On my last afternoon in Prague, I walked up Petrin Hill to look out over the red roofs and gold-topped spires of the city aglow in the light of waning sun. As I made my way to the top, I found the views I was searching for and so much more:

It’s amazing how easily you can find calm spaces in crowded summertime Prague. Aside from the Charles Bridge area, it was much quieter on the other side of River Vltava. Just a little way up Petrin Hill I found even more serenity.

Pears and view.

The path less traveled.

Down below, the crowded Charles Bridge.

Broken ornaments decorated the outside of the fantastical Reon Argondian Gallery.

Through some iron gates I came across this garden where a woman was painting the scene.

This garden was pure joy.

 As if the first garden wasn’t amazing enough, around the corner I found another garden full of vibrant roses.

More fantastic views of Prague.

A nice spot for music making.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

A couple weeks ago, a Facebook friend posed a question about whether she should do a multiple day hike to get to Machu Picchu or take the train to save time. Before I expanded the list of comments, I already knew what to expect based on my own experience with making that decision. My thoughts were correct. The majority of the responses could be summarized like this: “Do the trek so you can leave Peru with no regrets!”

I chimed in as the only person who overtly spoke positively about taking the train, which is how I got to Machu Picchu. It was a great experience for me. I had a fantastic travel buddy for the train ride and exploring Machu Picchu, I got back to Cusco in time to celebrate Peruvian Independence Day, and I followed through on my overall goal which was to spend the larger portion of the trip in Bolivia exploring remote corners of a remote country. I never look back and say, “Man, I wish I’d done the trek to Machu Picchu!” It simply was never important to me. It may be many people’s dream, but it’s not mine.

I think real honest enthusiasm from travelers who hiked the Inca trail sparked the trek-to-Machu Picchu fervor. But the “must do!” hype around it speaks to a larger theme of urgent, consumption-oriented travel. In the end, is it really worth it to obsessively tick off boxes and fixate on one particular popular experience when there are many equally fulfilling alternatives to that?

I certainly have succumbed to this kind of travel. I’ve rushed through places, trying to see as much as was humanly possible in a short period of time, driven by a well-intentioned mentality that life is short and I may never return to those places again. I still value the idea of making the most of your time in a place, but the numbers game doesn’t seem as important as it used to. While I love the experience of seeing so many different things, I’ve found that rushing through the world and ticking off boxes can limit what you truly see in the long run.

Of course, there are exceptions. Sometimes I am in some exceptionally unique far away place for a specific reason (for example, visiting my mom in Namibia over the holidays or going to India for a wedding) and squeeze more into a limited time than I’d like.  But for trips that I come up with, I’ve begun to plan for longer amounts of time in fewer places.

I didn’t expect to encounter so many people who think that is a terrible idea. I often feel like I have to justify my decisions to spend a long time in one spot, return to place I’ve already visited, or to not do a “must-do” experience.

I met a group of guys from Ensenada when I first returned to Oaxaca last summer. They’d stayed in the city for a couple days and then left for more adventures around the state. They came back to Oaxaca city the day before I left to go back to Mexico City. When I saw them again, the first thing one of them said to me was, “Wow, you’re still  here?!”

“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m leaving tomorrow!” As soon as I added that second part, I knew it wasn’t necessary. Sure, I’d missed out on plenty of potential opportunities in Mexico and elsewhere by revisiting the small city of Oaxaca for the second summer in a row. But I left knowing the city even better, having seen nearby places I hadn’t been to on my first visit, and knowing that my passion for it wasn’t a fluke — it’s one of my favorite places in the world.

Sure, I missed a great challenge and amazing scenery by not trekking to Machu Picchu. But in Bolivia, I encountered unexpected challenges in stunning places over and over. I trekked through a swamp in the Amazon, through an ancient fern forest to the top of a mountain, across an island in one of the highest lakes in the world and hardly encountered foreigners other than the ones I was with. I wouldn’t trade any of these experiences for the trek to Machu Picchu.

Life is short and the world can seem overwhelmingly huge for an adventurous spirit. But one of travel’s greatest lessons to embrace is how small you are in comparison to the world. You may not be able to see everything, but you can make the most of what you do see — and making the most of a place is subject to the traveler’s own ideas, not some list created by someone else.

In this world of limitless potential experiences, find out what you really want to explore and do that as much as you can. And remember that regretting what you could not do or didn’t have the time for on your travels is a choice. There is always another option: gratitude for what you did experience.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

That night, the air was thick with celebration and imminent rain. It was clear that the festive atmosphere would stand its ground despite the upcoming storm.

