Trips By Sam

  I’m in a field on the outskirts of Uruapan with 100 Mexican machos swinging machetes.  This is what everyone (unsolicitedly) warned me about.  Except one.  My yoga goddess-sister Allison who, before my departure, sang a protective kundalini mantra and gifted a sticker-- “Be Dareful Out There.” Finding a stranger on the internet and asking to crash on their couch for two nights is a bit daring, for both parties.  For all my host knew, I had my own scythe in my 75 liter pack.  Or un diagnosed schizophrenia.  Or bed bugs.  Or all of the above.  Yet we both agreed to the risk of hosting / staying with a stranger based on a handful of photos, references, and brief bio that (for him) mentioned both Buddhism and artisanal mezcal. His mid-sized, Michoacan city was void of hostels, and, after two days alone, I was craving a bit of companionship and adventure.  Just not expecting to trudge through waist-high grass with a knife wielding mob...

    Salt tears splash into steaming pozole .  A bleary, sheepish glance at the cocinera earns me both curiosity and concern.  "Todo bien?" she asks.  Her warmth melts me more.  I choke, and nod towards the hot sauce with a self-deprecating grimace.  The mercado is bustling with families enjoying their Sunday supper while I sit alone at the bar, sobbing into my soup.       It's these moments that we travelers conveniently keep hush.  For me, they tend to surface on Sundays, especially in countries that honor the day of rest with family gatherings in lieu of errands and bulk buying.  Plus PMS, and it's my first day alone after traipsing through Jalisco with Hilary.       I awoke this morning knowing that it would be a tough one.  Mazamitla is a mountain town geared towards families, offering luxury cabins rather than backpacker dorms.  Alone, I opted for a spartan Airbnb.  Ignoring the horm...