As for earlier in my week - what a great time! Frist of all, I didn´t realize that two of my planned stops were going to be in the state of Chiapas, otherwise I may not of gone hearing all the hype about the dangers of the state. But how I am glad I went. Chiapas was the most beautiful state I visited on this trip. From Campeche, I took a five hour bus ride to Palenque. Deciding that I wanted to save Palenque for last, I boarded another five hour bus to the city of San Cristóbal de las Casas and stayed there for three days. The ride down to San Cristóbal De Las Casas was possibly the most romantic ride for me. San Cristóbal is at a higher elevation which means we had to drive up into the mountains. As the road curved and swerved through mountainous, tropical forest it began to rain. Wiping the windows to see outside was pure joy - all I saw was endless green. What a change from the hot beaches and swaying palm trees - and equally impressive! Because San Cristóbal is at a higher elevation, the city was much cooler. And it rained everyday. For the first time in two weeks I wore pants, a sweater and took a hot shower. The latter being the impressive thing that had everyone talking. In San Cristóbal I met an array of people that I ended up either travelling with to Palenque, dancing with, shopping with, and, of course, laughing with - basically, a group of people that enriched my time in Chiapas. There was the beautiful young Scottish woman, Hilary, who I met on a tour bus when we went to swim under waterfalls. Since I was going to be in San Cristóbal a day before her, we arranged to stay in the same hostel. Hilary had just turned eighteen and I don´t know if was youth, but a special light burned bright in her. In San Cristóbal, I met an American woman, Bethany, who turned out to be a great dancing partner at a club one night but soon disappeared. I also met an American couple that I went met up again in Palenque and I want to visit one day in North Carolina. And then there was Yolanda, a school teacher from Holland with model quality good looks and a sense of humor that matched her beauty, who I shared a cabaña with in Palenque.

Outside of San Cristóbal De Las Casas , there is a village, San Juan Chamula, that has one of the impressive churches that I have ever encountered. To enter the church you need to obtain permission from the tourist office. And picture taking is strictly prohibited near or in the church - the people believe that when one takes their picture, they are taking a piece of their soul. The Chamulans who use this church still practice and maintain the beliefs and rituals of their ancestors. Entering the church is a powerful experience. When I walked through the door, for a second I had to adjust my eyes because all the candles and lit incense left the room smoky. Banners hung from the ceiling and hay laid on the floor. The walls were aligned with saints and mirrors, and people kneeled on the floor, lighting candles, chanting, offering drinks, eggs and chickens. From a distance all the candles together looked like rows of gold ribbon stretching across the church banding all sides together into one. Watching the faces of the people, observing the faith, I was taken back by how much spirtual energy I felt in that room. There were a few moments so strong, I almost cried. Being allowed the privilege of entering that church and observing people in some of their strongest, and most vulnerable, states is a gift that truly touched my soul.

There is so much more I would like to write about (i.e waterfalls, fire dancers, and, of course, monkeys that sound like huge silverback gorillas as you walk through the jungle at 3am to go to the bathroom) but, honestly, I am tired. I truly love this country and a part of me mourns that I must leave tomorrow. I recommend to anyone and everyone to let go of any preconceived notions that they have about México and come experience the country, the people, for themselves.

Me Voy.... remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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That night at the hostel, Ricardo and I sit on the rooftop with a several beers between us. We hardly talk, each of us content with the view in front of us. The hostel is located in the central plaza in front of an old cathedral. Each half hour someone would ring the large bells and the sound would echo off of the cobblestone streets and bounce along the narrow streets. Somewhere close by, I could hear classical music blaring from someone´s speakers. A few people strolled in the park in front of the cathedral and from my spot on the roof, I could make out part of the four hundred year old wall that surrounds this port city built to prevent pirate attacks. I knew I would love Campeche.

During the day, Campeche is like all cities - alive and moving; people selling trinkets and gadgets, open markets full of local food and clothes, but at night the city shuts down and becomes something special. Saturday night in Campeche is the night when the main square is blocked off and people gather to listen to live bands, vendors set up their carts, and locals play "la loteria," a game very similar to "bingo." As everything was being set up, a dark cloud also came into the main square and with it came rain and wind. I am not going to say I was too upset. I felt honored to watch the palm trees sway and rain pour down. I went to the cafe located in the center of the park, drank coffee and just enjoyed the unexpected gift the storm was giving me. I truly loved my evenings spent in Campeche.