Earlier that evening, Mexico had won the Under 17 World Cup Games that the country had been hosting that summer. In the final moments of the last match, the classy Coyoacan restaurant bar we were watching it at momentarily transformed into a rowdy sports bar. Some of the men climbed onto the bar counter, tore off their shirts, and swung them around in joy. It certainly could not compare to an official World Cup win, but it was kind of like a celebration of the future’s potential.

And our little group, most of us Mexico-philes, were keen to participate. When the game crowd died down, we moved toward the Coyoacan neighborhood center, where streets that were lined with vendors and full of residents led to the central plazas. There, you could find practically any unhealthy night time snack you were looking for, and we went for the churros.

When the rain came, we followed the sounds of cumbia to a tent where a live band was performing. Under the tent was a gathering of all ages and genres, unified by the love of a country’s timeless songs.

And then the band moved on to a ballad. The pace slowed down, but the liveliness remained.  A small old man near the stage wearing a shiny gold shirt and a white cowboy hat pulled off his flashy outfit as he moved gracefully to the song with his partner. As another older couple danced, the husband reinforced the romantic lyrics by singing them emphatically to his wife. The two adults in the family of three decided to dance to this song as a duet. The little girl didn’t seem to mind being on her own for a bit. She twirled around the dance floor like a ballerina.

That rainy night, that tent housed a supreme kind of beauty. You could see it in the passion for the music and the dances that go with them. You could find it in the tolerance of the quirkiness and self-expression of members of the community and beyond. And most of all, there was beauty in the love, the palpable and all-encompassing love.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

If you follow my blog regularly, you may have realized that I have a penchant for the journey aspect of travel — all the things you see and experience while moving from one point to another. The points might be what have attracted me to a place, but I love the discovery — self or cultural — that occurs in the process of getting there.

The internet is saturated with short travel videos that focus on the said points, many of them full of beautiful image after beautiful image, many of them in time lapse form. But when it comes to actual travel, how realistic are these videos? So much of travel is the movement; the in betweens are often the meat of it.

One of the first things that struck me about this video was how much watching it felt like travel feels for me. Sometimes it’s sublime moments in beautiful famous places, but much of it is exploring a new place propelled by my own feet and the unique people you meet along the way and sometimes being crowded in a boat with other tourists who signed up for the same thing and adjusting to another country’s way of moving about and looking at the world through a dirty window and seeing it for what it is, but still finding beauty in it and in the process of moving.

And then the last stretch, that bittersweet, wistful, exalted arrival at home; not always choreographed to such gorgeous melodies, but a gorgeous moment, nevertheless.

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”
- Robert Louis Stevenson

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

It’s a typical day for me in Mexico City. I’m walking around in the afternoon summer downpour and I’m lost. Along the way, I stop to ask anyone who doesn’t look like they’re in a hurry for directions. I eventually find the building I’m looking for with the help of two Mexico City transplants, a couple originally from the Midwest of the United States.

I’ve come to this building because of a recommendation from a new friend I made in Oaxaca. Originally from New York, she is now a teacher at an international school and she’s given me the contact info of her masseuse in Mexico City. A ninety minute massage is a fraction of what it would cost me at home. After over three weeks of carrying my too-heavy backpack and sleeping in hostel beds of varying quality, it’s an opportunity I don’t want to pass up.

I use the building’s phone system to dial the apartment number I have written down for the masseuse. I try again and again, but no one answers. Finally, a man walking out of the building holds the door open and lets me in. I go up to the apartment and knock on the door. No one is there.

Next door, a group of people exit an apartment. “Who are you looking for?” one of them asks me. She tells me she is not sure who who lives there, as she has just recently moved into the building. “Wait here,” she says. “We’re going to the store, we’ll be right back.” Confused, I agree to wait.

The group returns with refreshments and they proceed to invite me to join them. I’m hesitant at first, but my intuition tells me it’s okay. And it is.

They are a fun trio of mid to late twenty somethings. Two of them are coworkers at a tech company and another is the cousin of the woman who lives there. They are unwinding on Friday afternoon before they go out later that night to a Cuban club. It’s a happy hour of sorts. More friends and family come in and out the apartment and I am introduced, no big deal that there’s a random stranger hanging out.

They want to know if I like Mexican music. They pull up Los Tigres del Norte on iTunes so I can hear a bit of norteno music while we chat about our lives and work and San Francisco and Mexico City and Colonia Roma and how neighborhoods and cities evolve.

