Uxmal
Warm tropical fragrances of marketed fruits and grilled meats floated upon the thick air at the quaint bus station in the heart of the Yucatan Peninsula. Small dark people scurried around busying themselves with what was typical for a weekday in this warm, humid, highly vegetated land. Bugs larger than Rhinoceros beetles buzzed around with no trepidation about their place in space. Their hard dark shells made it seem as though they would find flying cumbersome. The station was soaked in a homey, cozy feel, not atypical of Spanish or Latin American edifices. It was rather small with a red tile roof and off-white stucco siding. The cement floor was well worn, but kept clean, so I felt comfortable standing there, engrossed in my novel, waiting to take a bus to one of the multitude of Mayan ruin archaeological groups in the area. Today, I would venture to Uxmal. It was exciting to travel on one’s own, living for the day’s experiences and sensing the freedom to wander where ever the wind blew, even if loneliness crept to my side.
Casual, colorful clothes draped over my body. I wore a turquoise, snug thin- strapped top and a long Mexican style colorful flared skirt. Although bright and alive, the clothes were also functionally cool in such a warm climate. My long hair draped down over my shoulders not showing the perspiration from the heat of the day. Although I was of light complexion and hair, I melted into the scenery anonymously. That’s what I preferred with my background of watching obnoxious foreigners behaving as though they were on a stage for the native peoples. While I visited, I hoped to pass time as one of the general population.
After some time, a stranger came to me while I was not looking. He interrupted my reading to ask his earnest question. “Senora, A donde va este autobus?” I responded attentively, “A las ruinas, Uxmal.” “Y bien, quisiera ir alli y a que hora sale el autobus?” Once again, I answered, “En quince minutos.” As he spoke Spanish, I knew he wasn’t Latino, since his pronunciation of Spanish words was a strange accent to my ear. He was not a native English speaker either. I asked, “De donde esta usted, Senor?” “Yo soy de Francia,” he said with a grin, and I politely remarked with a giggle, “Disculpame, pero no hablo francés.” He retorted in English with a pleasant French accent, “but Mademoiselle, you don’t have to, since I speak perfectly good English.” I smiled sincerely. Here was a stranger in the bus station with a certain charm that I instantly adored. He was a refined but rugged looking gentleman. He must have loved to be in the outdoors, although he had an educated presence. He was of medium stature with broad shoulders, very light skin, but darkish well maintained medium length thick hair and radiant blue eyes. “And where are you from, Mademoiselle, with your perfectly, beautiful English?” I coquettishly answered, “From California.” He had hooked me, and I knew what the next question would be. “Are you alone? How will you appreciate Uxmal with no company?” I quickly exclaimed with a smile, “I was waiting for you, Senor, and are you alone?” “Yes, I am very alone. Thank you for your invitation.”
Soon the rickety bus came. We entered, took two uncomfortable seats together and for a brief few minutes said nothing. I didn’t know this stranger’s name, nor he mine. I guess he was thinking the same thing, since he blurted out, “I’m called Paul from Haute Normandy in France.” That discovery put him from Northern France, the land of Mont Saint Michel, the beautiful water bound castle. “Who are you, Mademoiselle?” I dreamily exclaimed, “Jennifer.” “Is that a typical English name?” No, I don’t think so. We comfortably settled into a light, interactive conversation.
Scenes from Merida
Paul had been traveling as I had been around Mexico, discovering what he could on his own. He had been in a Spanish language school, like me for several weeks during the summer. This was the last of his vacation and so was it mine. He was trained as a mechanical engineer in France, but had spent the last year playing, working in Club Med. He was able to practice speaking English, Spanish or whatever language passed his way. I also wondered how many women he had charmed during his playful year, but I didn’t pry. His past wasn’t my concern, since he was providing me joy and pleasure at this moment in time.
The decrepit bus finally made it to Uxmal. I had bought a small book about the ruins. Together we explored the site and shared the book outlining the history and probable uses for what was left of the decaying stone buildings. It was a gloriously clear day, we peacefully basked ourselves in the warmth of the bright sunlight, appreciating the hours we could spend absorbing knowledge about a civilization that existed years away from our own time and place. There wasn’t anyone else in the world that I would rather share this moment with than Paul. It was as though a kindred spirit had washed up on the crest of a strong wave. He came from no where, but yet our souls fit together in a grand jigsaw puzzle, putting me in a luminescent dream from which I didn’t want to awaken.
Paul’s demeanor seemed to be everything I appreciated in another human being. Through our dialogue, I discovered that he was intelligent and wise, yet his body language was that of a gentle, humble individual. By listening to fragments of his conversation, I could ascertain that he had plenty of adventures and was well traveled, but didn’t boast much about himself. In fact, during our bus trip, he preferred to center his conversation on my interests and virtues. For the time, I had become the focus of his interest. What a strange way to discover such an interesting spirit.
The day was over, marked by the red ball of light falling into the landscape. We arrived back in Merida when dusk had enveloped the city. I couldn’t get enough of him, but my pride wouldn’t let me push beyond my façade. I restrained myself, watching carefully what I expressed. In contrast to me, he boldly asked me to dinner, but sheepishly confided in me about his poor finances. He owned no credit card and couldn’t foot the bill. I gladly offered to pay, since in Mexico, meals were cheap and for me, the company was so much more.
