Going home

After an hour and a half ride in a taxi through unfamiliar narrow roads seemingly heading towards nowhere, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Tiny thorns of fear are prickling inside me; maybe a street taxi in the middle of the night wasn't such a great idea. Best to stay awake and alert.

But the taxi driver is confiable and we arrive at the airport in Tuxla at 4:30 in the morning. The flight to Mexico city is non-eventful; it's the trip to the US that proves to be slightly more challenging.

A half hour after our take off time and we have not moved. A flight attendant chipper voice comes over the PA telling us our delay is due to a noncooperative youngster traveling alone - she will not be boarding the plane after all. Twenty minutes after this and they tell us the door to the luggage compartment under the plane will not close and so we may be delayed for a few more minutes. My layover time to reach my connecting flight from Atlanta to Chicago is only a little over an hour. This may get interesting.

Finally we take off. I frantically search flights to make sure there will be some way I can get to Chicago that night. Between searches, I chat with my sister. Dad is now stable but still not out of danger.  I need to get home.

We finally get to Atlanta and I rush to get in line for my boarding pass for my connecting flight. From the murmurs of the crowd, I gather that we have all missed our flights, but they are frantically looking for the next best option to get us home before the airlines close. Just as I reach the counter a lady announces that no more flights will be available, but they will put us up in hotel rooms for the night. I feel defeated, but with tears in my eyes, I hand my boarding pass and say, I have to get home now.

The lady looks annoyed, but as she reads my ticket she says, "Girl, that plane was delayed too! they are still boarding, hurry up and you can catch it!" I drop my luggage off in a panic and run; the other passagers, overhearing my shaky voice, smile sympathetically and let me budge in line. My gate is across the airport and I take off running as fast as I can with my heavy backpack. An airport employee in one of those annoying beeping carts, passes me and then stops, asking if I need a ride. I smile graciously and hop on.

I am dropped off at my gate as a man is arguing with the ticket taker. He is a non-English speaker and the lady at the gate is clearly annoyed. "Sir, I can't understand you; we are not allowing anymore passengers on this plane!" My heart is crushed - I catch the lady's eye and she shakes her head. It was then that I lost it. I turn my back to the lady and start sobbing uncontrollably, shaking and covering my face. The lady extremely irritated says, "oh alright fine. But you aren't getting your same seat!" I say thank you and run to my seat, guiltily leaving the confused passenger behind.

I arrive in Chicago, just in time to catch a taxi and catch my 11:00 bus. My luggage however  has other plans for me. I wait 20 minutes watching others pick up their bags and stroll away without a care in the world. I probably sat for 3 extra minutes watching the belt move around empty before realizing my luggage was not coming. I can't decide what to do - Do I just worry about the lost luggage later and catch my cab in hopes of making that last bus? or do I fill out my lost luggage form and hope I can still make it? I realize there are a lot of people in line for the lost luggage so I go out to find a cab. In my 20 minutes of waiting, 50 people have lined up waiting for taxis - I'll never make it in time. I get back in line for the luggage, tears streaming down my face. While in line, I try to connect to the internet to let my family know I won't be home tonight. When I finally get a signal, I find a message from my sister - "CALL ME NOW!"

I drop to my knees, it was the worst possible message. I know I'm too late. A kind woman asks if she can help and I try to get it together to let her know there is nothing she can do. I manage to type in my sister's cell number on to my iPad and she answers.

Thank God! she says - Christine has hired a driver to take you to Madison. Do not leave the airport!

I made it to Madison at 2:00 am. everyone was sleeping except for my uncle Art. I gave him a quiet hug and crashed on a short hospital couch - my bed for the next 3 weeks.

Life happens

Kristian and I danced until 4:30 in the morning. At the door to my hotel, he kissed me softly on the lips and asked when he could see me again.

I had planned on staying in San Cristobal until Wednesday, and then traveling around Chiapas for another few days. Chiapas has so many gorgeous waterfalls, caves, and cultural ruins that I wanted to make sure I saw it all before I headed back to Puebla. Kristian had thrown a kink into my plans.