Eventually we find the person and the apartment I was looking for. I’d written the apartment number down wrong. I reschedule for the following morning with the masseuse, silently grateful about the great evening my mix up has led to.

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It’s hard to believe that a solid friendship could evolve from a brief encounter on a crowded Mexico City Metro car, but in summer 2010, that’s what happened.

It was my first full day in Mexico City and I was with two New Zealanders from my hostel and we weren’t quite sure where we were going. A kind soul saw us looking confused and stepped in to help us out. Along with some exceptionally friendly locals I’d met the night before at the hostel, he set the tone for my exploration of a Mexico City that was so different from what you tend to see in the headlines.

We are both travelers, musicians, and fans of each other’s cities. We became friends and kept in touch and our paths have crossed a few more times in both Mexico City and San Francisco since that initial introduction on the metro. The day after the apartment gathering, we met up again to go to a memorial event for the grandmother of one of his friends.

The idea of attending the event sounded preposterous at first, but he assured me that it was completely fine for me to go along. And again, it was no big deal to be an unmistakable stranger at this family function.

It’s a yearly party they host to celebrate the life of a family matriarch who’s passed on, around the birthday of her patron saint. Apparently in her day, she was a beautiful and social woman, so they like to commemorate her in this way.

They are musical family, and they began by performing songs along with some members of local orchestra that plays traditional Mexican songs. There was a short mass and more music and a sit down lunch underneath a canopy to protect us from the daily summer storm.  Some of the kids practiced their English with me, some with a bit of encouragement from their parents while others were more outgoing.

One of the adults wanted to know if it was strange for me to travel in Mexico for a length of time and constantly hear people speaking Spanish around me. I explained that in California, it’s typical to hear many different languages being spoken and Spanish is one of the most common. And it’s just an aspect of travel that you get eventually get used to.

The strangeness of being surrounded by foreign language hadn’t occurred to me before they asked. What really struck me was the feeling that there was something extraordinary in how ordinary it felt to be there; a stray traveler taken in for the afternoon by a lovely family of strangers.

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I read extreme stories reporting from Mexico City almost daily. There doesn’t seem to be a place for the everyday happenings of the city’s 21 million people in that kind of forum. I may have only encountered a miniscule portion of those people, but time after time, I’ve seen a kind of hospitality that you don’t find everywhere, a subtle kindness that’s almost mind boggling in its genuineness. In the vast range of things that Mexico City is, the people I’ve encountered there are a large part of why it shines so brightly amongst my various virtual pins on the globe.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

One morning in Oaxaca, I wake up with an onward bus ticket on my mind. I am supposed to leave the following day.

I head out of the hostel earlier than normal and make my first stop at a bank. The ATM line is long and moving at a sloth’s pace. I share sighs and smiles with the other people waiting. As more bank customers approach, they spot their friends in the line and make conversation and gestures about their disbelief of the size of the line before dutifully taking their places at the end of it.

It’s these little insights that I love so much about being in Oaxaca and Mexico in general. The little moments where locals allow you feel like you’re part of their world as you take part in everyday tasks with them. You’re a random tourist in the mix, but more importantly, you’re just another person.

Once cash has been procured, I visit the markets and shops and stock up on unique to Oaxaca gifts and mezcal and chocolate. When I have everything I was looking for, I walk over to the Mercado 20 de Noviembre. I want to find the right place to have a cup of Oaxaca style hot chocolate with ground almonds and cinnamon in it.

I settle on a comedor where a family of four is finishing up their meal and an older couple chats with the chef as they eat. The chef is Lidia and her little eatery is named after her. Comedor “Lidia”. I like the way the food stall signs have the names of the people who run them in quotation marks.

I give Lidia my order. She breaks off a chunk of chocolate from a huge bar and puts it into hot milk in a pot. She rubs a molinillo between her palms and whisks until the chocolate is frothy. She pours the hot chocolate into a small bowl and insists that I have a pan dulce roll to eat with it. She is right, the airy bread is the right companion for the chocolate. When she has made sure I have everything I need, she leans on the counter and resumes her conversation with the the older couple.

I sip the chocolate and dip the bread and people watch in the market. Leaving the next day doesn’t feel quite right. I can’t wait to get back to get back to Mexico City, but I want to spend just one more day in delving into Oaxaca’s heart.

Later that afternoon, I walk over to the bus station to change my onward ticket to a day later. It does not escape me that almost exactly a year before, I took the same walk for exactly the same reason. It’s hard for me to leave Oaxaca.

