that broadcasting it would somehow spoil its special-ness.

My third favorite beach is Kauai.

My first?

This place which will remain unnamed, but trust that if your desire is that intense, this place will find you.

There's an abundance of the things that I love here - Yoga, salsa dancing (well, there are two that I know of - to live music!), unspoiled nature, abundant wildlife, bicycles, AND gourmet food (Eric Werner has a restaurant here).  Most folks don't speak English, just Spanish.  It is remote and recluse.  It is rustic, but in a very beautiful and authentic way.  History and culture are abundant.  There are also quite a few experiences that would be rare to find elsewhere.  Snorkeling/diving in underground caves, anyone?  Care to sleep in a rustic hut by the beach sans electricity?  People you meet are (still) authentic and sincere.  There is an unapologetic reverence for nature.  At Papaya Playa Project, The Dutch asked for a straw for his smoothie.  In Spanish, our server said they don't have straws because it's not good for the turtles that come here to lay their eggs (assuming the straws somehow manage to end up in the beach).  I love this seaside town for all these and for way too many personal reasons to be revealed that I find myself in repeated pilgrimages to this place I deem sacred.

I've been back a few days from this place and it's about this time that we all are familiar with as travelers.  The restlessness.  The reminiscence.  The longing for that special place you were just at not even a hundred hours ago.  And it's slowly, surely edging away... like sand escaping from your clenched grip.

So as always, I stare at pictures whilst trying to curb a feeling of impatience of when I will next return.

 

[STAY]
And should this place find you, the boutique beachfront hotel, Mezzanine is an utter delight.  We did not have a single complaint.  The place was intimate, spotless, and impeccable.  The views of the Caribbean were astonishing.  Havana Nights on Thursdays is an awesome party.  But most of all, the people who run it are the warmest and most sincere. They took amazing care of us as if we were old friends visiting.

As we were checking out, I declared to Jonatan at the front desk my reluctance to leave: "Estamos tristes."

To which he replied, "Estara de regreso pronto.  No llores."

Too late.

Muchisimas gracias a mi familia en Mezzanine!  Hasta pronto!  

La Panaderia Jam Sessions (also Where the Wild Things Are)

The priceless thing about travel is that by stepping out of your everyday routine and voluntary immersing yourself in an unfamiliar locale, you almost invite the unexpected.  In a foreign country, your mind cannot contain the infinite number of permutations of what might be possible.  But if you choose to be open and embrace the unknown, beautiful experiences make their way to you. 

After a satisfying desayuno in una panaderia local in this rustic Yucatan town, we were invited to sit down with another traveler for some big talk over coffee.  We were on holiday; I mean, what else were we going to do?

And what ensued after an hour or so is quite extraordinary.  A stranger with a guitar sat by us, uninvited, and without any warning started strumming his guitar and singing, screeching, "I feel goooood!".  It was only our first morning in town and yet, there we were, on a small Mexican sidewalk bakery listening to an impromptu live show by "James Brown".  Meanwhile, the rest of pueblo life continued before us.  It was a hot and humid day.  Mexican mothers walk without pause under umbrellas dragging along chiquitos still too young for school.  Passenger-laden tricycles zip by.   Pick up trucks with huge speakers loaded on the truck bed drive by with blaring campaign music (it's pre-elections for el presidente de municipio, from what I've gathered).  The pandero would look up from his unstoppable dough-rolling once in a while to chuckle at these silly tourists lingering and lapping up "James Brown".   An occasional tourist walking past or buying bread would halt and grin as they too recognize how removed this scene is from their experiences back home. 

Aahhhh... 

Este es mi Mexico.  Y estoy Enamorada. 

Love from Paradise

I have always held ambitious goals of myself to travel as voraciously and as often as the pocketbook and seemingly perpetually inadequate time-off work allows.  Every once in a great while, I am pulled to escape.  To unplug from the grid.  To not have to make my bed and wash my towels and prepare dinners.

Vacations are precious to me because it allows me to meet that person that I want to be.  Separated from the turmoil in my head and tossed into the unfamiliar and unknown, ironically, I regain my balance.  When I am anonymous to myself - the robotic one I become in the grind - I am in my element.  Grappling with a language I can only speak like a stuttering three year-old, I am humbled.  Out here, I know nothing.  I am no one.

Even to myself.
And it's delirious.

I am staring at the rushing waves, the wind tousling my hair about.  The water is a stunning aquamarine.  It was disconcerting in the beginning, but every night since, I am lulled to sleep by the immense sound of thunderous waves.  I bask in all this magic and express my gratitude that out here, there is none but the moment.  And in this space, I connect with what might potentially the best version of myself yet.  

Namaste and Love to you from Paradise.