A Single Piece of Campeche remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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In my hostel, I became friends with a Frenchman and we spent a day exploring the city. We walked in and out of cathedrals, visited palacios and stared at large murals depicting the struggle of the Maya against the Spaniards. We spent some hours looking at artwork on walls in museums, listened to the distinct sound of horse hooves on pavement, walked down brick sidewalks lined with old colonial buildings, and in the streets of Mérida, I felt my first twinge of romance. That night, in Santa Lucía Park, the locals, the foreigners, the young and the old came together to watch ballet folklorico, a traditional style of Méxican dance. On the stage, lit up by lights and backed by live muscians, the dancers entranced us all. The women were breathtaking in their traditional white embroidered dresses, red lips and dark hair adorned with flowers; the men handsome in their panama hats and white suits. An elderly couple danced in the crowd, laughing, and watching them, I couldn´t help but wonder is dancing together the secret to a successful marriage? Like all happy, public gatherings all over the world, friends gathered and gossiped, older kids ran around happy to have an excuse to stay up late, younger kids slept in their parents arms, and everyone ate sweet bread and ice cream sold by the vendors. From where I stood, I watched a man greet his beautiful lover by putting a large white flower in her hair. Ah, a romantic city indeed!

The next morning, finding myself with more time in Mérida that I had anticipated, I decided to go to the nearby coastal town of Progreso. The town of Progreso is along the Gulf of Mexico and, according to my travel guide, boasts the longest wharf in Mexico at 7km. For my fellow Americans - I have yet to do the calculations and convert kilometers to miles. Walking the streets of Progreso, I didn´t see another person that resembled a tourist until my day was half over. When I arrived, I headed straight for the beach, happy to see the ocean again. After less than a week away from the beach, I missed it - how spoiled I have become! Instead of the tri-colored green of the Carribean Sea, the Gulf of Mexico is two distinct colors: murky green and the dark blue I associate with the Pacific Ocean. Another notable difference between this beach along the Gulf of Mexico and the beaches on the Caribbean side of the Yucatán was the sand. Instead of the soft, white sand of the Riviera Maya, the sand in Progreso was littered with sea weed and sea shells. I couldn´t help but feel like a young girl as I walked along the shore collecting the prettiest sea shells I could find. In my head an old tongue twister played: "Suzy sells seashells...." Finding a shady spot under a palm tree, listening to the distinctive call of seagulls, I watched four men at the water´s edge take starfish out of an old rusty row boat and carve them in half. One man would beat a starfish on the side of the boat, while another, with a long knife, sliced the starfish in half, lengthwise, so not to ruin the shape of the animal. What a feast those men will eat tonight! Although people ignored me, I was acutely aware that I was the only gringa there. The thought made me uncomfortable and I allowed the rythmic breaking of waves to lull me into a comfortable daydream. When the hour came for me to go, behind I left a mound of shells either to be scattered by the wind, birds or passing people, or, hopefully, to be found my some child looking for that perfect shell - may it be in the pile.

Mérida remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Yesterday, I went to Chichen Itza. When I arrived, I couldn't help but think: Alright, let me see what the fuss is about this place..... As I walked the grounds of Chichen Itza, my camera permantly pressed against my face (I think my left cheek still has the imprint of the zoom button), all I could think was Wow! What a fascinating place! As much as I tried, I could not understand why Chichen Itza affected me more than the other ruins I have visited. Maybe because the glyphs are still visible or maybe because, despite all the thousands of people, there is still something serene about the place. All I know is that I am not alone in my feelings about Chichen Itza -the world has voted it one of the seven new wonders of the world. During the equinoxes, the setting and rising sun produce the illusion of a serpent on the staircase of El Castillo, a 25 meter high structure in the, seemingly, center of the site. Every evening there is a light show that re-creates the image of this serpent. I had to catch my bus to the city of Merida and was sorry I was going to miss the spectacular show. Along all the walkways, there are stones scattered. At one point I realized that all the stones around me were carved - each a broken glyph and to my right laid the remains of a serpent's head. At that moment, I truly realized the magnitude of the place, how amazing and special it really is. And not because the temples represent the Maya calendar or that the way the sun hits the temples twice a year give the illision of a moving serpent, but because I am here, learning about the past as history corrodes. Someday, all this magnificent stone will again be dust.