Travel can be full of spectacular sights and spectacular emotions that are fleeting and keep you moving in your quest for more. But those places where you want nothing more than the everyday are golden; they urge you to lay your backpack down a little longer and bask in pure contentment.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

In the vast and varied country of the United States, fellow residents tend to misunderstand each other as much as they have a tendency to misunderstand the world beyond. It’s disconcerting to see how many people form concrete opinions of other places based on very little knowledge of and experience in those places.

I discovered my own habit of doing this during my travels to the South. I’ve had enlightening experiences there where found that I liked that part of the country more than I imagined I would. I realized that my negative opinions on it were based on stereotypes, politics, and history rather than personal experiences with the current people and places.

Recently, I’ve also eased up on Los Angeles. In California, there is a little tiff between SoCal and NorCal, and more specifically between Los Angeles and San Francisco. It’s a microcosm of larger issues in the country and in the world and while it’s not detrimental, it can be petty and counterproductive.

While there are still stereotypical and true characteristics of Los Angeles that I don’t like, I’ve found many other things to appreciate about it. I’ve accepted the city for what it is and opened myself up to discovering its more awesome aspects, and that has been a good thing.

Here’s a collection of things that have made me happy on my recent visits to Los Angeles:

» Warm Weather

I love San Francisco, but its weather is not the jam. It has its hotter times, but it tends to hover around highs of 60 degrees Fahrenheit year round, give or take about 10 degrees. I actually prefer to be in warmer climates and I’m not a fan of bundling up. LA is more capable of making these partialities feasible. When I go there, I can pack light and give myself a break from restrictive outerwear.

» The Diverse Array of Cultures

Los Angeles goes far beyond the typical subsections of American cities. There is Koreatown, Thai Town, Little Ethiopia, a sizable population of Hasidic Jews, and areas that make me feel like I’m in Mexico. As a fan of traveling, I really appreciate this cultural mix up all in one location.

» Food

The awesome weather combined with people from all over the world make for an excellent food culture in Los Angeles. There are year round farmers markets everywhere and an abundance of international restaurants and food trucks. There is often an emphasis on food that’s produced locally with respect for the environment and the people who will consume it.

» The Laid Back Atmosphere

Something I noticed on a trip to LA last year is that people there give off an air of being on vacation in their own town. I really enjoy the very city-like energy and feel of San Francisco, but I appreciate the more relaxed nature of LA as well. It’s a nice break from my typical surroundings.

» Hiking to the Hollywood Sign at Sunset

This was the highlight of my most recent trip to Los Angeles. The day after Thanksgiving, we got off to a late start on this hike, but it turned out to be great timing. The lighting was gorgeous on the way up, and when we reached the top, we had a 360 degree view of the Los Angeles and beyond, all aglow in sunset light.

» LACMA

Last summer, I had an afternoon to myself where I happened to be within walking distance of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and it happened to be a free entrance day. I decided to take advantage of that. LACMA is impressive before you even walk in; there is a wonderful light sculpture at the entrance. Once you’re inside, there is an amazing collection of art from around the world. The exhibits are presented in a way that really enhances the art and gives you a sense of the periods and places they come from. The curation at LACMA is artistic excellence in itself.

» Day Trips to Santa Monica

Santa Monica is such an interesting place. With the beach, the boardwalk, the Third Street Promenade, and surf city atmosphere, it’s the California of a lot of people’s dreams. But there is also a very apparent desperate and gritty side to it. These aspects combined make for a truthful dose of Americana.

» Secondhand Shopping

When I’ve gone secondhand shopping in LA, I’ve found some good stuff, I think partly because styles change so quickly and people often get rid of barely worn items. If you’re not caught up in following trends closely, there is good stuff to be found. Beyond the shops, last summer I came across the Melrose Trading Post, a hipstery weekly flea market that has all kinds of little treasures that reflect many different periods of LA. I saw wacky furniture, vintage travel and movie posters, tons of antique knickknacks, and some great jewelry.

» Strange and Passionate People

Venice Beach has its fair share of the LA counterculture, but there are a lot of unique individuals throughout the city. It’s a city that attracts people from all over the country, a lot of them with personalities that were probably too large for Small Town, USA. While there are a lot of people in Los Angeles chasing vacuous and vague dreams of stardom, there are plenty more who may still be enticed by stardom, but have a true love and passion for their art. Los Angeles and San Francisco seem to be equally full of people who are endearingly odd and steadfast about expressing themselves.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

When I look back at the time I spent volunteering in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil in 2006, it seems so natural, so inevitable that I would end up in there at some point in my life. I often forget about what drew me to it in the first place: Banda Didá, an all female drumming ensemble that is based there. Before learning about that group, I hadn’t even heard of Salvador, an Afro-Brazilian city in the northeastern part of the country.