On Tuesday, we met for lunch and then he had 2 performances that night. I found him in a different cafe and listened blissfully to him for hours. Afterwards, we talked over dinner. I was completely comfortable with him and knew three days just wasn't enough. So, I asked him if he wanted to travel with me throughout Chiapas. He had 3 days free before he needed to return to Queretero to start his studies again and also had not yet seen some of the magical places I had on my to do list. So we started making plans.

I think it was John Lennon who said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making plans." Sometimes I think "Shit" would fit more accurately than "Life."

Wednesday, Mom found me somehow in the middle of Mexico to let me know Dad was badly injured. He had fallen over 20 feet off of a lift at work and broken nearly every bone in his body, including all of the bones in his face. His aorta had ruptured due to the stress of all the injuries, along with some arteries in his leg- he was in danger of bleeding to death. "Find a way home" was all my mom's message had said.

After holding me for a minute of chaotic sobbing in the bustling street, Kristian led me home and helped me pack; while I found a plan ticket from Mexico to Chicago, he worked on the much trickier plane ticket from Chiapas to Mexico City. I hugged him one last time before I got in my taxi to the airport. I would be home in 24 hours.

Instantes

I spent the last weeks of my Fulbright exchange traveling the western coast and southern border of Mexico. A friend from high school and her husband joined me in Oaxaca where we visited Monte Alban - the holy city of the Zapotecas and later Mixtecas, and ran into an impromptu parade with dancers in traditional dress of the Oaxacan indigenous people. One of my students from UTIM lives in Oaxaca and invited me to her birthday party. We sang and danced to the Oaxaca rhythms and drank the homemade Mezcal, the traditional drink of the state.

After 8 hours in a tiny, hot and stuffy van, swirving back and forth through the Oaxacan mountains, we managed to get to Puerto Escondido. Famous for its Mexican Pipeline, Puerto has the best surfing in Latin America. I attempted the sport, managing to stand for almost 10 seconds before the huge waves toppled me and sent a gallon of salty water up my nose. Watching the crashing waves at sunset from the gorgeous Zicatela beach was much more satisfying.

From Puerto Escondido, I traveled 12 hours to Tuxtla Gutierrez, the capital of Chiapas. Chiapas is known for its amazing landscapes and natural beauty as well as its super left-wing Zapatistas and alluring indigenous population where only about 30% speak Spanish; the rest speak various tribal languages thousands of years old, originating from the Mayan people.

After visiting the magnificent Cañon de Sumidero, I hopped on a minivan headed to San Cristobal de las Casas, named after Bartholome de las Casas who was one of the few Spanish priests who spoke out against the cruelty of the Spanish conquest and is seen as a hero to the country.

The gorgeous Cañon de Sumidero

The first day, I settled into my modest hotel and met the person at the reception desk who also was a volunteer firefighter. He told me about the convenio they had with Wisconsin firefighters, showing me pictures of trainings, and donated trucks from Waunakee, Spring Green and McFarland. Faraway from the tourists, I managed to find the fire station and get some great pictures. Five of the men will be in Monroe, Wisconsin for the annual firefighter training in August.

San Cristobal is a hippie paradise. Backpacker hostels are sprinkled throughout the center where you can sign up for a mountain bike tour or volunteer in the local indigenous villages. Folk, jazz, and reggae can be heard from the cute cafes and classy winebars. I prefer trova, which is a popular genre in Puebla, acoustic guitar with a soft, folky voice singing romantic latin love songs. So of course, I am drawn to a small cafe as I hear a gorgeous voice backed up with a soft trova rhythm guitar.

