A Look at the Life Less Planned

When I left for Puerto Vallarta, I had booked my flight only 3 days before. Ideas I had about where to stay (apartments) were out, as was my method of transport (our car). I arrived in PV airport disheveled, my hair sticking to my forehead, and lugging an overstuffed backpack. I stepped out into the night and the humidity gave the air a soupy feel. I fought off taxi drivers (just $25 dollars to downtown!) and jumped on the first 50 cent bus I could, as another driver jogged up to solicit me.

It took me 40 minutes to find the hostel. I got on the right bus, wrong direction. I sat there at the end of the route, and asked the driver if he was indeed going to turn around . I used hand gestures. I was too tired to think of the Spanish.

He did and I found the hostel. I climbed up to the top bunk as quietly as possible and fell into a blissful sleep.

I was in Puerto Vallarta. I didn’t have a single plan.

I started crafting an itinerary. I was loving the beach life, so I wanted to check out Acapulco despite the persistent reports of a smoggy and dirty city (all true). After that I wanted to head further south and find a language school. I must have asked 20 different people about where they had studied, when a medical student, taking a last year of travel before school, told me about Casa Xelaju in Guatemala. “Don’t go to Antigua” he said. “It’s full of tourists and you’ll never get to practice your Spanish. Go to Quetzaltenango instead”.

The next day, I randomly decided I had seen enough of PV, packed my bag and caught a bus to Acapulco. It felt incredibly freeing. I had never done that before. Simply decided on a whim to leave, and left within hours. I could just walk away and go somewhere else. People in the hostel I had spent the last few nights hanging out with, were mildly surprised. “What you’re leaving? Oh Ok.” And with that I was gone.

I booked the class at Xelaju. I would be spending four weeks in December and early January living with a Guatemalian family and taking 5 hours of Spanish lessons per day during the week. All meals were included. For $170 a week, I didn’t think I could do much better.

The beaches at Acapulco were great and there are definitely very nice areas (my cab driver pointed out a beautiful mansion set high above the fray that he said was owned by SIlvester Stalone). Down in the city though, the construction, sewer smells, all night car honking and screeches of drunken tourists were a bit overwhelming. Overall I loved the insanity of it, but it didn’t even come close to what I had expected.

I needed to get to Guatemala. I tried to find a direct route, but it seemed that backtracking to Mexico City and then going south to San Cristobal was the easiest path. I marched into the bus terminal, bought a ticket to Mexico City with the promise that I could buy the second leg in DF. When I arrived at midnight, I was kindly informed that there was no bus until the next day. I was stuck for the night.

It was 40 degrees out too. I only had t-shirts. I decided to sleep at the terminal anyway, to be a good budget traveler.

Here’s where it get’s a little surreal. I was invited to a homeless shelter at about 3 AM. An hour earlier I had been happily chatting with a security guard, impressing myself with my ability to understand him and to actually answer his questions in my broken Spanish. He wanted to know where I was going. Eventually we got to the fact that I, like many of the people there, was planning on sleeping there the night. No big deal… Apparently I had made an impression, because he came back with a few people and told me about this, “Great place I can sleep for free”.

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s where people go to sleep”.

Maybe he had said homeless shelter at some point, but I wouldn’t have caught it. I still have no idea what the Spanish word for homeless would be (sans casa? vago?).

“Ok so where is this place”

“Oh it’s nearby. This woman can drive you.”

I refused to move. I wasn’t very keen on going somewhere that they couldn’t tell me what it was. Granted he was a security guard, but I wasn’t that tired. “Is it a hotel?”

“It’s like a hotel.”

Finally they wrangled someone who could translate. “They are offering you a night at a homeless shelter.”

Oh.

Ok, let’s just be clear folks. I am not homeless, just cheap. Thanks but no thanks.  There are definitely people who need that bed more than me. I walked to another part of the terminal and passed out on top of my backpack.

The next day, I found myself in the charming, beautiful town of San Cristobal de las Casas. I had never expected to come here, and it was the highlight of my Mexican travels. I sat in cafes and wrote, I wandered the grid of streets and shops for hours and then went back to my $11 a night private room. I was in backpacking heaven.

I didn’t plan for this sudden trip, and so far, that’s been the best part.