Chichen Itza remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The last couple of days I have been staying in the city of Valladolid. Valladolid is an old colonial city that was built around the 1500-1600´s when the Spaniards stole it from the Maya. During the day, streets are always alive - Mayan women sell fruits on every corner, young lovers kiss in central park, men hang out of doorframes, and friends congregate near the local street vendor. My original plan was to stay here only 2 days, but after a few hours being here, I decided to stay longer. Valladolid is the perfect hub city to take day trips to Chichen Itza, different cenotes (water-filled, limestone caverns), and various other ruins and nature reserves.

When I first arrived here, I rented a bike, naturally, to ride out to a nearby cenote. The bike was a bit too small for me but I didn´t mind since it appeared to be in great condition Alas, nothing is quite what it seems. As I rode down the street, everytime I stopped pedaling, I would think whoa -someone behind me has a pretty rusted bike. After several times thinking this, I looked behind me, slightly irritated, to see who in the world would still be following me, only to discover I was alone on the street; there was only me, the cracked pavement, and my rusty bike. When I reached my first stop sign, I discovered that my feet were better brakes than any appartus that orginally came with the bike. This made hills a bit interesting. I just chalked it up to my Mexican adventure and found the bike path. (Yes! A bike path - how can you not love this town?) The bike path was a gravel path lined with trees. The day was hot, but the breeze as I rode out of town lifted my hair, cooling the back of my neck. A dark lizard with translucent red legs ran beside me as I followed the yellow butterflies that played Tinkerbell to my Peter Pan. Despite the fact, or maybe because I felt like an overgrown ape on a toddler´s bike, I laughed the whole way to Cenote Dzitnup.

Cenote Dzitnup was increible! I walked down slippery stone steps into the underground. I felt like I was on a greek journey into Hades. The only light available was a single bulb strung on a line. I clung onto the thick rope provided and wondered two things: 1) was I walking to my death? and 2) where did I make a wrong turn? But like all risks I have taken into the unknown, I ended up in a place of such natural beauty that I, in my most colorful dreams, could not have created such exquiste artistry. When I reached the cenote and my eyes adjusted to the darkness, there in front of me was a huge swimming hole in the midst of limestone formations. Stalactites and roots from the strangler fig trees above ground hung from the ceiling. The only light came from a small hole in the ceiling where the sun rays lit up the water. The water was so clear that at times I couldn´t decipher if the light rays came from above or below the water well. I immediately put my things down and jumped into the cold, fresh pool. I wish I knew how to explain what a delight it is to swim underground, between hanging roots and small fish. Looking up at the ceiling, birds or bats, maybe both, flew from limestone formation to limestone formation. I am smiling right now just recalling the experience. I must look like a gringa loca in this internet cafe. Fijate, people have told me there are better cenotes in my future - how can that be possible when I already tasted a piece of heaven?

That night, cooking my dinner at the hostel, I met another American. Up until then, all the other travellers I have met have been European, Israeli, Mexican, and Canadian. A common joke among people is that the Americans stay in Cancun getting drunk. I had begun to believe it, so I was thrilled to meet Carly. Carly is a graduate student at the University of Florida studying tropical conservation. After talking a bit, I decided to go with her to visit the ruins in Coba. The next morning we met in the hostel lobby, boarded a bus and began our trip. Carly, who is in Mexico learing Maya, was a wonderful travel companion. She, with her professional camera (and tripod), liked to stop and take tons of pictures, while I, with my journal and pen, was happy to stop and just write for a bit. And that is how we saw Coba - writing and taking pictures, talking, and happy to have eachother. We both agreed it was nice to have two pair of eyes; one of us often noticed some intricate detail that the other had not seen. In addition, for me, Carly was a wealth of ecological knowledge about the area. If it was not for Carly, I would have refered to Coba as a jungle, but now I know it is a secondary sub-tropical dry forest. I still don´t agree there is anything dry about the forest in Coba. All around the spectacular ruins are "tourist trees," reconizable by there flakey bark, and hanging spanish moss neighbored by bromeliads. The Tourist Tree´s bark can be boiled and used as to alleviate the pain of rashes, mosquito bites and sunburns. Being a victim to all three aliments, I should have just uprooted and taken a whole tree back to the hostel with me. Spread about were Trumpet trees, a broad leaf plant, in which the branches are used to make blowguns and flutes and the leaves are often rolled and smoked (no, I did not try this!) or boiled into a tea to treat diabetes. Leaning against one of the Tourist trees, illiterate in glyph reading, I stare at the ruin in front of me and the stela of a ruler with two captives at his feet, once a vivid image, now worn by time. I hear the voices of tourists around me and wondered: what were the voices like in AD 730? Carly questions how did the Maya carry all the stone? I want to know how they kept the stone secure? How did they build pyramids so that they didn´t fall? Carly takes pictures and I, my smile lit up from inside like the sun behind a full moon, listen to the birds hoping they will whisper something about the ghosts that play beside me.