Music as it pertains to social movements or social justice has always been a topic of interest for me. When I came across a documentary called Girl Beat: Power of the Drum, I was automatically drawn by the synopsis. It highlighted the Banda Didá organization and the work it did to empower females of African descent in Salvador.

Banda Didá was powerful. I couldn’t believe this group of women whose hands and arms pounded out the rage of the remnants of European enslavement to the beats of West Africa. At the same time, their bodies moved fluidly and rhythmically and their faces beamed with pride in their heritage.

The documentary revealed another world, one that I had not yet been privy to, but in which I felt I likely belonged: Afro-Latin culture. In mainstream grade school education in the United States, the fact that Africans were enslaved in many other parts of the Americas is often ignored. The vivacious modern cultures of Latin America and the African influence on many of them is often overlooked. At that point in my life, I was vaguely aware of Afro-Latin America, but that was the first time I’d seen it so tangibly.

As the daughter of immigrants from a small West African country, I’d grown up on the periphery of belonging. I’d accepted that position at that point. But Salvador da Bahia seemed like a place where the distinct mix of cultures that went into my creation was very much the norm in a very visible way. And sure enough, it was.

There’s a bit of drumming at the beginning of this, but skip to 1:00 for the good stuff. Those drums are heavy, and these women make dancing with one attached to your hips look easy.

I saw Banda Didá for the first time in person just a few days after I arrived in Brazil. Every Tuesday night from August until Carnival, they have a big party in Pelourinho, Salvador’s historic center. They call it a “rehearsal” for Carnival and it’s an insanely fun night of government sanctioned partying. There are concerts, street food and drinks, and baterias (drumming ensembles) marching down the cobblestone streets.

A drum circle with an intrinsic sense of spirit and all kinds of soul.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

When we step out of our beat up colectivo and onto the outskirts of San Juan Chamula, we are immediately engulfed in a festive atmosphere. The autonomous Mayan village already feels like a place where unique things happen, and we are fortunate enough to be there for one of their biggest festivals, Dia de San Juan.

Chamula (Dried Lake) is the original Tzotzil Mayan name for the village. The San Juan (St. John the Baptist) comes from the Dominican missionaries. It just so happens that San Juan’s birthday is at the same time of year as the summer solstice. This made him a prime choice of village saint for the sun worshiping Mayans in their syncretic religious practices. So every year, Dia de San Juan is essentially a summer solstice festival and quite a party for the people of the village.

In San Juan Chamula, we’ve been dropped off next to a fair that looks like it could be any fair in Small Town, USA. Every primary color is present in decoration of the rides, there’s a Ferris wheel, a carousel, and all sorts of finger foods and knickknacks for sale.

But most people are shorter than me (and I’m already short). The women have on long furry black skirts and wear their long hair in braids while the men sport furry vests and cowboy hats. This is definitely not the wardrobe of Small Town, USA. And instead of funnel cake, they’re selling churros.

Just past the fair, there’s a graveyard with crosses for headstones that look like they’re being swallowed by the earth. Down a washboard road, we find ourselves on a pedestrian lane lined with vendors.

It’s jam packed. We realize quickly that we have to allow ourselves to get swept up in the crowd, let ourselves be wedged between fur and braids. This is not a place that slows down for or accommodates foreigners.

We’re not really a tour group per se, just a group of hostelers and Couch Surfers who came over in the same colectivos. It’s not long before our large party has been broken into smaller ones and we try to look out for more manageable-sized groups in the abundant chaos.

We reach the town church which is known for its lack of pews and one of a kind rituals. We want to enter, but a man holds his hand out in the universal stop sign. We are not allowed to enter on the festival day. So we find a free spot in the town square and wait for something to happen.

Eventually men start pouring out of the church. They march around us on a bed of pine needles that encircles the square. Some of them haphazardly play a wide variety of instruments. A cacophony of sounds merges to form compelling music. It’s so disorderly that it works. The scene looks so strange and beautiful to my wide eyes and it begins to swirl around me.

I’m having the kind of travel experience that an experience junky like myself craves — the hard to define and often elusive “authentic” experience. The festival seeps into my consciousness and prods at corners of my senses that I was previously unaware of.