The cafe is just as beautiful as the voice coming from the musician. I find a poem I teach to my upper level Spanish class on the ceiling; it's one of my favorites; the musings of an elderly man with regrets on not living life to the fullest. I return my stare at the guitarist's fingers, trying to memorize the chords for when I get back to my own guitar, and I realize he's staring at me, too. After his last song, he walks over to my table and introduces himself. I invite him to sit at my table; oddly, I find it easy to talk to him in Spanish. I learn not only is he a fabulous entertainer but also a medical student in Queretero - a colonial city a few hours north of Mexico City. He has been volunteering in the indigenous villages for the past few weeks around San Cristobal. He gives me a quick history of the Zapatista movement in Chiapas and then asks me, "Te gusta salsa?" It's only Monday, but here in San Cristobal, dancing is popular every day of the week and usually the party doesn't start until well past 11:00 pm. I have a tour early in the morning, not to mention going on a date late at night with a complete stranger is just plain crazy, so I start to shake my head no. But then I look up at the ceiling where the poem haunts me, and I agree to go dancing.

Instances - Jorge Luis Borges

If I could live my life again,
In the next, I would make more mistakes 
I wouldn't try to be perfect. 
I would be sillier than what I have been 
I would be less hygenic
In fact, I would take very few things seriously.

I would take more risks 
I would travel more
I would contemplate more sunsets
I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers 
I would go more places where I'd never been
I would eat more ice cream and less beans 
I would have more real problems and less imaginary ones.

I was one of those people who lived  wisely and cautiously,
Every minute of their life. 
Of course, I had moments of happiness,
But if I could do it again, I would try to have only good moments
Because, if you don't already realize it, 
those moments are what life is made of
Only of those moments, 
Don't lose yourself in the now.

I was one of those who always carried a thermometer, 
a hot water bottle, an umbrella and a parachute. 
If I could do it over, I'd travel more lightly.
If I could live my life again, I would walk barefoot at the beginning of spring 
and continue until the end of autumn.
I would contemplate more sunrises, 
I'd take another turn on the carousel, 
play with more children, 
if I had another life ahead of me.
but now I am 85 years old, 
and I know that I am dying.

Instantes

Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida,                            
en la próxima trataría de cometer más errores.          
No intentaría ser tan perfecto, me relajaría más.       
Sería más tonto de lo que he sido,                                 
de hecho tomaría muy pocas cosas con seriedad.       
Sería menos higiénico.                                                
Correría más riesgos,                                                   
haría más viajes,                                                          
contemplaría más atardeceres,                                    
subiría más montañas, nadaría más ríos.                    
Iría a más lugares adonde nunca he ido,                
comería más helados y menos habas,                    
tendría más problemas reales y menos imaginarios.

Yo fui una de esas personas que vivió sensata
y prolíficamente cada minuto de su vida;
claro que tuve momentos de alegría.
Pero si pudiera volver atrás trataría
de tener solamente buenos momentos.

Por si no lo saben, de eso está hecha la vida,
sólo de momentos; no te pierdas el ahora.

Yo era uno de esos que nunca
iban a ninguna parte sin un termómetro,
una bolsa de agua caliente,
un paraguas y un paracaídas;
si pudiera volver a vivir, viajaría más liviano.

Si pudiera volver a vivir
comenzaría a andar descalzo a principios de la primavera
y seguiría descalzo hasta concluir el otoño.
Daría más vueltas en calesita,
contemplaría más amaneceres,
y jugaría con más niños,
si tuviera otra vez vida por delante.

Pero ya ven, tengo 85 años...
y sé que me estoy muriendo.

La isla de las muñecas (The Island of the Dolls)

In November, I had a chance to tour the Palacio Nacional in the historic center of Mexico City. This is the home of many gorgeous murals of Diego Rivera - Mexico's most famous muralist.

Palacio Nacional en México D.F.

An amazing mural by Diego Rivera that tells the history of México from the indigenous people's point of view.

The canals of Mexico city.

http://jgerardbreiner.blogspot.mx

One of our fulbrighters was knowledgeable in the murals, explaining that the small islands that appear amongst the system of canals were used as fertile agricultural plots during the time of the Xochimilca (a tribe of the Nahua - aka Aztecs) in 900s.  Xochilmico means flower fields, but the islands, known as chinampas, were used to grow corn, squash, beans, chili peppers and much more. I put Xochimilco on my mental Mexico bucket list, knowing I had to see this magical place before I left Mexico.

