I’m back in the States.
The “Seminarios Educativos de la APP” went amazingly well—as usual—but I did sneek out of the hotel several times to visit museums. (The lectures were entirely in Spanish—except for the few English-speaking instructors, who were translated.) I saw Diego Rivera’s house (Anahuacalli), the Frida Kahlo/Diego Rivera House, and the Dolores Olmedo Patiño Museum—a huge, former private residence that houses a huge collection of Diego Rivera work.
Karem and I also spent some time together—with my horrible Spanish and her less-than-perfect English, we were a good conversational match. We further bonded over our excitement for the end-of-the-week lucha libre (Mexican wrestling) match. We were both psyched when Karen was able to get tickets for what everyone around us said was to be the biggest match of the year.
Lucha libre was a highlight of the week. The final match went to Villana, and, after being defeated, Blue Panther took off his mask and gracefully retired, at 48 years old. The crowd went nuts.
Saturday was yoga (at a Mexican studio in Spanish), a trip to Wakantanka piercing studio, an afternoon of shopping, and then a six-hour bus ride down to Oaxaca—getting in at 2:30 in the morning. Sunday was sleeping late, heading to the market with Jason and two of his friends, and then visiting traditional Oaxacan rug merchants. Sunday left me feeling drained and not at all well.
By Monday, I was full-on sick. The week—and the month of preparation that went before it—finally caught up to me, along with the bad air, lack of sleep, and intermittent eating schedule; I was whooped. The day was spent mostly in bed, only going out later for Mexican-style chicken soup.
Tuesday morning, after a relaxed breakfast, I headed to the Oaxaca airport. Upon landing after a one-hour flight from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I found myself stuck in the labyrinthine MEX airport while I searched for the check-in to my flight back to the states. After almost an hour of frustratingly searching for my gate, I found I was in the wrong terminal—and getting there was its own adventure. After finally reaching the Delta counter—at 2:40, for a 3:15 flight—I was told that the flight was closed, it was the last flight to the states that day, and that they would try to get me out the following day. Fuck!
Luckily, there was a woman next to me in the same situation—only she was late because of her connecting flight. Long story short: they held the flight while she and I ran full-on to the gate. I got on my flight to ATL sweaty, out of breath, and feeling AWFUL—but I made it. Onto Atlanta, and then home. (While the Mexico City airport was probably the most confusing I’ve ever been in, ATL definitely had the worst food. I know I’m a Yankee, but I would have loved something that wasn’t going to sit like a Southern-fried rock in my stomach.)
So—after conquering all the forces conspiring against my making it back to the states—I got in late Wednesday night and headed straight to Andi’s; it was good to be home.
