The people grilling arranchera from a street cart, a man on the corner with a small trailer full of simple wood furniture for sale, the colectivo driver taking a rest in the driver seat, a man chopping huge bags of onions at his corner antojitos stand, they are all part of the landscape. Countless taxis, colectivos, local buses and cars trying to drive far too fast on the crowded streets. This place has an odd sense of home perhaps because I have spent more time here than anywhere I else I have ever traveled to. The days pass by just as fast as my fleeting thoughts, the dreams of what this place used to be and of other new and far away places yet to see and experience.
The sun blazes hot overhead. It arrives early and if I sleep in, I miss my chance to hear the early morning bird calls. As the early morning moves into day, church bells play Cielito Lindo, a man yells out at the nearby colectivo stand, directing riders to head north or south. In the small houses nestled behind our building the dogs bark. We gather vegetables, bananas, and eggs from the corner tienda and purchase fresh juice from the humble juice man down the street. I grab fresh made to order salad from the restaurant across from the yoga school I attend. Later in the day we cook a meal in our room or we get tacos, para llevar from our favorite antojitos stand, visit our favorite Venezuelan restaurant, asian fusion or grab a Sinaloan spatchcock roasted chicken for our evening meal.
We steal time to chat with our friends that own the building where we stay, we talk about all the beautiful flowers they have added to the garden,. We talk about our projects they are working on and love of music, to listen, play and sing.
One year we witnessed a chachalaca's that hatched a pajaro bebé (baby bird) in a nest in the garden. We provided reports to each other, each day of sightings, of where it slept and were honored to watch it grow strong and independent. We are sad when we find it fluttered over the fence, into the property behind the building and fails to thrive after meeting the neighbor dog.
One year we witnessed a chachalaca's that hatched a pajaro bebé (baby bird) in a nest in the garden. We provided reports to each other, each day of sightings, of where it slept and were honored to watch it grow strong and independent. We are sad when we find it fluttered over the fence, into the property behind the building and fails to thrive after meeting the neighbor dog.
On the terraza or in the jardin, stories are exchanged with other travelers. There is talk about past travels, long hot bus rides in Belize, visiting Tikal in Guatemala, travels through the Yucatan Peninsula to Vallodolid, Merida and Chixulub. We tell stories of time spent in Campeche, Palenque and on to San Cristobal del las Casas.
We once we talked with a traveler who had met our friend at her cafe, way down at the bottom of Belize in Punta Gorda. We are joyous that they had eaten there and know exactly where the turn is for the gravel road to the drum school that we walked down every day to get to town.
We once we talked with a traveler who had met our friend at her cafe, way down at the bottom of Belize in Punta Gorda. We are joyous that they had eaten there and know exactly where the turn is for the gravel road to the drum school that we walked down every day to get to town.
We listen to stories of travels in Nicaragua, Guatemala, Honduras, Dominican Republic, Cuba and Costa Rica. We talk to people about their favorite places in South East Asia and Europe. We hear plans of travels to come and take notes to feed our dreams. We say goodbye to people departing for home or travels and wish them safe journeys. In the evening, the sun lowers in the horizon and the night breeze is simply perfect. It is one of my favorite times of the day and I am always thankful. It’s the time of day the birds fly over head to roost in the trees nearby.
On the terraza, I revel in all that is my life, the work I have done to be able to travel and am grateful for every second of it. I wonder if my friends back home have forgotten my laugh. I try not to count the months, that turn into weeks, that turn into days, before I return home for a time and then on to the next adventure.
Every day is a journey and the journey itself is home. - Matsuo Basho
* Some of this content was originally published in 2015
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