It was about six months later, I found my opportunity. Another fulbrighter, Jonathan, who was placed in a public middle school in the massive city, happily obliged to be my tour guide.  His roommate, a Chinese American who works for the US Embassy in Mexico, is hosting a bachelor party for a friend on the canals of Xochimilco (so-chee-MIL-co), so we head to the canals with about 12 Americans, and a few British embassadors as well. 

We hop in a large gondola-type boat called a "trajinera" and start our two-hour journey. Luckily, we arrive early enough that the canals aren't filled with too many families enjoying their Saturday afternoon. But there are plenty of smaller boats carrying merchants selling jewelry, mariachi bands playing "Cielito Lindo", and lots of chabelas (poor man's bloody Mary) and tacos to help you stay nourished during the trip.

On our journey, we pass a tree with four or five decaying dolls hanging grotesquely from the tree. Apparently, it's a preview to an island located 2 hours away. Jonathan's friend tells me the story of the Island of the Dolls.

In the 1950s, a small girl was playing in the canals off of one of the many chinampas. Somehow, the water overtook her and she drowned. The island's only inhabitant, Don Julian Santana, found her body, deeply affecting him. He was haunted by her spirit, engulfed in sadness for the poor girl, and so he began to collect and hang dolls from the trees of the island, both as gifts for the girl and also to protect his home against any additional evil. 

Our tour would not be taking us to this crazy island but I knew I would be returning soon.

About a month later, a fulbrighter who is about to end her fulbright experience, asks me to join her for one last trip to Mexico City. Of course I tell her of the island of the dolls.

We meet at "our" hotel the Holiday Inn Zona Rosa where we always stay on these reunions and head downtown via the metro. The Mexican Subway system is an adventure in itself - venders and beggars, selling everything from gum to a really bad rendition of Cielito Lindo.  But it's relatively easy, quick and super cheap. We maneuver our way to a Diego Rivera and Frida Kahloa museum to soak up some Mexican culture before we take our haunted journey to the island of the dolls. 

Then, we find a cab who takes us through the winding streets of Xochimilco. Our driver is led by an official tour guide on a bike who makes sure the tourists make it to the docks. We pick a boat and head out into the canals.

Where we are going, there are no mariachis, or nice señoritas selling food or drinks - so before we are hoisted over the dam, we wave over a young couple and ask for two chabelas, (clamato-tomato juice, tajin-chili/lemon pepper, salsa inglesa-Worcestershire and Valentino-spicy chili sauce) and of course, Victoria beer.

Our journey to the island is about 2 hours, but the time flies as we catch up on our last few weeks of teaching in Mexico. Our experiences are pretty similar, bouts of loneliness, frustrations with the bureaucracy and constant class interruptions, great students, and a few fabulous friends who have made our year worthwhile. Suddenly, we realize there are creepy dolls hanging all around us. We've reached the island.

We meet Anastasio Santana Velasco, the nephew of Don Julian, who has taken over the island. He leads us across a bridge to a small shed. Broken, tattered dolls hang from every tree, fence post, and from the shed as well. Entering the shed, we find a "Día de los muertos"-like alter, created by Don Julian in honor of the little girl who drowned. In the center is Don Julian's favorite doll - she is bigger than most of the other dolls, with long blond hair, and cold blue eyes. There is a bowl filled with small change, an offering for both Don Julian and the little girl.

Anastasio asks if we understand Spanish; we nod and he breathes in a sigh of relief. Unfortunately, there is no translator for the non-Spanish-speaking tourist. He tells us the sad story of the niña and her untimely death, and the obsession that haunted his uncle for fifty years after the accident - up until his own death, in fact. Don Julian died in the same spot as the little girl, 50 years later. Many claim he drowned too, but his nephew insists it was a heart attack.  Now Anastasio runs the place seven days a week, hardly sleeping due to the frequent night tourists as well. 

