Tulum: Day Five

I awoke to an overwhelming sewage stench in my “luxury” Tulum condo. I’d noticed a faint whiff a few times and chalked it up to poor sewers and drainage, but why did it get so bad in the last hours? I threw a towel over the shower drain and closed the bathroom door. I wish I’d done that before I went to bed last night, but I’d been halfway to sleeping when I’d first caught a whiff of it.

“Maybe it’ll go away.” It hadn’t. It never does. It waxes and wanes but the only way to get rid of it is for a building to be built properly, and for sewers to be built properly.

I shrugged and went out to breakfast. Tulum’s infrastructure was rough from the start, and was now utterly overwhelmed by rampant development, but wafting sewer gas isn’t something I’ve only smelled in Mexico. I’d stayed at a hotel in Milan with this problem too, and many other spots in the world. I’m glad for building standards in the USA. Government intervention at its finest, unless you also count food safety. Which I do.

I wanted to go to Vintage Café to try their breakfast, but they didn’t open until 8, and I needed to get out of my AirBnB early so I could stash my bag and get to my morning appointment ahead of the bus to Cancun. I went back to Rossini’s, where I’d gone the first day and had stern words with the server about the difference between drip coffee and americano. Their espresso machine was working today.

Tulum: Day Four

Today’s professional excursion was titled Mayan Inland Empire, and the gist of it was I got to go with other tourists in a van to the ruins at Coba, to visit a Mayan village, and to stop at a cenote. But it was oh-so-much more complicated than that. In a good way.

The trip didn’t start off so well. After I’d waited outside for a half-hour, the booking agent messaged me on WhatsApp that the driver was waiting. This turned into a kerfluffle and was resolved when the agent realized there had been a mix-up with coordinates. The other two passengers, a married couple originating from both Texas and Venezuela, had been waiting in the van outside the random apartment complex some six blocks from mine and were not delighted. And then we picked up an Annapolis family of six nearby, before driving ba
ck to the beach hotel zone (where they’d picked up the first couple) to get a solo French traveler.

Everyone was a bit grumpy at first, including the guide when we met him (late) at HQ. The only person not-grumpy was the van driver, a taxi driver who’d gotten lucky after the agency had made a series of logistical mistakes that morning. The taxi driver and his van taxi were our limo for the day. He chauffeured us to 7-11, where everyone but me and the French guy bought cheap coffee to improve their moods and awareness. (I am staying in an AirBnB with a kitchenette, so I’d made my own coffee and breakfast before the sun rose.)

We eventually drove on into the rural area outside Tulum, passing roadside stands selling dreamcatchers and Mexican Talavera pottery, and eventually we pulled into a parking lot between a lake and the entrance to the Coba ruins.

“Sometimes we see crocodiles in the lagoon,” said Tzamn, the guide (who said to call him Sam, so we will). We didn’t look for any today. We were hurrying to get through the Coba gates to get ahead of the crowds.

Coba’s main sites are at the entrance and also 2 kilometers on. We rented bicycles for the two kilometers. I chose a rusty pink one-speed beach cruiser.

Tulum: Day Three

What was more exciting, making breakfast in the AirBnB, doing some laundry in the sink, or ironing a shirt on a beach towel laid out on the bed? (Side note: Why provide an iron without anywhere to use it?)

Okay, not the most thrilling day here in Tulum, but what does one do here on a rainy day? I started the day with…yes…yoga class. Today’s class was tougher than yesterday’s, but I made it through without hurting myself or screwing up. Nearly everyone else in the class was a young woman somewhere between 25-35 years of age, weighing approximately 48 pounds, most of which was made up of hair clips and tattoo in
k. Two brought their man-friends. I was pleased to see a woman of about my age, but she turned out to be the owner and did not stay for class. The yoga experiment has largely succeeded, and I am optimistic I can continue this back in Burbank. While I don’t have the flexibility of some years back, I can mostly recall the various poses.

