Welcome to On Sunday Morning. I’m the voice behind the blog and the person behind the camera. I’m an eager explorer, wannabe writer, capable chef, creative conversationalist, aging athlete, and proficient photographer. Queer in its original meaning is an apt adjective to describe me. I even have a day job working in healthcare. Social media is making us sad; let’s go for a walk somewhere together or trade tales around a campfire.
"I'm a big believer in winging it. I'm a big believer that you're never going to find perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen is what a lot of vacation itineraries miss, I think, and I'm always trying to push people to allow those things to happen rather than stick to some rigid itinerary."
As an introvert, I live a lot of my life in my head. And as an avowed #historynerd, I think a lot about the past. I think about how 21st me would fair in various time periods. Would I survive? Would I thrive? For example, 21st century me does not like human sacrifice. The weather fascinates 21st century me, but not so much that I want to control it. 21st century me knows that I nor anyone else can make it rain on command. 21st century me like to build things and garden, but in fact does not offer human sacrifices to the deities in order to get rain. Evidently, I would not last long in Mayan society.
Did you know? I did my senior thesis project on Mayan Art and Architecture. In Spanish. So much of a #historynerd.
Large and in charge
Being in charge is no joke. Sometimes at work I’m forced into that position. I don’t like it, and it’s not a position I enjoy. It’s hard work being in charge. However, at least when I’m in charge I know there are things outside my control. Like admissions. Or orders.
In ancient Mayan society, rulers were responsible for governance, organization, warfare, keeping the calendar… Oh, and CONTROLLING THE WEATHER. By claiming divine descent and direct communication with the gods, the ruling elite was able to justify its power and obtain necessities like food, clothing, shelter, and status symbols from lower social classes in exchange for divine protection.
Long dead rulers, who were thought to be God-like themselves, continued ‘living’ in these amazingly intricate temples. Mayan offered ritualistic offerings to appeal to the gods.Mayas believed that their gods rewarded such sacrifices with blessings such as prosperity, fertility, and military success.
Lubaantun Ruins–Belize
The God of rain and lightening
One of the most insatiable deities was Chac, the god of rain and lightning. Chac is a snake-shaped being with a reptilian face, large round eyes, a down-pointing snout, and fangs. He carries a lightning axe. Chichen Itza is often thought to be acoustically designed so that feet climbing the steps would mimic the pitter-patter of rain drops and please Chac– who in turn would cause real rain drops to fall. Not coincidentally, Chac is depicted all over the exterior of Chichen Itza.
Hello there, Chaac
On the Yucatán Peninsula, rain wasn’t a guarantee, but it was absolutely necessary for survival; rulers were even known as supreme rainmakers in honor of their most important job. Rituals involved feasts, ceremonious smashing and burning of ceramic vessels, and even mass public bloodletting with stingray spines. Temples were also important divine pathways, and construction was often punctuated with rituals that left artifacts within the building’s structure itself.
No rain for YEARS
During droughts, however, regular rituals just didn’t cut it. During droughts, human sacrifice was a common practice. Young kids served as the sacrificees. Kids represent growth and development. Such things were needed for growing crops. On the Yucatan peninsula, archaeologists have recovered the hearts of young boys. Their hearts were ripped out of their body and thrown in the area cenotes. [Side note curiosity: How were hearts discovered? Who discovered them? Hearts do not contain bones, and water accelerated decomposition. Unless frozen. And it’s way too warm on the Yucatan to freeze.] In the southern highlands, priests dropped infants in cenotes and they drowned.
Imagine being a Mayan parent. The elites select your kid for sacrifice. 21st century me can not get on board that train, but 800s meso-american me, I can see the value of sacrifice one for the good of all. In, fact, that’s a common historical occurrence that the selfishness of the 21st century seems to forget. But I digress. My kid for the survival of all of us. Ummm, OK, but Chaac, my harvest better be extra bountiful for the next few years, and I better be able to get pregnant again.
The Crystal Maiden
A sacrificial human skeleton known as the Crystal Maiden was found in the dark zone of a cave and dated back to the ninth century, a dry and turbulent era for the Maya. The god Chaac lived at the bottom of caves, cenotes, and other dark places, with his pet serpents guarding the water. Archeologists discovered human remains dating from the Early Classic period at cave entrances. However as times got more difficult, priests ventured further and further in the caves. By the 8th and 9th centuries, Mayans have not seen predictable rain for many years. Times are increasingly more difficult, and priests advanced to the rear of the caves to offer sacrifices like the Crystal Maiden. Times were hard. Priests and the elite grew desperate to satisfy both Chaac and an angry populace.
Unfortunately for the elite, no rain came. Humans sacrificed increased in quantity and the community worked at a frantic pace to construct a new, more pleasing to Chaac temple. However, infighting increased. Kingdoms collapsed. The peasant class shifted blame to its rulers. Many elites were killed for failing to allow rain. The established social hierarchy deteriorated until the population collapsed. But it didn’t die out completely.