We are only on the island for 20 minutes. It's tiny, and we walk through the three small shacks and the tall trees quickly. Everything is covered in dolls. As we leave, we pass Don Anastasio and his family sitting around a rundown cabaña type bar. Two boys about 7 or 8 years-old play in a boat in the canal. Don Anastasio invites me to a shot of tequila. "Salud!" I say, and we head back to our trajinera.

Cuetzalan

May for most Wisconsinites is the best weather - highs tickling 80 degrees during the sunny days, and the nights, cool and comfortable. Not true in Izucar. Mexican May equals our sweaty August. It's close to 100 in the afternoon, and I think it may even be hotter at night. The University doesn't have a summer break, but lucky for us, May is full of puentes to escape the heat and find a comfy hotel with cold air-conditioning.

I found out on Wednesday that April would blend into May with a four-day weekend celebrating International Labor Day.  In addition to the metric system and International Women's Day, May 1st is another concept shared around the world with the exception of the US.  Surprisingly, its roots stem from a general strike in  Chicago in 1886. The strike went horribly wrong, ending in the police shooting dozens of protesters and several of their own men.  The demonstrators were fighting for a an 8-hour workday.

I decided I couldn't spend four days cooped up in my tiny pink apartment, trying to stay cool in front of a fan blowing hot air at me, staring at facebook. I hopped on tripadvisor and decided Cuetzalan would be the perfect pueblo mágico to spend a few days in. 

Cuetzalan is located in the Sierra Norte of Puebla. It's a four-hour bus ride winding up and around luscious green hills.The scenery is spectacular, high rolling hills, waterfalls cascading into a long river that cuts through the valley. The bus speeds around sharp curves, and I find myself repeating aloud "Please slow down, please slow down, please slow down." We come to a screeching halt as another bus charges around a corner nearly slamming into us. The driver takes it a little easier. 

I arrive and find myself in a bus station bombarded with middle-aged men trying to sell me tours and hotel rooms. I pretend I don't understand and pick out a 10-year old kid with a binder filled of fun weekend activites. I ask him to help me get to my hotel. 

Jorge guides me down a steep narrow street - I am wearing expensive Tevas, but still find myself slipping on the smooth cobblestone path. I want to stop for a picture, but he jarts through the market crowd in the zocalo, and I'm afraid I'll lose him. He leads me safely to my hotel for 20 pesos; I check in, and crash on my bed while I catch my breath.

After unpacking, I decide to check out the little pueblo mágico. It is centered around the town square, or zócalo, with a magnificent cathedral, various restaurants and bars, and venders selling typical Mexican artisanias y comida. I buy an elote (corn on the cob smothered in cheese, mayonaise, and chili powder) and walk around until a find a fountain in the middle of a roundabout - a good spot for people watching. Lots of Mexican families come here for mini-vacations during their puentes; also, I hear Spanish accents (meaning from Spain), and a group of university students speaking German. 

Steep pedestrian sidewalks keep these Mexicans in great shape.

Yep, that's a REAL pig head. This little piggy didn't make it out of the market...

Tacos del pastor? Pork is cut up and placed on the Trompo where it spins,
cooking along side the fire until it is sliced and put into your taco.
PS. It smells way better than the pig head.

I find a tour guide office selling a variety of adventure tours, repelling, ziplines, spelunking, and hiking tours through the numerous cascadas (waterfalls). I sign up for a combination of hiking and cave exploring tour with the group of Germans. 

The next day, however, I wait over an hour for my compañeros to arrive. While I'm waiting I notice scraggly bearded man wandering around the plaza. His tall and lanky - not the typical poblano I'm used to seeing in this state. He is wearing the typical garb of the locals though, white shirt with a hand-embroidered design, and white linen pants that wrap instead of buckled at the hips and calves, and of course, a straw sombrero. 

