11.07.2012 - 11.07.2012
It was a rather disastrous bus ride for me from Mexico City to Puebla today. I didn't take my painkillers in time, so wave upon wave of pain and nausea assaulted me, starring my vision and causing me to break out in a fierce sweat.
Chris once again had to carry both bags for us.
The hotel we found in Puebla is a bare, dingy place. The unnecessary television is hunched precariously on an upended crate in the corner. Our blanket is so worn it reminds me of Scott's pillow. The room is not unclean, though, with perhaps the exception of the walls, which desperately need a new coat of paint. It's always the walls that make you afraid to touch anything, though the floors may be gleaming. (It's no Hotel Monte Carlo, but only 50 pesos less a night).
And so my mind turns on these thoughts--dull, finicky matron. Fussy thing. I forget all of Puebla's pretty cobblestoned streets, its grand, colonial churches, just sitting a few minutes in our sad room. Maybe it was just the lukewarm shower that cast me down.
I like Puebla, though--more than I recalled. Seeing the Zocalo again I remembered sitting on one of the benches with Carlos and talking. The light was fading. An old woman tried to sell Carlos a rose, but we waved her away. The second time around the Zocalo seems smaller and fuller. I don't know why in my memory it was this large expanse, and us staring into the middle with soft eyes. But why should I remember it at all?
Tomorrow we go to Oaxaca. New ground.