Guanajuato to Sayulita

Here in Sayulita, Mexican population: 1500; gringo population: 500.  Clearly an exaggeration but there are so many white people here.  I know, I'm part of it (and one of the whitest).  But nowhere else in the trip, Puerto Vallarta, Guadalajara, Guanajuato, have I heard so much English or felt so spring break.  It's grown significantly in these nine years and now resembles a surf mecca similar to those in Costa Rica that I've visited.  Doesn't matter, the beach, the ocean are incredible.  It's a nice way to finish the trip, although I'm very glad it wasn't the whole trip.  Today is overcast so Jamie and I will probably set out to explore a beach north of the city.  The trip here from Guanajuato was, well, long.  The night bus ride was punctuated by screaming babies, often in a duet.  Kinked necks and cramped legs later, we boarded a public bus to Sayulita (the driver was kamikaze, according to Jamie).  Upon arrival we learned that our reservations had been canceled.  Hot and sweaty and exhausted two hours later, we found a place with one room vacancy.  Mmmm, beach time.





[written 01/29/10, unable to post due to internet connection]

Mexico!

My last day in Guanajuato.  I'm waiting around in a cafe with tenuous internet connection for the night bus back to the coast, to Sayulita, for the last part of the trip.  I love Mexico.  I've been here once before, in Sayulita in fact, about nine years ago for less than a week.  I've crossed over the border in San Diego/Tijuana and Nogales with my family for an afternoon.  That's all.  Why?  This wonderful country, so close to my own but absolutely dissimilar.  Jamie and I have spent four days here in Guanajuato, a city of callejones and colores vibrantes, exploring.  The city is in a bowl, creeping up the sides of the surrounding hills, colorful house stacked upon colorful house--colors, red, orange, yellow, blue green purple pink, as the only divider.  A city of Legos, built by some imaginative child in the hills of Mexico.  Every time we set out, we somehow complete a huge circle and end up back where we started even though we began climbing westward and didn't seem to turn the other way at any point.  Yesterday, Jamie and I adventured into the hills to find La Bufa, a shrine marked by a cross at the top of one of the peaks.  With vague information from the internet and vague directions from the tourist booth, it took us over an hour to find the trail.  The entire trip was mostly sketchy, with many-a "Uhh, this way?".  It was one of those hikes that only happens in Latin America.  Sweaty, incredible.

Today we went to the famed (infamous?) mummy museum.  So extremely creepy, I can't begin to say.  Desiccated bodies--men, women, children, amazingly preserved.  I've seen mummies in museums before, but they've been wrapped in cloth.  These were simply skin, bone, cloth, most were naked, some clothed.  The skin was so thin, delicate.  Their hands were like claws, their mouths contorted in what the living would perceive as pain.  There were babies, by far the most disturbing.  I now understand why there are mummy horror movies; I did not want to turn my back on some of them.  The museum was fascinating and (as Jamie pointed out) provided a momentary glimpse into Mexico's relationship with death, something we Americans can only try to understand.

I have that feeling again, where I've begun to fall in love with a city, and there's a small heartbreak when I leave.  San Sebastian, Sarajevo, Leon, Dublin, Guanajuato.  The trip is going too fast.  Already, too many "next times".  I must return.

"You boys like ME-XI-CO!? Yeeeee-hawwww!"

(Kudos to those who get the reference.)

Procrastination, of course.  Instead of packing or finishing my Simmons application or preparing for my trip or worrying about my car, it's time to blog because...  I'm leaving for Mexico tomorrow!  Jamie and I are flying into Puerto Vallarta, quickly trading that city for Guadalajara, Guanajuato, and the coast.  It hasn't sunk in yet as I've been working on and worrying about applications for the last several weeks.  I have three to submit before I leave.  All but one are done.  Also: my car was stolen several days ago so I'm dealing with that situation too (not dealing like mourning but dealing like police and insurance, etc.).

Anyway, poorly written.  My mental powers--what's left after this long week of 5:30am shifts and grad school apps--are still reserved for this last one.  All day I've been fretting about getting it all done.  It's almost there.  It's closer than I think.  Tomorrow at this time, I will be sitting, exhausted, in Puerto Vallarta somewhere.  I can't wait: the food, the smells, la lengua (figuratively, or literally as you can never be sure what you're eating). 

The beach.  Twelve days away from Seattle and my job and the winter and school applications.  This will only whet my wanderlust, I fear.  I promise I'll come home.


....update, one hour later.
I submitted the application.  Pre-packing ritual: clothing, toiletries are spread around me on the floor, the bed.  The dryer hums, with intermittent zipper.  Harvey Danger's Private Helicopter.  How to pack for twelve days?  I'm taking nearly as much stuff as when I moved to Spain, or traveled in Central America.

