Wandering off the Map
The sun beats down on our fatigued bodies. The normally mild weather seems to be our worst enemy. My two companions and I sweat as we march along a narrow, cobbled sidewalk. Glancing up to see where we are heading, I notice the street my friends and I have chosen to climb is so steep that I can’t even see the top. Only a gray slab of cobblestone fills my vision. Trusting that a welcoming plateau awaits, I fight the urge to rest and lead the trio onwards. After all, this isn’t my first uphill battle related to this excursion.
As a part of a travel writing class, my fellow college students and I arrived in the central state of Guanajuato, Mexico two days ago. The only assignment while traveling abroad was to “discover our story,” and our days were left open so that we could do this in our two destinations, San Miguel de Allende and Guanajuato. As part of our “homework,” we were to engage with the locals and other travelers. The task sounded simple, but being a more reserved person, I found the assignment daunting. I’m friendly and completely capable of carrying a conversation, but initiating dialogue is just beyond my comfort zone. However, the previous night my classmates Sarah, Carole, and I met one of the other fellow hostel residents, Ev, who happened to be from eastern Canada. Her sociable personality made conversation easy. Donned in a blue knee-length dress covered in Western-style embroidery, dusty brown cowboy boots, and matching hat, she seemed more prepared for a rodeo than adventures in Mexico. Upon hearing our purpose in traveling to the area, Ev began to recommend highlights of San Miguel. The friendly Canadian highly recommended visiting a nearby botanical garden that she insisted was only about a twenty minute walk away.
Her reference to a nature reserve piqued my interest. Being an avid lover of butterflies, I desperately wanted to visit the Monarch butterflies’ resting grounds in Mexico. Unfortunately, the winged insects stopped their migration three hours south of San Miguel, and a college student’s time and funds are limited. With the Monarch biosphere removed from the itinerary, this escape into the Mexican wilderness sounded appealing. I decided that we must go. Pulling out a map, Sarah, Carole, and I discussed directions with Ev and plotted routes to take through the city. Ev’s lengthy, untamed gray curls spilled over the map and bounced against her tan, bony face as she explained the wonders that the garden held, including open spaces, wild birds, and staring cows; she also described several “easy” ways to reach our destination.
“While you’re there!” she announced in a French accent, the whole of her small, lithe body shifting from excitement, “there is a cute little café! You must go! It has good food, and it is cheap. I got a nice little…” She paused. “Vegetarian! Yes, vegetarian pizza,” she nodded for emphasis. “At least they told me it was vegetarian pizza… I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Carole and I exchanged confused glances.
“And, they have this thing called… Aguamiel! It’s a cactus juice from this area—so good. Plus, this juice will cure your cancer,” Ev insisted as she jabbed my shoulder for emphasis.
“And your arthritis.” Stab.
“And your diabetes.” Stab.
“And your you-name-it,” Ev gave my shoulder a final friendly jab with her thin finger.
As we thanked Ev for her recommendations and turned to leave, she suggested taking a taxi if we didn’t want to walk a long distance. I waved off her advice, “we’re young. We can handle it.”
So here we are, Sarah, Carole, and I, trekking through San Miguel, attempting to follow Ev’s advice. Our twenty minute walk doubles to forty. The steep incline we’ve been ascending for the past twenty-five minutes constantly reminds us that San Miguel resides in the third highest inhabited plateau in the world. The dense, colorful buildings of downtown San Miguel shift into strategically placed large dwellings the higher we climb, and the insistent blaring horns, throbbing basses, and chattering of the city no longer reach our ears. As we continue our hike, I recall Ev mentioning, as she told her story, that she went “up, up, up” on her way to the garden. I attributed the word choice to a combination of her eccentric personality and mother tongue of French. My calves laugh at my ignorance.
The road begins to flatten and a green fence appears, bearing a sign that reads main entrance printed over a right-pointing arrow. Smiles break through our sweat. Surely, we must be close. Following the ever roughening cobblestone street, we turn right and come face-to-face with a sprawling mansion, most likely owned by an ex-patriot. Many retired Americans choose San Miguel as a place to thrive off their accumulated wealth because of the city’s beautiful weather and low cost of living.