Modern Mayans still worship Chaac, sending offerings into the cenotes he dwells in. At least today, kids aren’t sacrificed. More importantly, beating hearts remain encased in bodies. And infants see their first birthdays.
I thought to myself as a re-read the text from my ex Michael.
“Come stay with me”, it read.
‘But what the hell. This year has been trying at best, and we haven’t seen each other in over 18 months. Nothing will happen. Besides, it will be nice to see a friendly face’.
I had this dual conversation with myself with one part trying to talk myself into and the other part trying to talk myself out of meeting Michael the week after Thanksgiving.
Even if nothing happens… even if we don’t meet up, I adore the coast in the off-season, and late November/early December is usually still warm enough to be considered fall. The coast when all the tourists are gone is a different animal than the packed chaos of the summer. Restaurants close. Prices go down. It’s still warm enough that a walk on the beach barefoot seems like a good idea. Until that breeze blows in off the ocean. Then you know that it is definitely NOT SUMMER any more.
It’s a *little* less crowded in November than say–July
I didn’t go back home to South Carolina for Thanksgiving. I don’t regret that decision, but it certainly did not make me the popular kid. Being the new kid in town means I work all the holidays people really want off work for. Being an only child means having no siblings to celebrate or commensurate with… also no siblings means there’s no one to give me nieces or nephews to play with, and with my father dying back in May, I don’t think it would be the happiest of occasions anyway.
Anyway… and perhaps against my better judgement, just like on the day we met and just like on the day of our first kiss, I made the decision to meet him. I drove down to Myrtle Beach from Wilmington to stay with him.
Just for the day, I told myself. It’s been a hell of a three months. Loneliness + dealing with a catastrophic natural disaster; sometimes my head hurt from all the knowledge and skills being crammed in it on a seemingly daily basis. Sometimes it’s nice to be with people who really know you, people willing to hold you when you need to be held, and kiss you when you need to be kissed.
There are parts of my life in South Carolina that I miss; I miss my friends and my kitties. No doubt, I needed to leave when I did. Too many recent bad memories. I needed a fresh start, but by God, it’s hard.
Should I stay or should I go
Moving to a new city as a 20-something year old introvert who would rather hibernate than go out and meet people is hard. It’s extra hard to meet people working the night shift. Michael is by far my favorite ex-boyfriend, and I really don’t want to date him again, especially since we now live in different states, but my God, it was so good to be with him again.
The incredible blue-ness of the water that you just don’t see during the summer
We did beach-y things like hold walk hands while walking on the beach with me stopping every 5 minutes to snap artsy photos. We had dinner at a local Italian restaurant… once again our hands lingering on top of the table. While he attended conferences, I visited Myrtle Beach State Park. It’s so much more peaceful here than in the busy season.
And we had long, meaningful talks where I implored the universe to ‘show me a sign’. Give me some sort of direction of what I should be doing. In with the new, and out with the old, or keep the old and make new? Please universe, show me a sign.
And then this happened
Clearly it was the universe talking… Now if I only knew what the hell it means…
I have always kept a record of my travels. It used to be with a pen and paper and 35 mm film. Now it’s all digital. On Flashback Fridays I reflect back on some of my past travels and travel mishaps before I started this blog.
The next few Flashback Fridays focus on Mexico, Guatemala, and other Mayan sites that I visited during my study abroad/independent study on Mayan Art and Architecture.
I have been avoiding Chiapas since I decided to stay in Campeche. [Yes, I do realize that Palenque is in Chiapas,] I have been avoiding it due to the Zapatistas that seems to thrive in the area. Maybe I was overreacting; maybe not, but the Zapatistas scare me. Chiapas is a poor state, and their grass-roots attempts at reform generally appeal to poorer people. Who knows? They may want to kidnap an American as part of their protest of NAFTA. I’m attempting to not appear American. I have my People in Espanol magazine, my Luis Miguel, Cristian Castro, and Thalia CDs. I am more than willing to pass for the Spaniard that everyone seems to think I am.
Somewhere between Tuxtla Gutierrez and San Cristobal the bus was stopped. Scary dudes with big guns boarded the bus. Two people were ‘escorted’ off. I say they were kidnapped, but what do I know. Maybe they wanted to go with the men in black suits with the big guns. The bus left. They were not on it. Why? Who knows, but that’s exactly what I am afraid of… Scary men with big guns taking me off the bus to who knows where.
No need to remind me; I know I am in Zapatista territory.
See, I am in Zapatista territory…. I am probably going to die here… At least I am not in possession of any of the ‘forbidden’ items: Armas [oh the irony], seeds [for planting drugs or I don’t know maybe corn], or alcoholic beverages. And I am not planning to sell wood illegally or destroy nature. Maybe they will leave me alone after all. Hopefully San Cristobal will be a pleasant city to pass a few days in.
