trail, mixing with the travelers who are on and off the buses and in and out of the hostels. At first I run from place to place, from group to group. I am afraid to stop moving, afraid to be alone, afraid that these next two months are the beginning of a lifetime of loneliness. I want very much to talk, but I cannot share my pain; it is too new and my companions too young.
Finally, after a little more than a week, I cannot run anymore. I don’t even know what I’m running from. When I think about it, I feel good about myself. During the last two months I have discovered parts of me I didn’t know were there: the part that can embrace strangers and enrich my life through knowing them, the part that enjoys making independent decisions, and the part that adores living spontaneously. Until the phone call, I hoped to be bringing this new me into a marriage that could benefit from rejuvenation. But now I fear that my personal development is going to be guiding me instead through a different stage in life, that of a divorced woman.
Once I slow down, I feel better. I tour Chiapas with an American woman for two weeks. I wander in the mountains with two Danish men, part of the time on horseback. I hang out in Playa del Carmen, with a mixed group of Europeans. After a while the anxiety diminishes.
“Go to Palenque.”
It’s a refrain I’ve been hearing for weeks. “Palenque’s amazing.” Everybody says it. And then they talk about the art and architecture of the ancient Mayan civilization that flourished there in the seventh and eighth centuries and the extraordinary spiritual presence that still lingers. A month after I leave Oaxaca, I’m on my way.
But first I detour through Mérida to buy a hammock. Hammock buying in Mérida is not the same as hammock buying at Hammacher Schlemmer. There are many choices to be made: cotton or nylon, white or multicolored. How many strings per inch, how wide, how long, how strong? I am overwhelmed. It’s like choosing leather in Florence or silver jewelry in Taxco. When confronted with overkill, I always have trouble making decisions. I walk around for more than an hour, from one hammock seller to another. Finally, I choose white cotton, the biggest, the most tightly woven, the best. Then I board the bus to Palenque.
The guy across the aisle with the huge beard and bushy brown hair is in his mid-thirties. He looks like the “Nature Boy” in Nat King Cole’s song that was popular when I was a teenager. That song still slips into my psyche now and then, especially when I’m walking in the woods or along a river. It tells about a “strange enchanted boy” who wanders the world. And here, in the middle of Mexico, that boy/man is sitting across the aisle from me. His name is Wolfgang and he’s from Germany. He is exotically attractive, and he’s on his way to Palenque.
Wolfgang is an engineer. He’s been on the road for nearly a year. I love his wildly exploding head of hair, his very blue eyes peering out from under the hair, and the massive beard that hides his lower face. He’s been told that the place to stay in Palenque is the campgrounds near the ruins. I join him.
The campgrounds border the jungle. When we check in, we’re told there is only one platform left. We go have a look. A platform, it turns out, is a wooden floor, a thatched roof, and posts for tying up hammocks and holding up the roof. Ropes swing from the beams for hanging food or backpacks. If we want to stay at the camp, Wolfgang and I will have to share a platform. It’s not a problem. I’ve been sleeping in dorms, sharing rooms, and making instant friends for more than a month now. At first I struggled with modesty, but I knew I had to get rid of it if I was going to travel this route. I’ve almost succeeded.
I hang my hammock. It’s huge.
Wolfgang explains that the best way to sleep in a hammock is diagonally, so your body is level.
“Watch,” he says and wiggles his body into a diagonal
Finally, after a little more than a week, I cannot run anymore. I don’t even know what I’m running from. When I think about it, I feel good about myself. During the last two months I have discovered parts of me I didn’t know were there: the part that can embrace strangers and enrich my life through knowing them, the part that enjoys making independent decisions, and the part that adores living spontaneously. Until the phone call, I hoped to be bringing this new me into a marriage that could benefit from rejuvenation. But now I fear that my personal development is going to be guiding me instead through a different stage in life, that of a divorced woman.
Once I slow down, I feel better. I tour Chiapas with an American woman for two weeks. I wander in the mountains with two Danish men, part of the time on horseback. I hang out in Playa del Carmen, with a mixed group of Europeans. After a while the anxiety diminishes.
“Go to Palenque.”
It’s a refrain I’ve been hearing for weeks. “Palenque’s amazing.” Everybody says it. And then they talk about the art and architecture of the ancient Mayan civilization that flourished there in the seventh and eighth centuries and the extraordinary spiritual presence that still lingers. A month after I leave Oaxaca, I’m on my way.
But first I detour through Mérida to buy a hammock. Hammock buying in Mérida is not the same as hammock buying at Hammacher Schlemmer. There are many choices to be made: cotton or nylon, white or multicolored. How many strings per inch, how wide, how long, how strong? I am overwhelmed. It’s like choosing leather in Florence or silver jewelry in Taxco. When confronted with overkill, I always have trouble making decisions. I walk around for more than an hour, from one hammock seller to another. Finally, I choose white cotton, the biggest, the most tightly woven, the best. Then I board the bus to Palenque.
The guy across the aisle with the huge beard and bushy brown hair is in his mid-thirties. He looks like the “Nature Boy” in Nat King Cole’s song that was popular when I was a teenager. That song still slips into my psyche now and then, especially when I’m walking in the woods or along a river. It tells about a “strange enchanted boy” who wanders the world. And here, in the middle of Mexico, that boy/man is sitting across the aisle from me. His name is Wolfgang and he’s from Germany. He is exotically attractive, and he’s on his way to Palenque.
Wolfgang is an engineer. He’s been on the road for nearly a year. I love his wildly exploding head of hair, his very blue eyes peering out from under the hair, and the massive beard that hides his lower face. He’s been told that the place to stay in Palenque is the campgrounds near the ruins. I join him.
The campgrounds border the jungle. When we check in, we’re told there is only one platform left. We go have a look. A platform, it turns out, is a wooden floor, a thatched roof, and posts for tying up hammocks and holding up the roof. Ropes swing from the beams for hanging food or backpacks. If we want to stay at the camp, Wolfgang and I will have to share a platform. It’s not a problem. I’ve been sleeping in dorms, sharing rooms, and making instant friends for more than a month now. At first I struggled with modesty, but I knew I had to get rid of it if I was going to travel this route. I’ve almost succeeded.
I hang my hammock. It’s huge.
Wolfgang explains that the best way to sleep in a hammock is diagonally, so your body is level.
“Watch,” he says and wiggles his body into a diagonal
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