I don’t know when it will ever get better for me.  When the self doubt will evaporate, disappear, as quickly as it appeared in the first place somewhere between childhood and adolescence. I just turned 44 so the probability that these constant self deprecating voices that uninvitingly sneak into my consciousness will just suddenly go away now, is pretty slim. We’ve been in Mexico for almost two months.  It was a trip I very much was looking forward to; get away from my world for a bit; push myself to be someone else for awhile, and I have.  I have done all of those things and I should be proud that I accomplished mostly what I set out to do, but I have found that putting yourself in the uncomfortable is hard, doesn’t get easier with time, and causes ions of heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and a nervous twitch that has now started in my left shoulder.  Needless to say, when G told me he had to go to Chicago for a few days on business I thought, “Oh great, now I have to navigate everything by myself.”  Which, I of course, know that I can do, but it’s so very hard and gives me a headache.  I have to preface this by saying that the people of Mexico have been nothing but gracious, kind, and have gone out of their way to help me except perhaps the yoga guy, who I may be growing on because the last two yoga classes he greeted me by name. I call this progress. G left Wednesday afternoon and I had pretty much planned out my Thursday and stuck to the plan, mostly. Here was my day in pictures. Two main things bothered me about the day, however, and I realized my mistakes too late and am still thinking about them and kicking myself for making them.  First, I paid Areli, the nail tech, in pesos.  Always pay in pesos if you have them, the exchange rate is better that way.  She had to give me change. For whatever reason Spanish numbers are difficult for me to grasp, especially once you get past the 100s and then trying to focus on mental mathing, my brain just screamed it’s all just too much and shut itself off so honestly I have no idea if she gave me the correct change, but I took the money with a shaky hand, panicked and gave her 20 pesos for a tip.  Just so you know twenty pesos is like the equivalent of two dollars, actually a little less than that and I know that  she deserved more having done a good job and even helping me with my broken Spanish. I have been obsessing about not tipping what she deserved for days now. Second, you know how I said to always pay in pesos, well it would have been nice for me to follow that advice.  After getting a facial I venmo'd the salon, which is in dollars, Venmo being an American company.  I still paid less than I would have in the U.S., but my amazing deal turned out to be not as amazing as I previously had thought. And this always happens. The moment I feel the shining light of confidence, I make a choice that negates those bright feelings. But I did manage to ease my downtrodden heart a bit when I came across this lovely restaurant in a little boutique hotel right on the beach.  It was called Lido, Cocina de Playa. The two for one mezcalitas lured me in.  The view was beautiful, the staff amazing, and I got to write with the beach as my backdrop, drink something froufrou which paired nicely with my froufrou salad.   (G hates places like this and I secretly or not so secretly love them.) The next day wasn’t nearly as nice, however, my Spanish class ended, it was bittersweet.  This week I took the four hour option with the cutest teacup of a girl I have ever seen, appropriately named Elsa.  She was from Malaysia.  And Gwen who lives in Puerto Vallarta half the time and in the States the other half joined the class as well.  It was a really fun week with the two of them.  Elsa insisted we take a picture on the last day. This caused me to think about the different cultures and the people that they raise. Elsa was warm, kind, wanted everyone to know what an amazing time we had together. The German, who took the class with me the first week, was a bit cold, a bit uppity and when the class was over looked me up and down before half heartedly yelling over one shoulder to have a nice life. I believe she really did want this for me, it was just how she went about saying it that was a bit off putting. To be clear I thought I looked way better this day than this picture would indicate or maybe it's because I'm standing next to Elsa. My dress had somehow gotten twisted and don't even ask me about the weird green thing in my hair. After many a heartfelt goodbye I had already scheduled another painful massage by Maria. A bit later… G and I met a couple from Arizona several weeks ago who are also wanting to move to Mexico full time. When I say G and I, I really mean G for I doubt I would have started a conversation with anyone. They knew that I was alone so invited me to sushi. It was so very sweet of them and we had a great time. There was no awkward lull in conversations and it was nice to trade stories about moving to another country and the mutual things that can happen when one attempts such a thing. It's refreshing to find people that you identify with, especially strangers, but somehow I did. This is Teri, former librarian, red wine lover, and someone who has a similar social battery to mine. G came back the next day and I feel like I can finally breathe again. I realized how difficult it really is to take care of myself, without a backup, although his parents just live 20 minutes away and promised that if I needed anything they would be at the ready. But to navigate all situations solo, without my gregarious husband blazing a path forward, was something that proved difficult or at least it did on the inside. Just simple things like taking myself to lunch or dinner made me incredibly nervous. There were a few times that I would have just rather made a deli sandwich and called it a day, than to have to be the master of my domain, something that is more challenging than it sounds and if you ask G, he would tend to agree with you. Taking care of me is more difficult that one might think. I'm just glad that he is up for the challenge.