I am not usually a tea drinker, but I also don’t like taking medications. However, altitude sickness is no joke. And Diamox was not working. So, I bowed to pressure and tried the local cure for altitude sickness–coca leaves. At first, the idea of buying coca leaves seems almost rebellious. After all, coca leaves are the beginning product cocaine. Drinking coca leaf tea was a novelty for me. It has a bitter taste; it is primarily coca leaves and hot water. But being in the world’s highest city requires some concessions, and for me, that concession was ingesting coca leaf–in my case, by chewing the leaves.
Coca leaves became an integral part of my day; I chewed the leaves multiple times a day, and each time, I got a little mental boost–a bit of alertness to soothe the metal sluggishness that goes along with altitude sickness. In some way, I became addicted to the sticky green masticated leaves–it was the only thing that soothed my altitude sickness and made my stay in Potosi enjoyable.
sticky, masticated coca leaves
Altitude sickness aside, spending two weeks in Potosi, was a great decision. A better decision, perhaps, would have been to come to Potosi from La Paz instead of the relatively flat Cochebamba. At 13,500ft above sea level, Potosi will literally take your breath away, but it’s colonial charms will figuratively leave you breathless.
Potosi is a UNESCO protected city and walking around the flat parts of the city, it’s easy to marvel over the beauty of the buildings or wonder what the area must have been like when the Spanish discovered the silver in the Cerro Rico mountain that looms over the city. However, when walking uphill around the city, which is at least half the time, my will to explore was seriously in question. But my desire to explore won out, and while walking down the well-maintained colonial streets it’s easy to imagine the hustle and bustle of the 16th and 17th century when Potosi was one of the world’s richest and had a population larger than Madrid.
On the darker side of things, it’s also easy to imagine the amount of work that mining the silver for which this town gained famed, and how that work would have been done. When the Spanish discovered the Cerro Rico in 1544 it was the richest source of silver in the known world. Potosi and Spain grew rich from the proceeds, but this wealth came at an tremendous cost in human and animal lives and pain and suffering. The Spanish brought an estimated 30,000 African slaves, enslaved indigenous locals, used untold numbers of horse and llama to get the goods to the Atlantic coast to ship to Spain. Historians claim that the system of slavery that Spain’s Viceroy Toledo created resulted in a massive depopulation of the Andean highlands. The mortality rates in the mines were amazingly high, and over the next three hundred years, the Spanish authorities, in collusion with the mine owners and the Catholic Church, pressed millions of indigenous Andean peoples into slavery to work in the mines.
It’s estimated that the barbaric conditions in the mines caused the deaths of between eight and ten million indigenous and African slaves.
So important was the Cerro Rico, and so entwined was the Catholic Church with the mines, that all the churches in Potosi point not to the east, but to the mountain, and some of the religious art is shaped to represent the pyramid shape of the mountain. If you want to see some Bolivian silver, there’s plenty on display in Potosi’s churches, but you could equally go to any of the major cathedrals in Spain to uncover where all that silver went.
The Spanish brought the Catholic Church’s Inquisition to the Spanish colonies, something dramatically depicted in the painting below. As per usual, it was often women and witches on the receiving end of ingenious methods of torture.
People often proffer this advice whenever attempting something hard. Like running a marathon. Or starting, then completing an advanced degree. How about starting a blog. Or a new job. Life is hard, and certain seasons are harder.
You could see the despair in their eyes. The hopelessness. The helplessness. The longing for a life that will never be the same. And me? Well, I was overwhelmed, but I tried not to show it.
The ink on my actual diploma was barely dry. My actual certification was less than two weeks old, and my license to practice had been granted just three days ago. I worked my final shift at the hospital I first started my job in a healthcare career a mere 36 hours before starting my first ‘grown-up’ job. I was scared to leave the secure environment I was in– scared to leave my friends and my supportive co-workers. But growth comes at the end of our comfort zone, and moving 4 hours away to start a job in a pediatric hospital with a level 1 trauma center, level 3 NICU, pediatric cardiac unit, was way, way outside my comfort zone.
I was supposed to start in September
September 12 to be exact, but I graduated August 10, took my licensing exam on the 12th, and was granted my license on August 15. I called my soon-to-be new program, told them my ‘good news’, and my subsequent start date was moved up to the 22nd. So on August 21, at 8am, after a 12 hours shift, I wished a Happy Birthday to my best work bud, and left all I knew behind. Two weeks early. A whole extra ‘adult’ paycheck. Let’s do this.
The job asked for volunteers on Thursday. Despite being employed there for only 4 days, I jumped at the chance to ‘go into the field’. I only hoped I wouldn’t be in the way. I knew enough to know I didn’t know enough to be actually helpful, but I was hopeful I could be of some value.
On Friday afternoon, I packed my backpack. Who really knows what to pack for a natural disaster? I packed as if I were going camping. Tech pants, wool socks, hiking boots, a hat, my Steri-Pen, my (brand-new) stethoscope, and basic some toiletries like a toothbrush. National Guard transported us and we were allowed one bag. On Friday night at 11pm, I and a handful of other healthcare volunteers, were picked up by the National Guard convoy headed to Mississippi. If things went well, we’d be back in about two weeks.