This trip may offer salvation, for the time being.  I hadn't succumbed to wanderlust for months.  I kept it at bay, fending it off with promises of exciting future plans (like graduate school).  But, lately.  Everywhere I turn.  I went to Ocho, the Spanish tapas bar in Ballard this week.  Shit, I want to go back to Spain.  Jamon serrano?  No!  I want jamon iberico!  The tortilla espanola was, to say the least, disappointing.  Dry and flavorless, when compared to a true tortilla.

Within the last week, I have had several conversations with different customers at work about travel.  The first was with a couple who had done the camino.  That, with the tapas bar, made me yearn (yearn!) to go back.  To contemplate which camino to do next.  The camino portugues?  Tackle part in France?  As far as Istanbul?

The next conversation was with someone who had recently returned from Russia.  Russia--I want to go.  It's been the back of my mind for awhile, but then he gave me a ruble that he found in his bag and a pass from the Moscow subway system. It's my next big trip, this summer.

Then, a customer had a pile of travel books.  She was planning an eight week trip to Egypt, Israel, Turkey, and Eastern Europe.  We talked about Bosnia.  Please, let me go.  Just let me go.

Adventures in Veganism

I continue to struggle to define exactly what I eat.  I was a strict vegetarian for ten years, followed by a binge of pork and other sometimes indeterminate animals while in Spain.  Currently, there is a broad spectrum with anything-and-everything-as-long-as-it-smells-good while traveling on one end, and healthful vegan fare on the other. 

While I was readjusting my focus for the new year (some may cry, "I smell a New Year's Resolution!"), I considered eating strictly vegan.  Just to see.  Just to taste.  Just to say that I'd done it.  To become more aware of what I eat.  I thought about it for over a month and decided that I don't need to prove it to myself.  I don't know how much I would gain from that type of dietary restriction.

With vegan on my mind, I threw myself into vegan creations.  Even more than vegetarianism, veganism has negative connotations for many people.  Based on comments, I can only assume that these [ignorant] people view vegan dishes as tasteless piles of vegetables.  Or maybe these people don't understand spices and smother meals in cheese to make them palatable.  Some meats and nearly all cheeses are wonderful, I do agree.  But part of the beauty of cooking vegan is the creativity that it requires and inspires.  For Christmas I received a 500 recipe vegan cookbook from my brother and a 1,000 recipe vegan cookbook from my roommates.  So if I make two recipes per day, it should take me slightly over two years to... 

I have come a long way since my first year(s) cooking for myself.  Bland tofu with poorly sauteed vegetables and pasta with tomato sauce and a mountain of cheese during my sophomore year of college.  Slightly more adventure in the two years following--but mostly as a prep cook for Sydney, the epic chef with whom I lived.  I didn't know it then, but I learned so much from watching her cook.  It wasn't until after I came home from Spain that I truly began to cook and experiment.  While in Spain I realized how absurd it was to fear failure in the kitchen.  I'm pretty good at most things I want to do well [tongue in cheek], so why would cooking be any different?  Upon return, I started small, with a simple, foolproof cookbook (the "Cancer Cookbook", thus named by Em) and constant moral support.  I cooked weekly with my friend Jeremy, taking turns picking recipes and buying ingredients.  We giggled our way through many a recipe--almost always creating something delicious and nutritious (except for when the bulghur didn't cook and that failure of a stew that was my recipe choice--I was banned from stews for period).

This past summer, my roommate and I subscribed to a weekly community supported agriculture (CSA) box.  In the beginning, it was a bit of a challenge to incorporate the random vegetables into meals ("What the $hit is a kohlrabi?!").  When the CSA box ended in mid-October, I was desolate for a few days (this can be partially attributed to the unpalatable rutabaga spice cake I made with the second-to-last rutabaga of the season).  I can't describe the forced creativity the box fostered in kitchen.

Then, aha! the year-round Sunday farmer's market in Ballard.  Currently, the pickings are a bit slim but it still amazes me that this produce is still available locally.  Another joy of this whole vegan kick is that my gentleman friend Jamie is as excited as I am about these vegan experiments with local produce.  There is a plan for a food blog in the works.

...I set the cookies on the table.  Before anyone can say anything or reach  for one, and with barely contained excitement, I exclaim gleefully, "And they're vegan!".