This is my last post about Mexico City, I promise, or at least my last post until the next time I visit, which I swear to God has to be sooner rather than later because I have still not seen or experienced everything. Something that is a must, a non negotiable, is to go see a Lucha Libre event.  Such a thing is iconic to Mexico and it’s not like anything you have ever experienced before, I promise you that much. My first experience going to a Lucha Libre wrestling was years ago.  Vendors selling everything from tacos, elotes, quesadillas, chips, fruit, masks, memorabilia, were screaming the closer you got to the wrestling venue.  It was a cacophony of noise to my startled ears.  I clutched white knuckles to G’s hands.  Afraid that if I let go for a moment I would be lost to the throngs of people, never to be seen or heard from again. People were lining up everywhere, being patted down before tickets could be scanned.  G yelled to go with his mother, but I didn’t really want to let go of that hand, my life line I thought.  I reluctantly released him and followed his mother, so closely that I kept stepping on the back of her shoes.  I soon realized that women would be patted down by women and men, by men.  That made sense I thought although I was still  afraid that somehow we might get separated and then what would I do?  Perhaps live at the wrestling ring from then to eternity, slowly circling the place yelling G’s name like some sort of lost cat.   That didn’t happen of course, I made it into the arena, attached myself to G once again, and embarked on my first Lucha Libre experience. If you do not already know Lucha Libre is Mexican freestyle wrestling that is somewhat rooted in the late 19th century, from when the Grego-Roman wrestling gained popularity.  It has been through several transformations; probably the most notable was when Slavador Lutteroth founded the Empresa Mexicana de Luch Libre (EMLL) in 1933.  This marked an important step in organizing Lucha Libre events, as well as uniquely stylizing it.   You may think that Lucha Libre, is similar to its American counterpart, which even has some Mexican wrestlers crossing over, Rey Myterio being one. But I assure you that it is not.  I always found American wrestling to be kind of fake and didn’t quite understand why it had gained so much popularity; more talking through silly story lines than actual action.  I even treated G to a live WWE experience once.  John Cena was the headliner and I was proud to get us seats close to the side of the stage.  In Mexico, if I would have had similar seats we would have been part of the action, instead of feeling like a magical curtain had been ripped away to reveal the sad wizard on the other side.  The punches were so fake they were laughable; I even heard John Cena giving directions on how he needed to be hit to his fellow wrestler.  Yoza!! I was far from impressed, having seen real Mexican wrestlers in action months prior.  It seemed to me there was far more grandstanding than actual wrestling. A lot of the picture below. One hit and then this. In Mexico, there is no talking through silly plot lines.  It’s an athletic event where wrestlers are jumping from ropes; doing flips, turns, throwing each other around at such a speed you barely have time to take a breath before the next trick is being set up and executed.  Lucha Libre has even had a few fatalities in its history.  In 2015, Perro Aguayo Jr. died after sustaining injuries during his match as well as  La Parka in 2020 who had his own complications sustained from his performance.  And these wrestlers are not compensated like the Americans in WWE are; many are struggling, work more than one or two or three jobs to just make it semi comfortably. I encourage you to watch Lucha Mexico, a 2015 documentary that follows several wrestlers who go about their day to day life, as well as the pitfalls that so many face being in the spotlight and then having to face the harshness of their reality.  And then there are the masks that some of the wrestler’s wear.  Intricately designed and sold after some matches to hobbyists who collect and display each and every one for the art that they are; my husband being one such collector.  When I first met G he was excited, although a bit embarrassed to show me his collection and I, not being the type of person to judge, too much that is, took it all in one masked head at a time and believe me there were a lot of them, but I fell in love with the reason he started collecting them in the first place.  It all started with his grandfather, he told me; they would go to wrestling events together.  I can just see little G, eyes wide with excitement at these big men in their glittery costumes, creating larger than life characters for themselves and their audience. This is G's office. The opposite wall is also floor to ceiling, with more masks in our living room, on book shelves, crammed into closets. When you go to a Lucha Libre event you have to have the whole experience, first being to get a Michelada, a Mexican beer cocktail which typically includes lime juice and a variety of sauces and spices with tajin smeared along the rim (my favorite part). Then you have to get yourself a bag of chips. The kind that are so salty that they make the back of your throat itch and then of course pour what feels like a gallons worth of Valentino sauce on top of the whole mess of it.  The black label if they have it; I don’t know why people even bother buying the other stuff at this point.  Find your seat, settle in, and enjoy the next two hours.  Don’t be embarrassed to participate as insults are thrown at the performers amidst applause, sticky fingers, and laughs all around.