Spoiler alert: Things did not go well
A little hurricane name Katrina made landfall and damn-near wiped New Orleans off the map. Hospital generators failed. Patients died in hospitals and other care facilities. Roofs turned into front porches. And we waited. Waited because we couldn’t advance. Waiting even though people we dying. Waiting for the storm to pass. Which it did–eventually. And then the people came. Without anything. No medical records. No identification. Not even a spare change of clothes.
I triaged more people that I’d ever seen in my life. I saw more death than I’d ever seen in my entire life. South Mississippi looked like a war zone. New Orleans looked worse. But we didn’t make it that far. People came to us broken and tattered, and we did what we could to comfort them. To treat them. To make things normal. But life would never be normal again. Not for anyone Katrina touched. Wake me up when September ends.
Seven years have gone so fast
Seven years passed since that first September when I considered a career in health care until I started in healthcare. At times, it seems as if no time has passed at all. Other times, it seems like a lifetime ago. And that’s the way life is sometimes. Time isn’t linear. Things don’t happen on schedule. People often quit when things get hard and that’s why it’s important to remember the why.
At the risk of sounding obvious, I got into healthcare to help people. But not just anyone. Of course, I will help anyone I can, but what feeds my soul, is being present when disaster strikes. I don’t know what all this means for my future career. But I do know that I’m where I need to be. At least for right now.
I am a self-professed sports fan. While I don’t go crazy about them, I do consider it a mission to attend sporting events wherever I go. This desire has led me to see hockey in Canada and France. I’ve watched soccer in England, Peru, and Argentina. I’ve attended cock fighting in Ecuador and bull-fighting in Mexico. Additionally, I’ve also seen hurling in Ireland, fencing in Russia, biathlon in Switzerland and Italy, and the Olympics in USA and Italy.
Basketball has been my jam since I could walk
I go for the love of competition, for sportsmanship, and to see the joy in the competitors faces. As a former athlete myself, I understand the level of sacrifice needed to achieve success in a person’s chosen field. [I went to college on a volleyball scholarship, but never played a match since the college disbanded the program. I later transferred and participated in fencing on the collegiate level.]
American college football will always be a passion
One of the glorious things about not having plans when visiting somewhere new is allowing for serendipity to take its course. I won tickets to opening night of Montreal Canadiens 2011 season. With my new Slovakian friend Jan, whom I met in the hostel and spent the day exploring old town Montreal, off to the Bell Centre we went. My only previous experience with NHL hockey was with Carolina Hurricanes, and while it was entertaining, North Carolina is not an ice hockey mecca.
While not actually playing hockey, we were pretending to body check each other into the wall whilst ice skating
Connecting with people wherever I am
Montreal, where they have had a hockey team for more than 100 years…or Boston …or Pittsburgh, can claim that title. Sitting there watching hockey, hearing French being spoken all around, talking about the differences between the Canadian version of hockey and the Slovak/central Europe version of hockey, it came to me: this is what life and to a lesser extent travel is all about–sharing positive experiences with people in your world. Jan’s English wasn’t great; my Slovakian was nearly non-existent, neither of us knew French, but we connected with the universal language of sport. Connections matter. People matter. And sport has the unique ability to connect us all.
Today is Ampelmann’s birthday. Let’s all start to sing…Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday to you…Happy Birthday dear sweet Ampelmann…Happy Birthday to you.
Wait, who/what is Ampelmann, you ask?
This is ‘die Ampelmann’. He is a cult hero, and certainly one of my favorite symbols. EVER. He is Berlin-born and Berlin-bred. Ampelmann is the East German pedestrian traffic light symbols. He was ‘born’ on October 13th 1961 making today his 55th birthday. Ampelmann is the brain child of East German psychologist Karl Peglau when, in response to the growing threat of road traffic accidents, he introduced the first pedestrian traffic signals to the GDR capital.
And so the humble traffic light, which up until this point had only directed car traffic, joined up with the pedestrian traffic light. Peglau designed Ampelmamm to be cute and appealing to drivers because according to the psychologist “road-users react more quickly to appealing symbols”. The cute and adorable traffic light symbols fulfilled their purpose and found widespread acceptance both on the street and in social life.
Ampel Mann’s history
In 1982, after 21 years’ successful use, ampelmann made his film debut. Friedrich Rochow started casting them as guardian angels in his road safety training film for children. The ampel men, in the form of animated figures, were always at hand with valuable tips in hazardous situations. The ampel men were also deployed in other areas of road safety training. EDIT: I would have been enthralled to watch a safety video staring ampelmann as an elementary school kid. All we got were terrifying videos of kids being run over by buses. I still remember those. School children who could demonstrate good road safety knowledge received the ‘Golden One’ badge with the green ampel man or a special ampel man key fob. The two ampel men also adorned the card-game ‘Take care in traffic!’. Kindergarten children made their acquaintance on rubber stamps and in coloring books.