This is the New Year

Last year, I was flying to Costa Rica.  Now, I'm sitting home on this wet and windy January day--definitely Seattle.  I didn't go big last night to celebrate the new decade.  I mostly slept on a couch and tried to ingest any kind of food that didn't make me nauseous.  At work today I had the same inane, repetitive conversation about the new year, New Year's Eve, blah blah blah.

"So how is the new year treating you?"
"I dunno, feels pretty much like last year."
"Yeah, but without the snow and ice!"
"Yeah."  Just so I didn't have to explain that I meant last year as in yesterday as in who cares because it's just another day?

Maybe I'm just bitter because I was working and this dolt wasn't.  I wish I were heading somewhere exotic.  There's a possible trip to Mexico in the works.  The application process appears more positive (if only I could motivate on my end now!).  I haven't really had a chance to reflect on the year past but I've gotten much further toward future goals.  This year could be the year that I start graduate school.  I feel unmotivated and uninspired but that's probably the mild flu talking.  As with every year, 2010 promises adventure.  I'm building up to being ready.

The First Application

One down...  After an absurdly stressful week (in typical finals-week style panic) I submitted my first graduate school application!  I can't count how many times I decided that I didn't actually want to go to graduate school because it would be much simpler to stop where I was than figure how to sidestep the obstacle.  It will be much easier from here, I hope.  I've learned so much, and this momentum should sustain itself.

Interesting lessons revealed thus far:

1. Simply because someone agrees to write a letter of recommendation--with very advanced notice--does not mean that said person will write said letter.

2. I should have at least one extra person who is willing to write a letter of recommendation.  Just in case.  Two or more is better.

3. The people at the admissions office DO NOT CARE that the person writing the letter of recommendation might not follow through.

4. The people at the admissions office DO NOT CARE about you or me or your application or mine.

5. Although the due date may be stated as December 15th (implying that the applicant has until midnight), the due date is actually 4:30 pm central time on the 15th, or 2:30 my time (it may also be necessary to look up time zones).

6. Writing a personal statement is difficult, and people who say they whipped it up and sent it out are lying or wrote terrible papers.

7. This process is expensive: between $50 and $100 per application with transcripts and GRE scores. Robbery.

8.  Do I really want to go to graduate school?  Sure, why not.

9.  Each application is different, especially regarding the scholarship instructions, so it is necessary to strenuously wade through each.

It's just another set of hoops through which I must hop, skip, and jump.  I'm getting better at it.

Anywhere But Here

As is to be expected, I am working on my personal statement for the umpteenth time, now distracted while writing about travels in Europe.  Let me out!  I want to get away from Seattle and the monotony that is my life.  I have visions of myself in Budapest, on Castle Hill overlooking the Danube, dripping sweat in the morning and dodging hailstones in the afternoon.  I see myself in Tarifa as I shield my eyes from the sun, looking across the strait of Gibraltar to hazy Morocco, where the Mediterranean and the Atlantic meet, the wind whipping the sand against my skin with a gentle violence found only in nature.  It's Christmas Eve and I'm in Lisbon, cobbled streets lit with thousands of tiny lights as multitudes of people laugh and talk, bustling past, small puffs of breath slowly dissipating in the clean, icy air; I stand transfixed, smelling, feeling, hearing the spirit of the city.

I want to be there now.  Anywhere but here.  More and more frequently, I find myself daydreaming about traveling.  Partially, it's an escape from the many things I dislike about my life right now.  This will be my first Northwest winter in two years, and it's going to be a hard one.  Mostly, traveling is the one thing that I can think of that would make me happy right now, that I would want to be doing.  I suppose I'll need to be a bit more creative.

Quarter Century

My birthday is tomorrow.  I'm not sure that I had some life goal or plan before twenty-five but if I did, I'm sure I've not achieved it.  Life check.  This year, it will not be the past-year examination but rather a life check about how far I've come and where I'm going.  Where I'll be at twenty-six.

I still work a job where I am micromanaged in nearly every aspect.  I still have a job where I serve people, defer to them, wash their dishes and clean the bathroom.  I earn slightly more than minimum wage.  I spend forty hours each week in customer service.  For those who have done this, you know.  For those who haven't, please be extremely nice to the person behind the counter and as helpful as possible.  Tip well.

I digress.  This can't continue.  I'm beginning to apply to graduate school--a huge step.  It's difficult, the most challenging task I've undertaken recently.  Still working on that personal statement, but it's hard to muster the motivation after an early shift on my feet, having played barista and smiled for eight hours.  I'll get there, I'm getting there.  In a year, I hope to be attending an LIS program.  Certainly, I know I'll get there.  And if I don't, there is absolutely no way I can continue the way I am now.

Twenty-five seems like a good age.  I hope it is.