"!!!": 2010

San Agustinillo is beautiful, relaxing, and as consistent as the ever audible rhythym of the crashing waves. There are very few moments that are easy to explain anecdotally, no good stories to tell, more of a slow transformation of pace, a subtle shift in perspective. One of the things that marked us both during our stay there was the transportation. The "colectivo" trucks covered in a tarp in the back with benches underneath, pass through the coastal towns, picking up whomever wants to get on. We would sit in silence during our half hour open air colectivo rides to the market in Pochutla and just stare at the array of beautiful faces who would climb on the back of the truck, helping old ladies up to sit and stowing their shopping bags for them, assuring that the drunk man who is passing out doesn't fall out of the back of the truck and onto the road, smiling at the children who were so beautiful, they make you want to steal one, and they would stare back at us (especially blonde Stephanie) in amazement, sometimes overcoming their shyness and smiling back at us. Out of all of the little things that made our time in San Agustinillo great, the colectivos will stick in our memories the longest.

After 2 wonderful weeks in San Agustinillo, 2 weeks of sandy feet, white to red to brown skin, 2 weeks of limes in corona's, books in hammacks, perfecting the art of mosquito swatting, slow motion walks, dinners with our new friends, and pick-up truck rides, we decide we need a little more action.

We are heading to Mexico City (El D.F.) for our last week, excited to explore the museums, markets and Diego Rivera frescos.

But San José del Pacifico is awaiting us for a short layover before we reach the big city. We take a 3 hour bus ride in a silver bus so old, the windows don't close, nor does the front door. We zig zag up up up the mountains, passing through miniature communities called Chapalaca, El Alacran and Zapotitlan. Up high in the mountains, San José sits above the clouds. From our cabin's porch, the view is impossibly beautiful. Clouds pass by below so quickly,the mountains disappear, reappear, then disappear again. We explore the ridge, and discover the strangest flowers and plants, fluorescent colors and all. It feels like we just landed in Wonderland.

We arrived in D.F. by plane. From the window seat as we decended upon the city, an endless sprawl of clustered shacks, houses and skyscrapers filled our vision in every direction. Ten minutes passed without seeing a single clearing, a single speck of land other than the crisscrossing highways and the grid of the streets. Every inch of land was filled. 20 million people beneath us.

Stepping out into the Mexico City air was like a slap in the face after the two weeks we had spent in tranquil locations, in fresh air. The heat and the thickness of the air full of pollution washed over our faces, instantly changed our breathing. We had a feeling that chaos was about to descend upon us. And sure enough, the hotel we had booked had no record of our reservation, and though we got a room anyhow, the receptionists attitude portended the unforgiving nature of being a tourist in Mexico City. We wandered around the downtown that night in a complete stupor, dwarfed by the massive amounts of everything; the buildings, the humans, the museums, the pollution, the noises, the shops, the history. Old colonial buildings, dirty, breaking down, yet still majestic shadowed us on all sides, all leaning in towards the street sinking into the lakebed that is the center of D.F.

We finally figured out some things we wanted to do, and each outing ended up being an exhausting excursion, beautiful, chaotic and awe inspiring. The Palacio Nacional with entire walls of Diego Rivera murals (pictured below), Frida Kahlo's house full of exceptional artifacts from her life, the endless protests at the Zocalo, the demonstration that never ended on Calle Simon Bolivar, all undulating and buzzing so loud and strong and fast that if you were to stop for one second it would swallow you up. One neighborhood per day was all we could handle, an afternoon in one of the expansive artisanal markets, or a walk through Coyoacan or Roma or Condesa was enough to make us want to pass out at our hotel at 10 PM, which we usually did.

We returned home exhausted and fulfilled.

Then we cuddled with Zoey.