Ampel Mann even has his own store. I had to show utmost restraint in not purchasing every.single.item. in the store. Except the flip-flops. They could keep those.
And this is what the East German school kids got for excelling in traffic safety. But ampelmann was East German in design and only lived on the east side of Berlin. In the original plans, following reunification, ampel men disappeared along with just about everything from every day East German life. The West German authorities, politicians, and traffic engineers were critical of the little green men on the East German traffic lights. Who in their right mind could be critical of these super helpful, super adorable traffic signals. I just want to take one and cuddle with it.
The resistance
In 1994, work started on replacing them with the euro traffic light man. Current arguments tried to argue that only the electronics were antiquated not the symbols, but bureaucrats being bureaucratic did not care. They wanted the symbol removed from current usage. In 1996, industrial designer Markus Heckhausen adopted the discarded little green and red men. [Yay for Markus!] The first Ampelman products arose from the original glass of the traffic lights: as red and green ampel lamps. [I would sell my first born child in order to have one of these lamps.] The media response to the lamps and the story of the symbol’s disposal was huge, and so the extinct ampel men was rescurrected and once again entered the consciousness of the Berlin population.
Oh.my.word. An Ampelmann cafe. How adorable are the two ampelmen holding up the hostesses’ stand.
A resistance movement began. Under the slogan ‘we are the people’, committed citizens strove to prevent the abolition of the last remaining symbol of East German daily life. The people founded the ‘committee for the preservation of ampel men’. With many creative protest actions, it succeeded in drawing greater attention to the comical figures. When the media joined the campaign, politicians and authorities could no longer avoid entering into objective discussions.
The advantages of the ampel man, such as the clear symbolic and his wide-spread acceptance, could no longer be denied. And due to his stocky figure, large head and hat, the illuminated surface of the East ampel man was almost double that of his western competitor. This made him more recognizable which is particularly important for children. In 1997, it became clear that the beloved East German ampel men had been saved and would retain their place on the urban landscape.
Once upon a time I had crazy dreams of being a cultural anthropologist or historical preservationist or something that would allow me to travel and be the #historynerd that I truly am. But then the reality of these jobs set in. 1. They are few and far between 2. Most require a masters to even get started, and even finding a program that’s available and affordable is not so easy. 3 most are funded on the whim of a government and therefore pay is low and sometimes not at all. In spite of all that, I chose to do my senior thesis/project on Mayan Art and Architecture which 1. required a thoroughly researched and well written thesis [in Spanish] and 2. on-site visits to some of the sites. This was back in the Dark Ages when the internet was a baby, digital camera quality was awful, and blogging was a journal and scrapbook [of which I have both]. So with my SLR… that’s right, there’s no D if front of that SLR and copious quantities of film that I carried in a separate bag and polite instruction to ‘inspeccione por mano, por favor’. Thankfully they did and my 50+ rolls of film, both black and white and color, in different ISOs, made it safely through airport security and allowed me to photograph all the little quirks of Mayan architecture to my little heart’s content.
A little history of Uxmal
Chichen Itza is the most well know of the ancient Mayan site, but Uxmal should give Chichen Itza a run for its money –at least in terms of its vastness. It’s not super well known and isn’t directly on a bus route the way Chichen Itza is, but it is relatively well preserved. If the access was easier, my guess is that it would be more popular than Chichen Itza.
Uxmal rising out of the jungle
The area around Uxmal was occupied as early as 800 BC, but the major building period took place when it was the capital of a Late Classic Mayan state around 850-925 AD. Somewhere around or after the year 1000, when Toltec invaders took over the Yucatán peninsula [establishing their capital at Chichen Itza], all major construction ceased at Uxmal. However, it continued to be occupied and participated in the political League of Mayapán. Uxmal later came under the control of the Xiú princes. The site was abandoned around 1450, shortly before the arrival of the Spanish conquistadors.
Mayan legend claims that a dwarf magician, born from a egg, built the city of Uxmal in a single night. In reality, archaeological excavations reveal that the Pyramid of the Magician itself was erected in a series of five successive builds upon existing, lesser pyramids. This was a common Mayan building practice, thought to capture and amplify the power of the underlying structure.
Kabah is situated slightly further along the road from Uxmal, and is famed for the Temple to Chaac, the Rain God of the Maya. The structure is filled with the masks of Chaac. Across the road, there is also a Maya Arch, part of a Maya Road system that used to span the entire Yucatan region.
Sayil has a beautiful multi level palace
At Labna, you can clearly see an example of a Maya Road system, as well as a well-preserved decorative Maya Arch. The palace is also very beautiful.
Labna Arch
OK enough with the technical stuff…
The area where Uxmal, Sayil, and Kabah is collectively known as the Ruta Puuc, and it is for lack of better terms, deserted. There are plenty of small temples to see as well as small villages [<50 inhabitants almost all of Mayan descent and who speak only Mayan and are ecstatic to talk to you, you know if you can actually communicate. In honesty, most do speak some Spanish, but if English is your only language, you may be out of luck. Luckily, everyone I met was really nice], and deserted roads almost covered in vegetation.