There were so many things I learned this summer living in a new country, which should be the case actually. It would be a shame if I hadn't learned a thing or two. I was exhilerated about so much of the experience and tried not to let my anxiety derail all of the fun, and it did relax a bit with time, became more manageable with time, and hopefully next summer will disappear altogether into wherever it likes to dwell when not taking up space in my overactive mind.  I know that all countries have their little quirks.  Things that if you have lived there the majority of your life is just something that you do, without questioning the why.  And sometimes I think when we do question the why in things, constantly comparing one country to another, it’s not because one way is more right, it’s just because that’s what we are used to and most people are inevitable creatures of habit.  Varying in small to large degrees to the right or to the left can send anyone anxiously searching for the familiar or maybe that’s just me; it probably is actually.  G moved around so much as a child and into much of his teenage years.  Navigating different countries, cultures, became, what I can only assume, second nature to him because it was his new normal.   Me, on the other hand, who only moved once as a kid and it was literally down the street, finds all of this to be rather daunting, exhausting, and at times a bit overwhelming, but I did it, handled it, and I do believe I succeeded and really isn't that all I can ask of myself at the end of the day, whether I really succeeded or not.  The belief that you accomplished what you wanted, even if you didn’t really do it, is half the battle anyway.  One might say that is delusional thinking to which I will happily respond, is it really delusion when that is what you believe and if it is delusion, why the fuck does it matter if you feel better about it all? I need to preface the next bits by saying that most, if not all of what I learned, are very specific to Playa del Carmen. First things first and perhaps the biggest thing that I learned living in Mexico is that patience really is a virtue and in this country it is better to embrace the slower pace of living, which was also made clearer living in a beach town.  When we got married, for example, we had to go to four or five different places to sign, pick up, pay for everything that we needed.  You would think that it would all be in one place, categorized, in a computer system that is shared with all the parties involved, like in my country. Damn it, there I go comparing one country with another. Getting my nails done was a three hour experience rather than a single one.  Punctuality is not really a thing in Mexico, and is that really such a bad thing?  I don’t think my yoga studio started on time once.  I always say that in Mexico a set time is more like a suggestion.  I don’t mind this actually and am going to struggle making it on time to places after two months of living on suggested time, but if I’m honest with myself, I already do, so maybe I’m born to live in this country. When you see police trucks with their lights on, don’t freak out, that’s actually a very good thing.  A police presence is what you want.  If you see police men and/or woman with huge guns, I don’t even know what they are called, but they look like machine guns to me, don’t freak out, it has nothing to do with you.  Odds are money is being transferred or something similar is going on. Don’t shy away from speaking Spanish, use all the words that you think you know, even if they are the wrong ones. Most restaurant/hotel workers know a passable amount of English to communicate, but don’t be that rude American asshole that just expects everyone to cater to your language skills.  You are in another country after all, where English is not the first language.  I found attempting Spanish was always met with a smile and a nod of encouragement before English was immediately switched too and then I felt bad for maybe I was being perceived like that American asshole I was so trying not to be like, I really hope that wasn't the case. You never should drink the tap water. Thus, you will become an ice breaking machine. I'm obviously not that good at it. Notice the large chunk of ice, out of the bag, that I failed to break up, much to the chagrin of my husband. And then of course water jugs are a thing. You purchase one of these large bad boys once and then just bring it back to be refilled for a lesser charge. G purchased this rechargable spout, which came in really handy. Also, you will most likely have to ask for water at most restaurants, for it is not readily given out. And you will find your new favorite sparkling water addiction.  I swear they put straight salt in this thing. You will fall in love with every stray dog and cat.  There aren’t a ton like I have seen in other Mexican cities, but there are some and they broke my heart and caused me running to the nearest store to have food at the ready. I fell in love with this sweet girl. I named her Melody and she was absolutely precious. Don't feel too terribly sorry for her though. I saw a ton of empty cat food packets right by her street corner, so I know I wasn't the only one that took pity on this precious girl. She would win the award for the most well fed street cat in Playa if there was an award for such a thing. Many people have their dogs off leash, in the middle of traffic, but the dogs were so well behaved I was shocked.  