“So much for a main entrance.”
“Maybe we just need to look at our map,” Sarah offers as she pulls the prized possession from her backpack. The three of us huddle around the map and try to decipher the chicken scratches Ev made the night before. We retrace our steps: through the market, left at the fork, and past Paulena Street. Then, the road vanishes. Our fingers, hovering over a segment of an informational column instead of a road, make it official—we are off the map. The sun glares down at us. Soon it will be high noon.
“Let’s just follow the road and see where it takes us.”
Nodding at Sarah’s suggestion, we proceed in our quest for the botanical garden. After trudging a few more blocks and finally rounding the expansive red abode, we spot the fence once again, and our hopes are renewed. My classmates and I meander over to the fence to scope out a possible route to the main gate. A faint, but visible gravel road winds along a dry, grassy hill adjacent to the metal border and disappears over the incline and into the unknown.
“I guess if this path doesn’t work out we can always stop and ask for directions,” I suggest. The trail bears no marking and seems more like a personal driveway than a tourist attraction, but if I can’t see Monarchs, I at least want to see some ducks. Happily, my friends agree.
With the fence visible once again and a plan B established, I let my mind wander. I had been planning for this trip to central Mexico for over eight months. Through hard work and meticulous saving, I raised enough funds to completely cover my educational escapade without the support of my less than enthusiastic parents. I recall one particularly ineffective household conversation.
“Working three jobs is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
“Why do you even want to go to Mexico? It’s dangerous down there.”
“Mom, the drug cartels are mainly on the border and that’s thousands of miles away from where we’ll be. Plus, the government says it’ll be safe. I think it’ll be a really great experience for me.”
My mom snorted and walked out of the kitchen while my dad ducked his eyes and silently returned to reading the paper. The last institution they trusted was the government. Growing up as an only child in a neighborhood where the average age clocked in around fifty-two, I relied heavily on my parents. My mother and father guarded me from robbers, nightmares, and boredom throughout my childhood. I peered over at the digital stove clock. My shift started in thirty minutes. I quietly grabbed my car keys and exited through the front entry. Shutting the door behind me, I exhaled a frustrated sigh.
“Well that was a successful conversation,” I mumbled to my shoes. What I wanted most wasn’t their monetary support or even their simple approval of my journey. All I desired was the recognition of my efforts to achieve something so seemingly beyond my grasp. In addition to summer camp and mowing lawns, I worked as a salesperson. Daily I feigned a smile, answered phone calls, and faced customers even though I would have rather been safely tucked inside my comfort zone. I stumbled through the door after work each night to munch down a granola bar before shuffling to bed and questioning whether it was all worth it. Extroversion was tiresome, and the rewards fleeting.
Shifting back to my present reality, I notice that the gravel trail leads us to an empty parking lot with a small, flat-roofed brown building located on the far side. As my trio investigates the lot, we discover a sign that reads, “El Charco del Ingenio Botanical Gardens.” We’ve made it. After paying our entrance fee and chatting with the ticket taker, we wander through the grounds towards a lookout point that the admissions official recommended. Allegedly, the views are spectacular. Looking out over the park, I feel as though I see the terrain through beige lenses. Guanajuato’s arid, stony mountains silence the blue, greens, and yellow reflected in the lake, cacti, and grass with a layer of sepia and create a nearly monochromatic pallet. The main trail snakes through a forest of Prickly Pear Cactus, which, to my surprise, offers shade and reprieve from the blazing sun. Maneuvering around an outstretched cactus arm, I wade into a desert estuary of colors. The path empties onto a ledge overlooking a weathered canyon and rolls into to the cityscape on the horizon. To my right lies the canyon’s belly, produced through consistent wear of a babbling stream. Green, leafy trees cling to the creek banks as it trickles towards a small lake on my left in foreground of San Miguel. At the aquatic epicenter, the canyon walls unfold under the weight of the city, exposing the vibrant churches, houses, and other establishments in the town. The multitude of right angles and warm oranges, reds, yellows, and blues starkly contract the dull, ambling mountain wilderness. I raise my camera to snap a few shots, but instantly lower it again. I don’t believe any number of megapixels could do this scene justice.