The main road down the Ruta Puuc. I saw very, very few cars and lots and lots of lush, green vegetation. It is easy to see how the area could be reclaimed by Mother Nature.
A small Mayan town more or less in the middle of nowhere in the Yucatán peninsula.
Poc chuc, a very traditional Mayan meal. Essentially it’s seasoned pork with peppers, onions, and lime juice, to be wrapped up in tortillas and eaten like tacos. Tomatoes, avocados, and cucumbers on the side.
Labna, and when you are the only one there, it’s both awesome, and a little bit creepy. Yes, I realize I could have been bitten by a snake or some wild animal, and no one would have ever seen or heard from me again.
Some beautiful ruins at Kabah.
Hundreds of masks representing the gods along the front wall, often with long, protruding noses.
If you look very closely, you can see all of the masks etched in this wall.
One last view of Kabah.
Salbutes. It’s a very common meal in the area, and while not my favorite, it is amazingly fresh, so I had this for a couple of my meals.
A South Carolinian stumbles into a quaint bar somewhere in Northern England.
Well, well, isn’t this the set-up for a hilarious punchline!
After braving my initial weeks in Stafford, I suddenly feel an overwhelming itch to flee the town. But as a foreigner, I’m as clueless as a kangaroo in a cricket match when it comes to picking a destination. And, naturally, when you find yourself in England, the ultimate oracle of knowledge is none other than a cozy bar.
For my grand escapade, I embarked on a weekend adventure to the delightful village of Betws-y-coed in North Wales. Population? A whopping 500 souls. Betws-y-coed is nestled right in the heart of Snowdonia, where Wales may not boast the tallest mountain peaks in the world, but boy, does it still offer a good ol’ challenge for hikers. So, off I went, marching uphill and testing the limits of my poor unsuspecting calf muscles.
It also has charming waterfalls.
But seriously, what brought me to Snowdonia National Park was the majestic Mount Snowdon, and boy, did it live up to the hype! You see, I like to consider myself a tough cookie when it comes to hiking. I daydream about conquering the Appalachian Trail or tackling epic treks like Aconcagua and Denali. But let’s face it, in reality, I’ve mostly done some overnight camping and the occasional day hike. Scaling peaks? Not exactly my expertise. However, back when I spent a whole summer in Great Britain, I was a fearless 19-year-old college athlete who believed she could conquer anything. And by anything, I mean attempting to climb mountains with zero preparation and only the bare minimum of supplies. Ah, the good old days!
Well, well, well!
Take a look at those fancy little squiggles! Can you believe that’s the hiking path?
Quite a sight, I must say. It’s a bit on the narrow side, and dare I say, a tad bit spooky the higher up you go. Little did I know that these peaks double as ski paths during the winter. Talk about a dual-purpose destination! Had I known what I was getting myself into, I might have been perfectly happy spending the entire day lounging by the lake. But alas, here I am, conquering the heights with squiggles and all. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?
Tips for Climbing Mount Snowdon
Entrance to the park is a whopping 0 pounds. Yep, it’s 100% free! Yep, you read that right. Zero dollars, nada, zip. But hold on, there’s a catch. It’ll cost you to park your car. Don’t sweat it though. Some fancy schmancy B&Bs offer shuttles to the park. So, if you can manage to snag one of those shuttles, guess what? The total cost is F-R-E-E. Who doesn’t love a sweet deal like that?
Now, let me drop some wisdom on you. When you venture up to the summit, make sure to bring lots and lots of layers. Trust me, you’ll thank me later. Even in late June, it can get quite chilly up there. Picture this: you, shivering on the summit, regretting your life choices because you only packed a light windbreaker, a long-sleeved shirt, and a baseball hat. Yeah, not so smart, huh? Lesson learned: pack a water-resistant parka, some gloves, and a hat to keep yourself snug as a bug.
Pro tip: Go for the climb on a clear day. Your photos will be breathtaking! I got lucky, purely by chance. Turns out, the weather at the bottom of a mountain is not exactly a prophecy for the weather at the top. Who would’ve thought, right? So, save yourself from misty camera shots and go for that clear sky.
Oh, and don’t forget your survival kit. Snacks, water, and for me, ibuprofen are absolutely crucial. I might have learned this the hard way, but hey, at least you can learn from my mistakes. I went up there with just 1 liter of water, a few power bars, and some fruits. And guess what? I had zero painkillers. Needless to say, I regretted it. After stumbling back to my room, I curled up into a pathetic little ball. But thanks to a couple of hot showers and a hefty dose of motrin and paracetamol, I could finally walk like a normal person again.
Last but not least, believe in yourself! Before I embarked on this adventure, I never doubted my abilities. Did I do any research beforehand? Nah, why bother? I just heard about it and thought, “Hey, that sounds pretty cool!” And let me tell you, it WAS cool. But I probably wouldn’t do it again.