I followed my phone map along some new roads that went to dozens of construction sites. The walk was lovely, the sky was gray, and I barely saw any other humans or cars. Though I did see a fair number of birds. I tried figuring out which was which now that I’ve watched an entire six-episode documentary series on birding as well as read a book about a birder, but I still couldn’t tell you the name of the black bird with the bright blue wings.

Oh, will you look at that. Searching with those terms turned up the Yucatan Jay. Like a crow in a handsome blue outfit. 

I got in 10,000 steps ahead of the rain, stopped by one of the neighborhood restaurants for lunch—really, second breakfast, since my first had been fruit and coffee. I could have gone back to the apartment then, but I tried a local bakery next, and finally headed back to wait out the dampness of the day. That is, until dinner, when I had to go back downstairs to the strip of cafes. But I brought an umbrella, so all is well.

Tulum: Day Two

I did it! I went to yoga class! I found a place near my lodging and signed up for an 8:30 a.m. class today and one tomorrow. My biggest yoga class fear is I haven’t been in so long and there are a lot of instructions to follow, and I’m nowhere near as young and flexible as I was last time I went to a yoga class.

That said, this was an easy one. I do actually go to a low-key pilates class on Saturdays in Burbank, and this wasn’t even as difficult. But the point isn’t easy or hard. The point is to go and to try to establish a routine. I don’t need to go to a class to be in a class—YouTube and pandemic sorted that out. But I have to actually do it and not just think about doing it, so today was step one.

The teacher was strumming a ukulele followed by playing a tuning fork near each attendee’s ears, as well as singing a little song I didn’t know at the end. Some of the others knew it well. I didn’t laugh. I had a tough time keeping my giggles to myself the first few times I went to yoga many years ago, but now I stifle them easily. I won’t have to do that if I turn on 30 Days with Adrienne or Kassandra or one of their contemporaries.

Some Other Time, Perhaps

I think Tulum ruins might be hell. The first long line was for paying the national park fee. The second long line was for the admission ticket. The third was to actually get into the site.

I rented a bike for this! 

I'm told these queues are because I came over Christmas vacation, that I picked the worst time. 

Tulum: Day One

I spent a lot of time on Reddit and TripAdvisor. I read Lonely Planet Caribbean cover to cover. Where would I go, I wondered, for the week between Christmas and New Year’s?

Not that I’m *required* to go somewhere, mind you, but it seemed a shame to waste a week of not working. I had an idea that I would do some basic, simple yoga, possibly overcome my lethargic aversion to it and start a routine, and catch up on some writing, but I didn’t want to do it somewhere cold. I wanted to do it where I would feel encouraged to go outside—so somewhere warm. Yes, Burbank is warm. But I already know I won’t do yoga or catch up on writing in Burbank, because I don’t know why, I just don’t. And I didn’t want to get involved in dramatically different time zones this trip. It’s a long way to the Pacific from the East Coast, and a long way back to LAX from Europe.

But as I dug around online and through my guidebook, it dawned on me that Barbados and Jamaica and Trinidad all had the same problem. I would be so engaged in seeing the country that I would just do my usual—race around and learn about the destination. That’s not yoga. That’s not catching up on writing. That’s something I’m very, very good at, but I do it all the time. And the idea was to do something new—focus on myself and minimize distractions.

Editors Can Be Tiresome

I don’t have the same traditional vices as most folks. I’m too lazy sometimes, but I don’t drink, smoke, indulge in much beyond coffee. And I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Tulum where I ordered latte and breakfast, and after the breakfast order went in, they told me they only had americano. 

I promptly ordered espresso instead, but they don’t have espresso, only drip. I hate me too, but I told the guy americano isn’t drip.

Anyway, the avocado toast looks good.

A Younger Woman's Clothes

My mom posted this photo of me from some years ago. When? I'm not sure. I guessed around 2004-2008, but I don't really know for sure. I just have other photos of me wearing that shirt and hoodie from 2005. 

Taking the Bus to EWR

For a few years, I've been having Lyft drivers drop me at P4 AirTrain stop at Newark Airport. Up until about a year ago, I was still calling taxis when I had to leave before dawn, and then I'd have them take me directly to the terminal, because traffic is never that bad at the crack of dawn.