We found ourselves in a cozy little restaurant with candle lit tables in open air. We consumed food and wine, conversing head to head with no external distractions. How could I talk so much to a complete stranger, having him connect with mostly everything I said? After all, he was culturally as far removed from me as the average Mexican was. The waiters could see what was budding, smiling warmly as they served us. Finally, we finished, paid our bill and were off. We strolled around charming Merida with its lovely, colorful colonial buildings and tree lined streets. For as hot as it was during the day, it was comfortably cool in the evenings. We heard some raucous, loud Latin music in the distance. I had drunk plenty of wine and with a light, airy feeling asked Paul if he wanted to dance. “Oh! I’m not so good at that, but if you want, why not?” We gravitated to the open air dance hall, proceeding to magically glide around the floor with close embrace, sagaciously observing one another while occupying space not too far from where the salsa band played. I guess it wasn’t great dancing, but who cares since without a doubt our movements exuded sensuality. We didn’t notice if anyone else was present and why would we given the potent magnetic electricity hanging all around us.
The hours were ticking by and both of us were tired. I asked him where he was staying and wasn’t surprised when he said no where. He had just arrived in Merida in the early hours prior to meeting me. Although I didn’t ask, I knew he desperately needed to conserve money. Without any hesitation, I bravely spouted, “You can stay with me.” He awkwardly accepted. However, I told him that I would wrap myself in a sheet from one end to another. He warmly teased, “Is that your chastity belt?” Of course, I just smiled.
Effortlessly, I had nestled into a medium priced, colonial style hotel with a large courtyard tropical garden. Lush vegetation of hibiscus, geraniums and medium sized fruit and tropical trees occupied the lovely forested center. I could open the cast iron glass windows on to this oasis with nothing between my room and the greenery. In the morning, I was serenaded by a chorus of unknown local birds. The room was coated in stucco covered off-white paint, with projections of local art decorating the spaces. One stepped upon a lovely red tiled Mexican floor. In the evenings, it was better to use the rustic lanterns, rather than electricity, since its light was no more luminescent and much harsher to the eye. The room contained a large pine, walnut stained Mexican style bed with contrasting sparkling white sheets. There was an assortment of other furnishings including a splendid wardrobe, but all in Mexican walnut style. It was a charming comfortable place to stay on one’s own for a brief interlude of time.
We entered the room together. Paul snuggled down in one of the stuffed Mexican chairs, with us dialogging for some time. I was very comfortable, even though I had only known him for less than twenty four hours. Finally, he said, “Where’s your sheet? I only see the one on the bed.” “I guess there isn’t any other then. I don’t feel in a distrustful mood.” We finally poured into the same bed, not sleeping for quite a while. How odd to be spiritually, intellectually and emotionally attracted to a Frenchmen from the bus station, being a union of souls for that small point in time.
How heavenly it felt to wake up in the morning listening to beautiful avian voices and seeing Paul, the Frenchmen. These types of encounters would annihilate the massage and relaxation business. “Jennifer, do you want to spend the day with me again?” Paul expressed quietly and humbly. I just smiled and nodded my head.
Time roared by in Merida and finally, Paul needed to leave. He had a prearranged bus ticket to the border of Mexico, entering Texas. There he would meet a friend who would house him several days, and then he would return to France. I was beginning to tighten up, but still wanted to appreciate our little bit of fleeting time. We shuffled to the bus station with his one bag in hand. These were our last hours together, and I had no idea whether I would ever encounter him again. I am sure he must have wondered the same. We had exchanged details, but with countries between us in a time with primitive communications who knows where fate would take us.
The bus station was waiting there. We entered, and Paul’s transportation had arrived. We talked, embraced and talked some more, with him finally entering the bus. We dialogued from the window, but it was time for the journey north. I held back the tears, because I knew this was a part of our meeting. It was a cruel destiny, but I was ever so glad to have met him, sharing my life.
Emotional electricity marked our separation. “Tu seres toujours une partie de moi, Paul” “Tu apprends le français rapidement,” he smiling retorted. “Tu es touché mon coeur,” I responded. With a serious smile he reaffirmed my thoughts with his words, “Mais, Je sens la même chose, Jennifer.” I watched his face slowly disappear into the distance in the first class Mexican bus. I can only imagine what he had felt, having to venture north to Texas without knowing much about where he was traveling, only having a small amount of funds to get where he needed to be. He had arrived on a wave crest, but as all seas retreat, so did he.
The once comfortable bus station lost its fragrance and vitality. I had been on my own all summer, yet never felt more alone then I did now with my dream fading. Perhaps Paul had mostly needed me for financial security during an uncertain time in his vacation. Whatever his motivation he had brought a gift of joy to me. I would be always thankful for that with our meeting changing my life in some small way. It was time to awaken, returning to a world I didn’t or could never understand. I would return to the North with power grabbers, status seekers and name droppers, not being a future that enchanted me.
Jennifer Horton Chadwick
California Gypsy 