Coming from Kansas, I struggle to conjure similar vistas from my memories surrounding a U.S. state best known for its prairies. I estimate that the closest landscape is the curvaceous bumps we like to call the Flint Hills. They pale in comparison. I rest on a nearby boulder and absorb the panorama soaked in foreign colors, textures, and shapes. Carole and Sarah join me on the rock. We remain quiet. Words seem inadequate. While my senses struggle to grasp the enchanting mountain scene, I realize that I am in a wondrous place that I never thought I’d find myself. Despite financial difficulty, parental conflict, self doubt, and poor directions, I am here. I gaze over the dry earth one final time, and the soft blue sky smiles a blessing, and every crag and Prickly Pear congratulate me.
“This is beautiful.”
Sarah and Carole nod in agreement, and after taking a few photos, we walk back to the main building to eat at the café Ev cheerfully suggested. I order a vegetarian pizza and Aguamiel and contemplate the day’s events. Not only did I successfully help lead a trio of non-Spanish-speaking girls through the steep, uneven roads of San Miguel during a hot afternoon, but I wandered beyond the limits of my introversion just to travel to Mexico in the first place. Over the past summer, I frequently summoned an outgoing side of myself that I didn’t know I could control on demand. This action enabled me to blaze a trail in my own personal terrain. However, after the summer, my spirit felt scorched. I gained financial success, but at what expense? Multiple jobs left little time for friends, family, or even real meals; and my reliance on fast-food chains showed on the scale. Yet, here I am surrounded by silent majesty. After finally reaching our destination, my feet cease to ache and inside I glow. Without the turmoil, I would still be in Kansas shivering in sub-freezing temperatures, walking dully from one building to the next, and wondering if the summer was worth it. Then, I remember I conquered a social mountain. Group leading became more natural, public speaking less terrifying, and initiating dialogue more ordinary. I wandered off the map, into hardships, and landed in a world of riches. I take a deep breath of crisp, fresh air and sit taller in my seat. Reaching for my drink, I sip the land’s healing juice.
As a part of a travel writing class, my fellow college students and I arrived in the central state of Guanajuato, Mexico two days ago. The only assignment while traveling abroad was to “discover our story,” and our days were left open so that we could do this in our two destinations, San Miguel de Allende and Guanajuato. As part of our “homework,” we were to engage with the locals and other travelers. The task sounded simple, but being a more reserved person, I found the assignment daunting. I’m friendly and completely capable of carrying a conversation, but initiating dialogue is just beyond my comfort zone. However, the previous night my classmates Sarah, Carole, and I met one of the other fellow hostel residents, Ev, who happened to be from eastern Canada. Her sociable personality made conversation easy. Donned in a blue knee-length dress covered in Western-style embroidery, dusty brown cowboy boots, and matching hat, she seemed more prepared for a rodeo than adventures in Mexico. Upon hearing our purpose in traveling to the area, Ev began to recommend highlights of San Miguel. The friendly Canadian highly recommended visiting a nearby botanical garden that she insisted was only about a twenty minute walk away.
Her reference to a nature reserve piqued my interest. Being an avid lover of butterflies, I desperately wanted to visit the Monarch butterflies’ resting grounds in Mexico. Unfortunately, the winged insects stopped their migration three hours south of San Miguel, and a college student’s time and funds are limited. With the Monarch biosphere removed from the itinerary, this escape into the Mexican wilderness sounded appealing. I decided that we must go. Pulling out a map, Sarah, Carole, and I discussed directions with Ev and plotted routes to take through the city. Ev’s lengthy, untamed gray curls spilled over the map and bounced against her tan, bony face as she explained the wonders that the garden held, including open spaces, wild birds, and staring cows; she also described several “easy” ways to reach our destination.