His beard throws me off - he looks like the homeless guys that hang out in the zócalo of Izucar.  Yet, he wears heavy-duty Chaco sandals and carries a NorthFace backpack. 

The girl working at the tour office, apologizes and says the tour has been canceled. But, she says the "profe" knows this area very well and will take me to some lugares desconocidos if I would like. I know instantly the "profe" is the odd man from the plaza as he ducks out of the office and tells me to wait while he changes into some hiking boots.

We walk about 1 1/2 miles to a nearby town named San Miguel Tzinacapan. On the way, I find out my tourguide is a history and language professor at the prestigious UNAM in Mexico City. He travels to Cuetzalan many times a year, just to hike through its natural beauty. He tells me that the land is inhabitated by two different tribes, the Nahuatl (NAH-wah-tl) and the Totonaca, each with their own language, customs and traditions.

We stop and wait as a funeral procession goes by. I do a quick estimation - over 200 people walk behind the family carrying candles and flowers. The profe tells me no matter if the deceased is known or not, the entire town will walk with the family as a sign of respect and honor. 

We turn a corner and head down a long cobblestone road; I'm practically skipping as I try to keep up to the long-legged professor - he is the fastest-walking Mexican I have ever met. We pass many añcianos (men and women in their 60s and 70s - or maybe even older) climbing up the steep hill - dressed in typical white clothing with colorful embroidery. Some of them are barefoot, carrying bundles of wood on their heads. These are obviously not tourist-hiking grounds. This is an everyday trail where burros and horses are the luxury transportation, and everyone is hard at work.

A little manmade cave along the trail.

We continue for about an hour and a half, and I look back up the steep mountain and wonder where I can rent a burro to carry me back up. We finally reach a clearing where water cascades over slippery rocks - I take off my shoes and wade through the freezing water. It feels amazing on my sore, tired feet. 

After wading around for a half hour, the profe looks towards the sky and tells me we better get back before the rain starts. We have over seven kilometers to climb.

I'm not sure how it is possible, but my tour guide walks up hills faster than he runs down them. I keep up for the first kilometer; we chat a little; he seems surprised when I tell him my age - he notes I must be in pretty good shape. This makes me climb a little bit faster. 

Another kilometer, though, and  I notice the air is thin and breathing is getting harder. I keep moving my aching legs and see that the profe is now a good twenty steps in front of me. I stop and catch my breath, and the profe laughs. He assures me when we reach the top I will feel amazing - any negative feeling I have in my body will be aspired and I will feel at peace. I'm glad he's 20 steps ahead because at this moment, I want to push him off a cliff. 

A half hour later, the profe is now so far ahead of me that when I wind the corner, hoping to see the end, he's disappeared into the horizon. I meet a man leading a burro down the steep hill; I briefly consider asking for a lift. But I ignore the urge and continue.

Soon, my lungs can't take in enough air, and my hips, thighs and calves are screaming at me. I concentrate on the rough terrain, careful not to trip on the loose rocks and branches that litter the path - and also remember the warning of poisonous snakes that could dart out at any given moment. I hear something behind me - an anciana, with a load of wood on her head, passes me with ease. She's at least 40 years older than me and barefoot. Echale ganas, gringa - I suck in as much air as I can and keep going.  

I see the profe finally, waiting for me at the 6 km mark and realize I have almost made it. We walk the rest of the way together, at a considerably slower pace. When we reach the city I turn around and look down at the steep trail I just about died on. I take in a deep breathe and exhale all the negative energy accumulated in my tired bones and muscles. I feel great.

We hike back to the zocalo of Cuetzalan, passing through the market place - we stop several times for various townspeople to greet and pay respects to the profe. I realize he is a very important man in this town. We end at my hotel - I shake his hand and offer him 200 pesos for the amazing journey - he smiles and gently refuses - "El gusto fue mío;" he says and disappears into the crowd.

