There were years that I traveled, had adventures, basicly got lost in countries where I knew neither the language,or the customs, or where the bus stop was. Yesterday was like that. I was in Mexico.
Today, I am home. As I write this,laying in bed, nake and sleepy, I must say, I love my apartment, but still wish I could have stayed in that beautiful place of friendly kind people.
I took an art class in Puerto Vallarta and will write more in the next few days about what I learned about art, printing, people, beauty, laughter, myself, and how strange it is to see Donald Trump dubbed in spainish.
I had spent several days with people I became close to for a moment in life, hope to see again, but knowing what I do, it is always up to us to make those ties knot together.
Yesterday, I was alone. I had travel alone in Europe, and the middle east, had that same, frighten momment of, what the fuck did I get myself into this time, where am I, can I find my way back.
I wanted to see the Jardin Botanico in Puerto Vallarta. I had a small map given to me by Michelangelo (real name later). Written on the top: Jaridin Botanico, followed by a map,or rather lines for streets but no names, and an x for the church where the stop was. So I went, that part was easy. I got to the small church, then asked for directions to the bus stop. All directions in Mexico are 3 blocks, this way or that. I kept showing my paper to people, bus drivers, anyone, everyone and always the same answer, 3 blocks. So I walked, 3 blocks in every direction, saw kids playing, laughing, people eating, working, tourist lost and angery with each other, always “you said you knew where it was”, local stores and people cooking from small carts, old cars, VW bugs, trucks full of large porpane tanks, driving fast on cobble stone narrow streets from a century pasted, buses, many buses.In this part of town, their were less tourist, so less weird things for sale and more food. The white bus sent me to the orange bus, where I waited in a line, when it was full, it pulled away as someone was getting on. An american husband and wife team fighting, again about directions. Next bus, driver directed me back to the white buses. Not one, said Jardin Botanico. Then I saw, what I had been looking for, it pulled me from accross the road through traffic, like a rope tired to my eyes…..the prefect sandel. Last summer, I must had tried on 3 dozen, but my short fat feet with high arches that are actually two different sizes, never really fit anything, much like the rest of my body. My feet finally fit into a pair of hand made leather summer shoes. The man who made them had hands like my grandfather. Used hands, with wide, strong palms, and tractile fingers. 300 peso, $15 USD, awesome, my price range for shoes goes up to $35 for converse and I panic beyond that for anything but art supplies. The shoe maker directed me to the bus stop, where I waited.
The whole time I was in Mexico, everyone spoke spanish to me, I hated saying, I do not speak spanish, sometimes, when spoken slowly, I got the idea of what was said. Watching carefully helps. At the bus stop the most beautiful mayan woman, some where around age 80, began to try and help me. This time I had not asked for direction, I was at the bus stop the cobble directed me to, (I thought), I’m good, I got this, I’ll wait, I had new shoes on, all was right with the world. Lost again, and I did not even notice. She looked at my paper, we laughted at it, the map, the lines, bearly readable because my hand sweat was erasing the pencil marks. First she flag down a cab, but the driver shake his head, then she talked to a young woman who spoke english. Go down the street 3 blocks to the store and buy a ticket then go to the other side. and wait.
more later, the benadryl has taken over my ability to spell