This is the tallest peak in Wales. If someone had given me a heads-up that I’d be taking on a precarious ridge, I would have definitely thought twice before embarking on this crazy adventure. You see, graceful balance has never really been my thing. But hey, who needs to be nimble when you can stumble your way to victory, right? Climbing Snowdon is absolutely worth it. This is one of best adventures in Wales, and one that I’ll always remember.
Be prepared for anything when you are hiking in the Welsh mountains. The weather can change in an instant.
The view from the highest peak in Wales–will simply take your breath.
The first time I saw you I was intrigued. There was something there that was definitely missing from the long term relationship I had just ended. We met at the most common of places: my work, not a crowded bar, not at a grocery store, and certainly not anywhere romantic, like a white, sandy beach. You were tall(ish), with black wavy hair, green eyes, and an olive completion. I spoke first–the most banal of opening lines–, ‘Can I help you?’ and on the surface, his reply was just as common– ‘oh, yes ma’am you can’. But it was the way he said it, the glint in his eye, the accented English, that flirty smile. I knew I was in over my head.
Weeks later, after heavy flirting, I finally agreed to go out with him. The LTR had just ended, and you knew this and liked to tease me about this. ‘What would your boyfriend do if he knew you were out to dinner with me?’ you asked. ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ I’d reply. “So it’s OK if I kiss you?” as you lean over to do just that. ‘Oh that’s definitely OK’ I replied as I kissed you back. In that moment, I fall in lust. It’s everything I’d hoped it might be and more, and it was so incredibly different than before.
Two days later, we were back together for another hot, sultry summer night. We drove down to the river, and opened the moon roof of the car. I crawl on top of you and we kiss, and occasionally, I stick my head out of the moon roof for a literal breath of fresh air.
“Come home with me” you implore. “I can’t do that. I have work in the morning” I try to explain, but you interrupt. “No, no, my darling Micaela. Come home with me to Cartago.” “To Costa Rica?” I ask. “Yes, mi amor. To Costa Rica. You will love it there.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. It’s as if all the air is sucked out of me. Despite the 80 degree temperature and near 100% humidity, I am shivering. Even the heady combination of tequila, salt, and sweat can’t shake this chill. Although the full moon is nearly as bright as the sun, everything in my world has gone dark. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. You were a breath of fresh air. You came around just in time to save me from a catastrophe. You were supposed to be a short term fling. A summer romance. And now. Now you are asking me to go to Costa Rica with you.
In that moment, I hate you. You know my weakness for far-flung places. Places I’ve never been. You know how I hate monotony and routine. You know that I’ll say yes to Costa Rica even if I’m not exactly saying yes to you. You are a beautiful man. So sexy. So sensual. So what I needed in the moment we met. But I cannot go to Costa Rica with you. I. Can. Not. Leave. The. Country. Again. I haven’t even been back that long.
Three weeks later I quit my job and I arrived in Cartago. I call you, and you seemed surprised to hear from me. A little distracted, perhaps, but you agree to come pick me up. I see it in your face: despite your words, you are not happy to see me. “What’s wrong?” I ask, as I reach over to kiss you. You turn your head and my kiss lands on your cheek. “I did not expect that you would come. Micaela, you said you could not come. You have work. You said you had no vacation available. I have many things going on. I have work…”
“But I did. I came to see you. I want to meet your family and I want to see where this goes.”
“But Micaela, where will you stay?”
“With you, of course”, but I knew as soon as the words we coming out of my mouth that it was not to be.
“Let me make a some calls. You stay here. Micaela, mi amor.” The way the said my name was almost a threat.
A relationship ending just as it’s beginning is never quite what one imagines it will be. One imagines it will be painful, and it is, but it isn’t painful all at once. There is the surface cracking… where all the hopes and dreams one may have had disappear shattering the illusion of perfection, and then there’s the deeper cracks. The things that pop up after the initial injury. The ones no one else can see, like the fracture of a bone. It hurts much worse than imaginable.
Cartago, Costa Rica
The next two days are torturous as we spend time together, each knowing that this–all of this– was a mistake. You show me the volcanoes, and around San Jose.
The volcanoes are beautiful, just like the beginning of the relationship, but there’s hardness here too. A stumble, a fall; it could be the end. And I’m acutely aware that I am in a remote place with a man that seemingly has much to hide. I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with him. I don’t want to look into the green-eyed abyss any more. I used to think that I could stare into those eyes for an eternity. Now those green eyes stare back at me with an emotion I can’t quite place. Not hatred. But certainly not the lust from the summer.
After coming back from the volcanoes, I say “I don’t want to be here anymore. Not with you.” Even though my heart is breaking, I refuse to cry. His jaw tenses, and he put his hand on top of mine.
“Micaela.” Just the sound of my name in his accented voice almost causes the dam to break. “Micaela, I did not want to hurt you.”
I pull away from his hands, look into those green eyes, now heavy with regret, turn around and walk into the city. I do not look back.
As I am walking away, I imagine that you feel sadness. Sadness of what was never meant to be. Sadness for taking a chance. And a sadness for keeping secrets. Whatever those might have been.