But today, leaving my house at 4:45 pm for a 7:30 flight to Dulles, I couldn't get a Lyft. The app claimed to be finding me a driver, then looking for another driver, and so on for about 20 minutes! It finally gave up. Uber was a little better...for more money, Uber thought maybe it could find me a driver in about ten minutes. Maybe.

But the taxi company number was out of service last time I tried, and so were a lot of other taxi companies. I guess that's what happens when app-based rides take over.

Anyway, the benefit of going to P4 is I don't have to sit in a car waiting endlessly for the driver to edge past others in the infernal loop. It's not as bad as the U at LAX, but it's still annoying during peak times, so I go to P4 and the AirTrain whisks me over to Terminal C. All good.

To hell with it, I thought. I walked a block to the bus stop and boarded the #1 bus to Newark.

"Do you go to Newark Penn," I asked the driver. She nodded. "How many zones is that?" She held up three fingers. I used my NJ Transit app to buy a three-zone bus ticket. $3.15.

The bus ride went quickly until we hit Newark, and then it was excruciating watching the minutes pass by. The trains I might have caught the one stop to the airport were out of the question one by one as the minutes went by.

Finally, everyone on the bus disembarked, including me. That's it, Newark Penn Station! I looked at the times--I'd just missed the 5:32 and the next train was at...ugh, 6:13. But there was a bus in five minutes, leaving from the other side of the station.

I walked through en route to the other side...and noticed the 5:32 was late! And boarding. I hurried to the escalator. Which of course was broken, so I hauled my bag up the stairs to the platform. Just in time. The train was packed, but I wedged in.

$11.25 later, I was at Terminal C without having gotten into a car at any point, and without even using the PATH train.

I would feel more clever if I hadn't been so annoyed to be sitting in traffic in Newark all that time. And if it were a few dollars altogether instead of just a little less than a Lyft.

But I'll say one thing for the bus...it showed up. So...I can't wholeheartedly recommend the very long trip. It only took about an hour in the end, but it was an annoying hour. Still, I'm at the airport instead of staring at a phone while cursing rideshare apps. That counts for something.

Long Ago Christmas

This is indeed a long time ago! My mother has been scanning in photos, and posted this of me and my sister with my aunt and uncle. Can you tell what year this is?

The Tyranny of Xocolata Choice

I went to the corner deli--which is owned by twins (which was confusing for a while when I didn't know that)—in search of the excellent Puerto Rican hot chocolate bars I bought last year.

But I was taken aback to find not just the Puerto Rican hot chocolate, but also Dominican hot chocolate and Mexican hot chocolate.

I went with the Puerto Rican, but maybe I should have bought one of each. Just not sure how much hot chocolate one can drink in the one week I had to spend on the East Coast.

Lost Souvenir

Today I got a new crown at the dentist’s office. I have no complaints. It fits snugly, is the right color, and nothing hurts.

Nothing hurt before, but the dentist had pointed out the old porcelain inlay was cracking, and the end of the year insurance reset was imminent, so I went ahead with the crown.

Why does this matter? It doesn’t really. But…

The porcelain inlay was from 2001.

I got it in Cape Town after 16 days on the DAL Kalahari freighter ship from Germany to Cape Town. I was on the first MariesWorldTour, month number 9, and the shipping agent had a dentist they recommended. My old amalgam filling was aching slightly, and the Cape Town dentist pointed out that given I was headed north for a four-month trek on buses and share taxis all the way to Cairo, he figured I was better off dealing with it there in Cape Town rather than having an emergency out in the bush or in the Sahara.

I always liked having a little piece of Africa with me all the time. A tiny porcelain reminder of what my life once was and may be again one day. And now I’ve traded it for a tiny piece of Burbank, which really isn’t the same.

One of 4,000 Beagles

Here's a follow-up on Charlie's cousins and siblings. Charlie lives with my mom. We don't like to think about his life before he moved in with Mom.