I never once saw an off leashed dog misbehave.  I applauded the training and obedience of master and animal. Trash cans are a rare commodity, but I helped. Also, there are street sweepers every morning that pick up the trash that is left behind by those carelessly lazy party goers from the night before. The roads are very uneven which prevents texting while walking unless you want to fall flat on your face. I should have taken a picture or two to show you what I mean, but that likely would have resulted in an embarrassing trip and fall moment and believe me I already had more than a few of those while just normally walking along the sidewalk. Many people think that Mexico is so much cheaper and certain things are.  Produce for one and fruit, but alcohol and kitchen appliances are expensive for Mexico, comparable for Arkansas, cheaper than New York. Actually if I'm honest even kitchen appliances are more expensive than Arkansas. You can fall for tourist traps like anywhere else, but if you take the time to look you will find the deals.  My nails were 25 dollars, as was my massage.  My facial was 50. Always go to the restaurant with a ton of locals eating inside; they’re the best. Try the street food. I can't emphasize that enough, try the damn street food. Street art. There is art everywhere, on the many walls that you pass walking through the streets, with vendors trying to sell their paintings. If I had to pick my two favorite finds in Mexico it was going to Yogaloft for my almost daily yoga class.  I fell in love with this Dutch yoga instructor.  She was funny, self deprecating at times (my favorite kind of humor) and later I found out that she has a black cat.  I will miss her classes so much. She really pushes her students into the best possible posture for each pose. I've never been so sore and strong at the same time. And the lovely coffee shop Aroma a Amor.  They have the best espresso.  It tasted like a smooth dark chocolate and don't get me started on their coconut milk, which I have found always tastes more like water than a milk, but theirs was actually so fresh and flavorful.  I could actually taste real coconut. I'm back now, in the United States. I've unpacked, put away almost everything like the trip never happened to begin with, but I feel different. I can't help but to wonder if life is more than working all day in one place. Mindlessly driving from point A to point B, conversing with people that never really quite get you, going to meetings where you are confused by all the happy, excited faces because you don't feel that way at all. You were meant to explore, to be something more than what you haphazardly chose for yourself 18 years ago, when you thought your only option should be a safe one. I wish then I would have let delusion take over the parts of my brain that was demanding that I play it safe. But I didn't of course; I chose to go an alternate, more obvious route and I suppose I will make the best of it. I'm lucky that I do have eight weeks every year to do that exploring, to do that living, and to let my diluted mind pretend for a bit that this is my life in full.

I have done yoga countless times in a variety of different studios, but I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself a yogi.  I often turn right, when left is said, my balance being far from perfect; I struggle maintaining even the most basic of poses most days.  But I have seen an improvement in my yoga practice, my flexibility and even in my balance, if I’m consistent that is. I also like the non judgmental displays of zenness.  If you want to lay in child’s pose for the entirety of class, no one bats an eye; they let you be you.  It’s always been more of a relaxing experience for me, something I do after an intense cardio session.  I’m not saying I’ve never had tough yoga classes before, because I have, but doing yoga in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, I have to say, was next level.  It also probably didn’t help that I chose a studio that often gets semi famous instructors periodically to teach specific classes. First things first, signing up.  I decided that since I’m here for a month and a yoga studio is literally down the street from our apartment, I would do it.  They actually had a one month unlimited, one class per day, pass to purchase.  Perfect, I thought, that’s just for me.  And it was only 1300 pesos, which is about 70 dollars.  That’s like half the price I was paying in America.   I showed up to the studio, my heart in my chest, per usual. What if they don’t speak English was the thought that was dominating most of my brain cells.  My translate app on my phone was open, my questions already typed in at the ready, just in case. The guy who greeted me was built like a yogi, slender, toned and attractive in a too pretty to even want to talk to me sort of way and I could see it in his eyes. He was thinking what I already know about myself. ”Hola,” I began anyway. I hated that my voice shook a bit, but I forged ahead.  “Habla ingles?”   He shot me a look that clearly said that yes, he spoke English and I was a dumbass for even entertaining the idea that he did not. To be fair to him, the website was all in English and besides all that I was looking far from my best having just come from a four mile walk at 11AM, yes it took me four miles to get up the courage to go to the studio.  