Crosswalking the Line
I spent a few more days in Creel determined not to leave Mexico on a bad note. It paid off. I checked into a different hostel, one where they didn't try to steel from their guests and had another go at the town. It wasn't as bad as I had thought. The people seemed warmer, nicer, and happier. But, then again, even a mortuary
might seem more joyful in comparison to the people I encountered in Batopilas.I took a horseback riding tour of the outlying mesas, sampled some of the local culinary specialties, and hiked up to a mirador at sunset with spectacular views of distant canyons and horizons of jagged mountain peaks. Everything seemed so new, so vivid, like I was seeing them all for the first time. I might have felt this way because I knew it was all coming to an end, and, after almost 8 months, these were going to be my last memories of this trip and of Central America.
Well, they wouldn't be the very last. I still had to actually get to the border, almost 475 miles away, and then, once across, home, another 500 miles. That would be a memory in itself, one I'd rather forget as it took me over 32 hours to get from Creel to the border. Of that, 23 straight hours on one bus. Needless to say, I was exhausted when I finally made it to the line, but felt a renewed sense of energy and excitement as I walked through the pedestrian causeway of immigration and reemerged on the other side standing, for the first time in 233 days, on American soil.
I met up with my good friend Mike Dewan, who lived in Pacific Beach and had a great evening enjoying all things American: Pizza
slices, basketball, and Blockbuster Video. Not to mention a hot shower and a clean bed!The next day I took a train up to Newport Beach, a seaside play ground for the rich and famous just south of Los Angles. If there was ever a town in California that stood in stark contrast to Northern Mexico, Newport was it. The polarized juxtaposition was a bit of a culture shock. Where as before I had been walking down small broken stone streets made up of clay, nondescript buildings, now I strolled down four-lane avenues lined with palm trees and wood shingled beach houses. There were other thing that I noticed, other things strictly Americana, that were a jolt to my senses. Four story beach mansions, million dollars yachts bobbing in the bay, $75,000 sports cars sparkling in supermarket parking lots. And everything was so clean, so whitewashed and proper. Hell, even the local rug factory outlet had a landscaped storefront with Bay trees and a manicured front lawn.
And the people, oh the people. They were a shock in their own right and while I can go on and on about the fakeness and superficiality of southern California versus the honest, down to earth culture of Latinos, I will only say this: Americans have no conception of personal space, and by that I mean other's personal space. Whether your walking down a sidewalk or standing at a bar, people just don't seem to notice (or care maybe) that your alive. They walk/bump/stubble right into you and rarely take the time to apologize. They yell meaningless things to each other across noisy rooms, often times right over your head or even through your ear canals without stopping to think for a second that you might actually like being able to hear and wish to continue to have the ability. Yes, it was a shock indeed.
I met up with half a dozen of my closest high school and college buddies who were in town to celibate our friend Peter's Med school graduation. It's funny, but even after being gone all
this time, having only spoken to a few of them a handful of times, I fell right back in step with them like I had only been out of the room a minute to use the head. It was good to be home.After a memorable homecoming in Newport, I hopped up the cost to Santa Barbara, where my Alma Mader and sister resides. I spent a week in this equally whitewashed, plastic paradise and felt relieved to arrive back in my hometown of Berkeley, which carries some of America's cleanliness and signs of affluence, but also a more down to earth, holistic feel. Where people say excuse me after they bump into you and only yell important, meaningful things through your ear canals.
Yeah it was good to be home. I had been gone just one day shy of 8 months. 242 days. I had been to 8 different countries, visited over 150 different destinations and slept in over 120 beds, beaches, hammocks, and couches. I had visited seven Mayan ruins, fished five different rivers, climbed four volcanoes, and seen two oceans. I got food poisoning four times, was robbed twice, had a job once, and made 6 really good friends. I learned to speak Spanish, scuba dive, salsa dance, catch Mahi Mahi, Poi, and play the guitar. All and all traveled over 12,000 miles, the majority of which on bus, train, boat, and foot. And, managed to spend almost all of my savings in the process.
So now I'm back home and back to where I started, with no obligations, living in my dad's basement and unemployed. It was this exact situation that prompted my epic journey in the first place, but I feel different now, more grounded in myself, my beliefs, and my desires. Excited about what the future holds rather than anxious, eager to take on the world rather then ready to run away from it.
I've satisfied the travel itch... for now. But, as I often tell people, traveling is like a highly addictive drug, once you start, you can't stop and the more you do it, the more you want it. I'm hooked. But, unlike most a
addictive substances that are detrimental to your body, mind, and spirit, this one fulfills them. It brings happiness, education, and enlightenment on a life outside our own and makes you feel more in tune the world that surrounds you. So, the next time your feeling down, tired, or apathetic, hop on a plane, train, or bus with your knapsack and remember that there is a whole world out there to liven up your day and enrich your life.That all for now, but don't worry, I won't stay put forever, and in no time I'll be back here posting new adventures from the Ramblin Schambelan.
