Bugging Out with the Hostel Virgin - Mexico

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I realized that years of smoking had robbed me of the experience of climbing the pyramid before me. I spent several minutes indulging an affected penitent attitude before I started fantasizing about making out with that spry Dutch lad on a post-graduation tour. Soon enough I was ripped away from both pretense and aspiration by the sneaking suspicion that I had at last encountered scabies. Little yellow bugs danced on my exposed upper arms.

I tried to lose myself in the people around me, by meeting the ware sellers that crowded the ancient monuments, practicing polite forms of high school Spanish even as repetition rubbed raw the sincerity of, "No, thank you." Inquiries grew from friendly curiosity, "Interested in a decorative tequila glass?" to the awkward, to the grating attack, "Twenty, twenty, twenty, gimme!" Scratch, scratch. Conversation wasn't helping the itch.

The fat grasshoppers plopping down along my pacing corridor in regular intervals distracted me from my own personal infestation. A little boy showed up to gather them in a large burlap bag, and a man selling ceramic animal-shaped whistles and Aztec calendar key chains answered my inquiring look with, "Like shrimp." My furrowed brow brought forth a hand-to-mouth gesture and a shrug from the little boy. Oh, well, guess that beats "tastes like chicken."

Maria called to me from the pyramid, and I have since been rewarded with a photographic series of her descent from the Temple of the Sun. We immediately assumed our respective roles as good and bad cop. Sellers crowded around their returning mark — Maria leaning in to absorb the true beauty of each handcrafted piece — me volleying back the humbly-stated price with a balk, allowing words to push forth on the power of American lung capacity to their intended audience. "And it's machine-made!" Maria asked about the Union of Artists. I swatted at invisible bugs and sought testily for shade at the Pyramid of the Moon.

I explained our game to the German woman who'd befriended me. She shared my apparent concern for shade. I liked our German companion. She had maps and a polite disposition. She was an old maid school teacher, younger than Katherine Hepburn in her holiday adventure movie and just as hopeful and earnest. She did, however, have the unfortunate habit of attracting all sorts of bugs. A bumblebee landed on her shoulder then got lost in her hair, leaving her heaving and flushed. She leaned against a wall covered with mating grasshoppers. After she got over the oogilies and the concern over which icky bits had lodged themselves on her outfit, she was prettily embarrassed.

I trembled in the sun like someone desperately in need of a cigarette, but that was due, in fact, to an intense and simple yearning for another bowl of cornflakes from our churchside hostel — a two-hour van ride away. However, Maria had found another capitalist suitor.

He had already launched into the familiar ritual, admirably skipping the "almost free" bit. All day, "Almost free, almost free," they'd chanted. Maria cooed. I ached. Maria still had money in her pouch. My vague bug worries had been replaced by a significant sunburn. I was desperate for a shower and a soothing cream, not to mention the sweet absence of my travel companion.

Maria chose to ignore the unspoken rules of travel partnerships. As a Puertorriquena, Maria has an impressive working knowledge of the Spanish language. I had naively hoped to benefit from her company as we each went about our day, sharing our interpretations of the world we were experiencing. I would happily offer up odd facts garnered from random web articles about the life of Frida Khalo and the meaning of Trotsky's death (whom she insisted on referring to ask Tru-oosky for reasons that remain a mystery to me). One would think that providing a bit of insight into the conversations taking place all around us wouldn't prove too taxing for the ol' girl.

Typical situation: we're lost — well, meandering, allowing serendipity to be our guide. I ask which way we should turn for the main plaza. Maria remains silent, awaiting what? Me to access a wireless Google site through sheer will? Her passivity is dizzying. Maria helpfully looks about, calmly taking in the subtle interplay of sunlight along the window frames that line the vacant street.

I sense the gentle gathering of bile at the wee bottom of my tummy. When I can't take it anymore, I stomp off to a random woman and stammer with all the dignity I can summon, "Question? To where... many people?" as I gesture widely to indicate first a vast square, and then imitate juggling motions to show that I have no idea where to go. The woman answers kindly, in the manner of one speaking to a small child whose parents are present. I am grateful and without thinking, give the traditional Buddhist bow of respect. She grins. I am off, with a bumbling Maria in tow.

Maria's idea of a day's accomplishment was a checked-off checklist and a bag of exhaustively-acquired trinkets. I had no idea that viewing art without the explicit purpose of then purchasing it was something that Maria would find a baffling aspect of my taxed personality.

See, Maria likes buying things. I like doing things. Occasionally, circumstances conspired to bring us to a common goal but more often, excursions ended with the pitter patter of bitter picks as we each built a separate grudge. "Well, we got to see everything on the list." Just because you bought a devotion card does not mean we saw the church, I steamed, but said out loud, "Why don't we light a candle for my uncle and wait for Mass?"

Luckily Mexico is a treasure that can accommodate the both of us. I left with rolls of film, a full belly and a vicious hangover. And a beautiful piece of artwork Maria convinced me to buy. She checked two bags of gifts and had me carry on the rest, but not before finally having stayed at a youth hostel and eaten food prepared right on the street — for the very first time.

Olé!

 

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