I should have done it before my walk, but I apparently needed the endorphin rush to boost my self confidence. I then proceeded to tell him what I needed, filled out the various online forms, misspelling my name of course, because that’s what I do.  I’m Elizabeth Rafa Orta to the studio; I’m not entirely mad about the name change. I finished everything and even asked him to explain how I needed to check in, which he did.  There is a check in situation with a computer that you do upon entering.  I immediately knew that would be something that I was going to worry about all night and into the next morning and that’s precisely what I did because my brain is that dumbass person that I saw in his eyes when he looked at me. The next day I showed up ten minutes before the class started.  I was confused about the check in procedure, like I knew that I would be.  Apparently mister pretty yoga man had already checked me in; this would have been information that I would have loved to know when I asked him about it the previous day.  But no matter, the hardest part was over, or so I thought.  I blindly walked where I thought the yoga would be taking place.  One room was already full of people, even though the first class was supposed to be over at this point.  Shit, I thought, did I get my time’s wrong? The last room was empty, so I made my way inside. I looked at my watch; the class was supposed to begin in five minutes. How embarrassing to be the only participant, my worst nightmare. And besides all that, the room was sweltering and I didn’t even bring a towel.  Sweat beads immediately began to roll down my face, as if they heard my thoughts and wanted their presence to be known to me. I sat up my station in the front of the room anyway; I have no idea why I would do that, it just made some kind of sense to me. A man with a high bun entered the room first and immediately went to the fans, clicking them on one right after the other, thank goodness for that, and then he proceeded to unroll his mat on the opposite side of the room.  Is he the instructor, was my immediate thought, but then I remembered that it was a her.  I changed positions, as you would when not wanting to be front and center in a class that very well could be spoken in a language not your own. The class of course started a good 10 minutes after it should have; I don’t know why I’m surprised at this point and why I insist upon showing up to things early in Mexico. This is me waiting for class to begin. Diana, the instructor, was perhaps in her 50s, asked if I understood Spanish and then proceeded to teach the class in both English and Spanish.  By this time there was about six or seven others who had joined the class.  I felt bad that she was taking the time to speak in both languages, thinking that I was probably the only English speaker, but I was thankful as well for I really would have been lost. The whole experience taught me several things.  First, Americans are delicate flowers.  The way she corrected each of my poses, not asking if it was ok to touch me, but just doing it, with force, and confidence, that made me feel at times like I was some sort of misbehaving child; the black sheep in a class full of very flexible, very balanced angels.  Second, I was not doing most poses correctly as you probably already gathered from all of that correcting. And third, you cannot zone out when Diana is your instructor  because she will most definitely call you out.   It was all so difficult and challenging.  She held poses for way longer than I’ve had to hold them before and her eagle eyes never missed when I was not nailing a certain pose.  She was by my side, moving my knee one way, my arm another, telling me to breathe out of my nose, not my mouth, making my legs straighter, my arms looser. It was a workout.  I was afraid to even look at my watch to check the time.  I will of course be back, maybe to take another instructor I thought when it was all over, that is until Diana asked me if I enjoyed the class and I could feel my head begin to vehemently nod up and down and my mouth moved into a bunch of yeses. ”I will be teaching tomorrow’s class, same time,” she told me, although it felt more like a command, a command that I wouldn’t dare say no to. ”I’ll be there,” I heard myself say and I will go again, try to figure out the check-in process again and try to land all of the poses without Diana’s criticisms again.  I’ve already signed up.  Perhaps my favorite part was when G asked if I made any friends.  Sometimes I don’t think he knows me at all.  No, of course I didn’t make any friends.  I kept my head down, afraid to make eye contact with a single person.  I did ask for pretty boy’s name after he registered me for the class; a name in which I promptly forgot 2.5 seconds after he told me so I don’t even really know why I asked. I hope to get better at yoga after this month of going to this particular studio, but I‘m beginning to miss the comfortability of the familiar, something that will probably go away after awhile when new things become my new normal, although I don’t see myself making friends any time soon, but who knows, maybe pretty boy and I will become besties and I will find out that he actually thinks he’s as awkward and strange as I know that I am.