The next day, I'm exhausted, but know I cannot leave Cuetzalan without exploring its famous grutas (natural caves). I arrive at the tour guide office, and they find me 17-year-old Armando to take me on a grutas y cascadas tour.  We walk an easy 2K to reach the first gruta. Just as we enter, Armando points my lantern to a few bats sleeping upside down about a foot above us. He assures me that they are murcielagos de fruta (fruit bats). I want to tell him I'm not worried about them sucking my blood, I just don't want to contract rabies. But I don't know how to say "rabies" in Spanish so I put on my fake relieved face and continue.  

Armando is ahead and slips and contorts his body to fit through the narrow crevices. As I clumsily do the same, I picture myself in that Indiana Jones movie -  rats and snakes and lots of creepy arthropods - I don't see any of these things of course, but I carefully place my hands on the cleanest rock, noting there are a lot worse creatures than bats. 

We come to the first of many freezing natural underground springs. Armando tells me that if it rains, the water quickly will reach the ceiling (of which I keep bashing my helmet into). He jumps in and starts swimming. I slip in slowly, the air knocked out of my lungs from the icy cold water; I reach desperately for solid ground with my soaken tennis shoes, but it doesn't exist, and so I start to swim. 

Day 3 in Cuetzalan: Waterfalls and Cave exploring - so worth the ruined tennies. 

A watertight backpack always comes in handy.

The cave exploration ends after about an hour, and we hike to a few waterfalls; I'm already soaked so I dive in, clothes and shoes and all.

After the day before's hike - trekking to these 2 fabulous waterfalls was a breeze.

Awesome swimming spot.

After a relaxing swim, Armando takes me to one more unusual cavern. Before we enter, he warns me that it is haunted. He tells me of a story of a disaparecida - a girl disappeared 20 years ago, her brutally beaten body was found in the cave. Soft female echos are heard at night here. Armando tells me he never ever comes here alone, and especially never at night. 

We enter the huge cavern; it has high ceilings; stalactites appear to be dripping from above. It doesn't appear to go too far back, and we aren't there for long. Okay by me, as I'm a little creeped out. 

Before we leave its darkness, Armando says to himself, "Armando, ya vamanos." - Armando, let's go. He looks at me to do the same. Apparently, if you do not tell yourself to get the heck out, your soul will be trapped there forever. 

"Dianna, ya vamanos" I say, and hurry towards the exit.

Puentes

Mexico is the queen of the three-day weekend. Here they are called "puentes", literally small bridges of vacations that help the hard-working Mexican survive the long tedious 10-11 hour-work days.  The other Fulbrighters and I have completely adapted to this fabulous culture. We take full advantage of our 3-day vacations and travel as much as our teacher's salaries can afford (and our credit limits). The February 5th puente celebrates Constitution Day, bringing about a much needed break; my friend Michelle and I set off to Michoacan to see the Monarch butterflies who migrate from Wisconsin to this part of Mexico every year. The butterflies have been on my list of things to see ever since my niece caught a caterpillar last fall. She kept it for a few weeks and watched it bloom into a butterfly. She set it free in September, and off to Mexico it flew.

Michelle is also a Fulbright teacher. She teaches Spanish 1 in a rough school district in New Orleans. In the 5 years she has taught in New Orleans, she has known five students who have been killed in random acts of violence. Mexico is a breeze for her. She lives in the north of the country, about 6 hours from Tucson, Arizona. Her experience has been very different from my own as she practically lives in a suburb of the US.  But she loves her students and her university, and she is an awesome travel buddy.

We decide to make the most of our trip and see as much as we can in 3 short days. Friday after class I get on a bus and I'm heading north of Mexico City to see the amazing ruins of Teotihuacan. After 3 long bus rides in horrific Mexico City traffic, I meet Michelle in a quaint hotel right at the base of the ruins. We get to bed early to be ready for a huge day of sightseeing.

We arrive early (about 8:00am) and are two of about twenty people on the whole site. It is absolutely magnificent. Built before the time of the Aztecs, Teotihuacan has been around since 100 BC and was once the largest Pre-Colombian city in Mexico. Read more here.