I head to the bus station seeking the first bus to the coast. Caribbean? Pacific? It doesn’t matter. I just want–no need– to be surrounded by salt water. I get seated on the bus, my backpack on my lap, and the tears start to fall. Slowly at first, almost as if they are waiting their turn, and then, much more rapidly.
I opt for the Caribbean side of Costa Rica and end up in the sleepy town of Puerto Viejo Limon. It is a hippy, dippy kinda of place where some people come to visit and never leave. It had a small guest house, a bar, beaches as far as the eye can see, and some very interesting neighbors.
Puerto Viejo Limon
The first two days I ate nothing but fresh fish, rice, and a variety of fresh fruit, and drank nothing but passion fruit and vodka. I tried not to think of him. I tried not to remember the way his green eyes sparkled in the morning. How those green eyes faded to black when he saw me at the airport in San Jose.
I tried not to remember how incredibly sexy he was, shirtless, brown skin glistening in the moonlight, down by the river on those hot summer nights. I tried not to remember that I was also shirtless. I tried not to remember how he took ice cubes and melted them on my skin. I tried not to remember how the coldness of the ice melting and the heat of his breath drove me mad with desire. I tried not to remember how time stopped when our lips met.
But remember I did. All these moments and so many more. No amount of passion fruit and vodka could make me forget. But I wanted to forget. I wanted to forget so badly, and so I looked at the bartender and said ‘Uno mas, por favor.’
Somewhere around day 5 I notice you staring at me. You are definitely not Costa Rican or even Caribbean. I look at you and you stare back, our eyes locking.
“I’ve been watching you” you tell me. Your English is good. Definitely not North American, but it doesn’t sound quite British either. I tend to notice things like that.
“Oh? Seen anything interesting?” I reply.
“You’ve been drinking entirely too much vodka.”
“Obviously you haven’t been watching me too closely or you’d know I haven’t been drinking enough vodka because I still remember.
“What do you remember?” you ask.
“Everything. Everything I want to forget.”
“Walk with me” you implore.
“I can’t go with you. I know nothing about you. You could be a serial killer for all I know,” I reply.
“I’m not” you say. I notice that I’ve hurt you. The expression on your face is that of a small child who has just has his favorite toy taken away. “Walk with me.”
I get up. Slowly, partly due to the vodka, and partly because I’m just now noticing how attractive you are.
“But I still don’t know anything about you…” I say as we begin our walk along the white sandy beach. “Why are you in Costa Rica?” I ask, then ponder as to why that’s my first question as opposed to something more useful like ‘what is your name?’
To be honest, I don’t even remember your reply… something about Costa Rica and biodiversity and research. I realize I am drunk, and wonder how long the copious quantity of vodka I’ve consumed will stay down. I also wonder if you will kiss me. And if drunk vomiting is the worst turn-off imaginable.
“I need to sit down” I say, probably slurring my works. I notice you steering me towards another beach-side bar. There seems to be one about every 500 meters or so. “No… no more vodka” I muster. I noticed you talking to the bartender and you come back with water. Nice cold water.
“Why are you drinking yourself into oblivion?
“Because I’m trying to forget”
“Forget what?” you ask.
“The reason I’m in Costa Rica. Everything about Costa Rica. Just everything.” I look at him with sadness. There are no more tears. The sea has swallowed them whole, but there is still sadness inside.
At the random beach-side bar, where the not quite English, yet definitely not North American cute ecological researcher gave me water, I notice a dart board. Suddenly I’m feeling better. “Wanna play?” I ask. He’s not so sure about letting a drunk person throw sharp, pointy objects. “Where are you from, anyway? I ask.
“Wales” he replies “It’s near…”. I cut him off and asked “beth yw dy enw?” His jaw dropped to the floor and said ‘You speak Welsh? Where are YOU from? I just smiled and said ‘I asked you a question?
“My name is Matthew. I grew up in Ceredigion.” “I’ve been there” I reply. You look at me, curious. Curious as to whether I am telling the truth or just trying to impress you.”It’s near Pembrokeshire” I reply. I can tell you are impressed. In that moment, I forget about Costa Rica, the reason I came, and everything that has happened in the last 10 days. I look into your eyes, green with a hint of gray, and kiss you. And finally, I forget.
Two years later on a cold dreary November day, I hear the version of my name that only he used… Micaela.
I turn around and look for you. Two years have aged you a lot. I stare into the familiar green eyes and feel nothing. I always wondered what it would be like if I saw you again, and now I know. There’s no bitterness. No hatred. No feelings of lust. Just you, smiling, searching for something in my expression. You says hello, and I reply in kind. How about a drink, you ask. No thank you, I say for the first time. It was good seeing you. And it was.
I will forever be grateful that he came into my life when he did. Sometimes, even now after all these years, I wonder what he’s doing, and where he is. In my mind, the entire country of Costa Rica will forever be linked to heartbreak, a green-eyed lover, vodka, and the one who made everything be OK.