I have to use every bit of willpower I have to keep myself from taking my camera out of my bag and snapping away. San Juan Chamula is notorious for its distaste of photo-happy tourists. And because it’s an autonomous village, they make their own rules, which can potentially be harsh.

As I am thinking about this, dozens of men in furry vests clutching police batons come storming into the square. It looks like something is happening, and we’re not sure what. Then we see it, an Italian guy who works at the hostel we’re staying at is dragged out of the square by the Chamula police. His offense? Trying to take pictures. Later, he is released, and I notice a discernible smidgen of humility in his normally ultra confident demeanor.

The festival gets more intense as homemade firecrackers are set off more regularly. They are deafening and dangerously close to the crowd. My little group waits for a break in firecracker lightings and then we beeline for the nearest square exit while covering our ears.

The local women chuckle at me when I let out childish screams of surprise when I let my guard down and forget to cover my ears. In some parts of Mexico, it seems that there’s a cause for celebration and firecrackers every day. So to them, maybe it’s like white noise.

We find the guy who arranged our trip, the owner of the hostel we are staying at. He answers some of our questions about the village. I ask why some men have on white vests while others wear black vests. He explains that white fur means you’re part of the village’s government. It is very apparent that only men run the government in San Juan Chamula.

When a decent amount of us have somehow regrouped, the hostel owner takes us up a hill to visit his friend, a well known artist in San Juan Chamula. “Eh! Africana!” the charming old man says to me excitedly as he welcomes us to his patio.

We sit around a table and sample different flavors of pox (pronounced “posh”), the local moonshine. I’m not a big fan of it, but some are inspired enough to go to the corner store and buy more. It comes in reused plastic bottles with the bottle’s original label still on it.

As we chat, the daily storm clouds appear in the distance to warn us that the party is ending. We’re on our own for getting back to the hostel. I make my way over to a colectivo stand with a few others. Thick drops of rain begin to fall on us as we wait. We decide to get out of the long line and settle on a deal with some taxi drivers for a tiny amount more. As we leave Chamula, the crowds have dispersed. People will regroup at night after the rain stops and the festivities will continue, tourist free.

I wish I had pictures of this colorful festival to share with you or that I could find a video of it online. But in a time when you can be so easily distracted by trying to get the perfect shot, it’s good to have experiences where you have to be fully in the moment. And in a time when you have the ability to preview everything, it’s wonderful to have experiences where you have absolutely no idea what to expect.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.

The taxi driver turns to look at me anxiously as we slow and then come to a halt in Mexico City rush hour traffic. He skillfully maneuvers around other taxis, big buses, small buses, regular cars — whatever he can do to get a few feet closer to the bus station where I’ll begin my fourteen hour night journey to Palenque.

We approach police cars and and stopped cars and beyond that, the road is clear. I make it to the station with time to spare and time to settle into the kind of traveling spirit that can make a long bus ride bearable and even enjoyable. Journeying to new places overland tickles the adventurer in me.

Aboard the bus, I say bye to Mexico City for now. Except as we exit, the city seems to never end. But it’s not long after we’ve left the uber city behind before we enter a national park. As we drive through a more natural world, I look forward to the next leg of my journey which will be radically different from the first one.

I’m getting used to travel’s inherent need to make sudden transitions whether it’s at the beginning, during, or at the end of a trip. And it’s slowly flowing into my regular life, helping my sometimes resistant to change self understand that shifts are necessary and healthy and essential for maintaining perspective.

We exit the park and continue on through cities and villages. The sun sets and the twinkling lights of the houses that creep up the mountainsides look like sparkling floating islands in the darkness of the night sky.

We reach the city of Orizaba, and most of the passengers exit the bus. After a longer than announced stop at the station, the few of us who are continuing on spread out on the bus and prepare for the several hours we still have left. After a finger and toe chilling bus ride in Mexico last summer, I am more prepared. I already have on several layers and I wrap my sarong tightly around me to seal in the warmth before I shut my eyes. I am happy when the new driver decides not to blast and sing along with ranchera music like the first one did.

I drift in and out of sleep on a patch of windy and bumpy road. It is completely dark and the only things the bus’s headlights illuminate are the road and trees of the forest that surround us. I open my heavy eyelids again a few hours later when the sun begins to rise. I’ve barely slept, but I am curious and I muster up the energy to keep them open.

What I see is a rainbow sky in shades of pastel and land that is so thick and green and vibrant and so incredibly beautiful. The lines between my dreams and my reality have been blurred. Good morning, Chiapas.

©2012 Girl, Unstoppable. All Rights Reserved.