After we climb the Pirámide de la luna (pyramid of the moon) and take a few gorgeous pictures, we decide to head out of the site for some local cuisine. As we exit the ruins, nine young chavos swarm us, each holding a menú, begging us to come to their restaurant. I'm feeling overwhelmed by the fast-rambling Spanish, and look to Michelle for some help. She says, "Why don't we ask them to persuade us in English; if they can do it, we'll eat at their restaurant."

So I hold up my hand to get their attention and say in my most polite Spanish, "We are English teachers; if you want us to eat at your restaurant, you're gonna have to speak some English." The youngest of the bunch is about 13 years old; he smiles and says quickly - "Good Mexican food!"

So we follow him for some excellent enchiladas.

Later we head back to the ruins to climb the second and more ginormous Piramide del sol. We run into a guy who looks like Indiana Jones and realize it's our fellow Fulbrighter, Jonathan; he is enjoying the puente as well with his girlfriend and visiting friends. 

After a long day in the hot sun, we pack up our bags and get on a bus and head to the bus station that will take us to our next destination, Angangueo, Michoacan, a small little Mexican town close to the butterfly sanctuary. After 45 minutes of scrambling around the North Station and realizing we were at the wrong bus station, we take a 20 minutes cab ride to the correct station, a comfy bus to Zítacuaro, and then a not so comfy bus to Angangueo. We just barely catch the last bus (thanks to a little girl who stopped the driver from leaving us!) so we are stuck standing for most of the bumpy 40 minute ride. We laugh the whole way.

The next morning, we get up early and find a friendly cab driver to take us to the sanctuary. All of the guidebook advice told us to arrive early to avoid crowds yet the butterflies would not fly until they were warmed up by the sun; so we leave at about 9:00. A successful trip depends largely on the luck of the weather. No sun, no butterflies.

As we skid around the winding sharp corners, the sun disappears under dark, looming clouds. Then it starts to sprinkle. By the time we get to the site, it is pouring so hard, we decide to wait with our kind cab driver, listening to ranchero music. I am in shock as the rain turns to hail. I have a sick feeling that our 5 hour bus adventure will be in vain. No butterfly is going to fly in this cold horrible weather.

The rain lets up and we decide to pay the 50 peso park fee and take a chance. Our guide, a quiet 15 year old, hurries us up a long path through the forest. The altitude of this part of Michoacan is about 2,580 meters (8,465 ft) and walking fast uphill has us breathing hard. I tell our guide that we will be fine following the path by ourselves. He seems grateful he can get a couple more tours in before the day's over, which means more 20-peso tips in his pocket, and he heads back down the hill. Michelle and I continue the path alone and at a much more leisurely pace, enjoying the smell of pine and the awesome view of the valley below.

We finally meet up with a few more tourists and their guide. The guide points us to the left and tells us we have reached the butterflies.  It is still cold, but the rain has stopped and the clouds appear to be parting.  

We reach a clearing where about 2 or 3 families are standing still, staring out into the trees. The trees have strange black clumps hanging from them - at first I think it's some kind of moss or fungus but a closer look, and you can barely see the royal orange of the Monach butterflies.

After about a half an hour, the sun finally starts to shine and warms us up. The forest awakens with hundreds of butterflies flapping their wings. Mother nature did not let us down.

Afterwards, we hike an hour back to our faithful cab driver who patiently waits for us. We stop at a few shops and buy cheap souvenirs. We also meet a young chava selling elotes. She spreads a thick layer of mayo on the ear of corn, then sprinkles on white Mexican cheese and chili powder.

We head back to Mexico City with our suitcases and elote just in time to catch Madonna's half time show during the Super Bowl. Domenica (the 4th and final Fulbright teacher) joins us for Chinese food and wine at our small Super Bowl party. The next day we do a little more sightseeing in Mexico City's historic center and then hug goodbye. 

Until the next puente.

Thanks, Michelle for your awesome pics!!