“While you’re there!” she announced in a French accent, the whole of her small, lithe body shifting from excitement, “there is a cute little café! You must go! It has good food, and it is cheap. I got a nice little…” She paused. “Vegetarian! Yes, vegetarian pizza,” she nodded for emphasis. “At least they told me it was vegetarian pizza… I wouldn’t know the difference.”
Carole and I exchanged confused glances.
“And, they have this thing called… Aguamiel! It’s a cactus juice from this area—so good. Plus, this juice will cure your cancer,” Ev insisted as she jabbed my shoulder for emphasis.
“And your arthritis.” Stab.
“And your diabetes.” Stab.
“And your you-name-it,” Ev gave my shoulder a final friendly jab with her thin finger.
As we thanked Ev for her recommendations and turned to leave, she suggested taking a taxi if we didn’t want to walk a long distance. I waved off her advice, “we’re young. We can handle it.”
So here we are, Sarah, Carole, and I, trekking through San Miguel, attempting to follow Ev’s advice. Our twenty minute walk doubles to forty. The steep incline we’ve been ascending for the past twenty-five minutes constantly reminds us that San Miguel resides in the third highest inhabited plateau in the world. The dense, colorful buildings of downtown San Miguel shift into strategically placed large dwellings the higher we climb, and the insistent blaring horns, throbbing basses, and chattering of the city no longer reach our ears. As we continue our hike, I recall Ev mentioning, as she told her story, that she went “up, up, up” on her way to the garden. I attributed the word choice to a combination of her eccentric personality and mother tongue of French. My calves laugh at my ignorance.
The road begins to flatten and a green fence appears, bearing a sign that reads main entrance printed over a right-pointing arrow. Smiles break through our sweat. Surely, we must be close. Following the ever roughening cobblestone street, we turn right and come face-to-face with a sprawling mansion, most likely owned by an ex-patriot. Many retired Americans choose San Miguel as a place to thrive off their accumulated wealth because of the city’s beautiful weather and low cost of living.
“So much for a main entrance.”
“Maybe we just need to look at our map,” Sarah offers as she pulls the prized possession from her backpack. The three of us huddle around the map and try to decipher the chicken scratches Ev made the night before. We retrace our steps: through the market, left at the fork, and past Paulena Street. Then, the road vanishes. Our fingers, hovering over a segment of an informational column instead of a road, make it official—we are off the map. The sun glares down at us. Soon it will be high noon.
“Let’s just follow the road and see where it takes us.”
Nodding at Sarah’s suggestion, we proceed in our quest for the botanical garden. After trudging a few more blocks and finally rounding the expansive red abode, we spot the fence once again, and our hopes are renewed. My classmates and I meander over to the fence to scope out a possible route to the main gate. A faint, but visible gravel road winds along a dry, grassy hill adjacent to the metal border and disappears over the incline and into the unknown.
“I guess if this path doesn’t work out we can always stop and ask for directions,” I suggest. The trail bears no marking and seems more like a personal driveway than a tourist attraction, but if I can’t see Monarchs, I at least want to see some ducks. Happily, my friends agree.
With the fence visible once again and a plan B established, I let my mind wander. I had been planning for this trip to central Mexico for over eight months. Through hard work and meticulous saving, I raised enough funds to completely cover my educational escapade without the support of my less than enthusiastic parents. I recall one particularly ineffective household conversation.
“Working three jobs is a bit much, don’t you think?”
“I’ll be fine, Dad.”
“Why do you even want to go to Mexico? It’s dangerous down there.”
“Mom, the drug cartels are mainly on the border and that’s thousands of miles away from where we’ll be. Plus, the government says it’ll be safe. I think it’ll be a really great experience for me.”
My mom snorted and walked out of the kitchen while my dad ducked his eyes and silently returned to reading the paper. The last institution they trusted was the government. Growing up as an only child in a neighborhood where the average age clocked in around fifty-two, I relied heavily on my parents. My mother and father guarded me from robbers, nightmares, and boredom throughout my childhood. I peered over at the digital stove clock. My shift started in thirty minutes. I quietly grabbed my car keys and exited through the front entry. Shutting the door behind me, I exhaled a frustrated sigh.
“Well that was a successful conversation,” I mumbled to my shoes. What I wanted most wasn’t their monetary support or even their simple approval of my journey. All I desired was the recognition of my efforts to achieve something so seemingly beyond my grasp. In addition to summer camp and mowing lawns, I worked as a salesperson. Daily I feigned a smile, answered phone calls, and faced customers even though I would have rather been safely tucked inside my comfort zone. I stumbled through the door after work each night to munch down a granola bar before shuffling to bed and questioning whether it was all worth it. Extroversion was tiresome, and the rewards fleeting.
Shifting back to my present reality, I notice that the gravel trail leads us to an empty parking lot with a small, flat-roofed brown building located on the far side. As my trio investigates the lot, we discover a sign that reads, “El Charco del Ingenio Botanical Gardens.” We’ve made it. After paying our entrance fee and chatting with the ticket taker, we wander through the grounds towards a lookout point that the admissions official recommended. Allegedly, the views are spectacular. Looking out over the park, I feel as though I see the terrain through beige lenses. Guanajuato’s arid, stony mountains silence the blue, greens, and yellow reflected in the lake, cacti, and grass with a layer of sepia and create a nearly monochromatic pallet. The main trail snakes through a forest of Prickly Pear Cactus, which, to my surprise, offers shade and reprieve from the blazing sun. Maneuvering around an outstretched cactus arm, I wade into a desert estuary of colors. The path empties onto a ledge overlooking a weathered canyon and rolls into to the cityscape on the horizon. To my right lies the canyon’s belly, produced through consistent wear of a babbling stream. Green, leafy trees cling to the creek banks as it trickles towards a small lake on my left in foreground of San Miguel. At the aquatic epicenter, the canyon walls unfold under the weight of the city, exposing the vibrant churches, houses, and other establishments in the town. The multitude of right angles and warm oranges, reds, yellows, and blues starkly contract the dull, ambling mountain wilderness. I raise my camera to snap a few shots, but instantly lower it again. I don’t believe any number of megapixels could do this scene justice.
Coming from Kansas, I struggle to conjure similar vistas from my memories surrounding a U.S. state best known for its prairies. I estimate that the closest landscape is the curvaceous bumps we like to call the Flint Hills. They pale in comparison. I rest on a nearby boulder and absorb the panorama soaked in foreign colors, textures, and shapes. Carole and Sarah join me on the rock. We remain quiet. Words seem inadequate. While my senses struggle to grasp the enchanting mountain scene, I realize that I am in a wondrous place that I never thought I’d find myself. Despite financial difficulty, parental conflict, self doubt, and poor directions, I am here. I gaze over the dry earth one final time, and the soft blue sky smiles a blessing, and every crag and Prickly Pear congratulate me.
“This is beautiful.”
Sarah and Carole nod in agreement, and after taking a few photos, we walk back to the main building to eat at the café Ev cheerfully suggested. I order a vegetarian pizza and Aguamiel and contemplate the day’s events. Not only did I successfully help lead a trio of non-Spanish-speaking girls through the steep, uneven roads of San Miguel during a hot afternoon, but I wandered beyond the limits of my introversion just to travel to Mexico in the first place. Over the past summer, I frequently summoned an outgoing side of myself that I didn’t know I could control on demand. This action enabled me to blaze a trail in my own personal terrain. However, after the summer, my spirit felt scorched. I gained financial success, but at what expense? Multiple jobs left little time for friends, family, or even real meals; and my reliance on fast-food chains showed on the scale. Yet, here I am surrounded by silent majesty. After finally reaching our destination, my feet cease to ache and inside I glow. Without the turmoil, I would still be in Kansas shivering in sub-freezing temperatures, walking dully from one building to the next, and wondering if the summer was worth it. Then, I remember I conquered a social mountain. Group leading became more natural, public speaking less terrifying, and initiating dialogue more ordinary. I wandered off the map, into hardships, and landed in a world of riches. I take a deep breath of crisp, fresh air and sit taller in my seat. Reaching for my drink, I sip the land’s healing juice.
Watch Krista read her story here (because of technical difficulties, the first 27 seconds are silent)