Carly and I take a small foot path that leads into the forest. We are amazed by all the life that encircles us: yellow, black, red, and brown butterflies fly about the canopy, green and red lizards run under fallen tree branches, trees whose roots remind me of elephant legs stretch out under and above us, damsel flies sit on palm leaves, and wasps the size of our first two finger joints sit under broad leaves, thankfully, ignoring our prying eyes (and camera lens). I try to ignore the noises behind me, praying that it is only a small, harmless lizard and not a crocodile from the lake only a few meters from us. We observe a white spider, a grasshopper with red wings, and suddenly a bird starts crackling in the distance. What was once a insect metropolis suddenly becomes a bird sanctuary. I stand still to experience this completely foreign world knowing that soon I will be back on the main road, back among the other visitors.

This morning I woke up and walked to the Mercado Municipal, an open air market where people come to sell fruits and vegetables. I am amazed by all the fruit local only to this area. I walk booth to booth, asking the Maya women how to cook and eat the fantastic looking food. On a dirty corner, live turkeys with bound legs lie on the ground, soundlessly opening and closing their beaks. I try not to cry, not to show how disturbed I am, aware that I am the foreigner; I am here to learn this culture, not to force my American ideals on these people - that is the job of the Missionaries. Inside the market, fresh butchered meat hangs from thick steel hooks. The smell of blood permeates the air and I swear not to eat meat again. Despite my aversion to the meat, I do enjoy the market. I head back to my hostel, arms full of fresh fruit, vegetables, and pan. An old woman laughs at the rapid pace I walk down the sidewalk and I remind myself that I am here to slow down and enjoy life, not race through it like I have something better to do.

Vallodolid remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I had read somewhere that to avoid the crowds, the best time to go to the ruins is before 11am. Well, it must have been noon and we were in the middle of the cow herd. There were people everywhere! The ruins, as impressive as they were, seemed to be hidden somewhere among the many tourists that had flocked to see these ancient remnants of the past. Sadly though, I was more in awe of the present residents - iguanas -rather than the remains of the past residents.
The iguanas seem to match the tourists one for one. They sat on walls, bathed in the sun, posed for the cameras, and played God on top of the ruins. I have heard that Tulum is incredible not for the ruins but for its location - the ruins sit on a cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea. This is true. As we bobbed and weaved through the crowds, I stopping to take pictures of ever other iguana, Ariel kept complaining about the heat and crowds. He just wanted to go to the beach and cool off before looking at the pyramids. Looking at him standing in his own pool of sweat, I did not have trouble imagining him rapidly melting away. I believe the others saw it to or, looking at him, we all realized how much we each wanted to cool off in the ocean. We found a spot behind some rocks, next to the cliffs, and put our stuff down. We ran into the water and I hope never to forget what I saw when I turned back towards the shore. In the midst of the light blue magic of the Caribbean Sea, my only view was of a majestic temple atop the moss covered cliff. I literally was breathless. Who were these people that lived here before the iguanas? I spent the afternoon jumping waves with wonderful people and stealing glances at the temple above me. When did life's wide grin become so contagious?

Today I rented a bike. I truly believe life is always better on a bike and today was no exception. I rode out to a cenote with Nick and we wasted hours away jumping in and out of the cavernous hole in the ground. Afterwards, Nick went back to the hostel and I went to explore the town. Tulum is technically considered a city but still looks and feels like a pueblo with one main street and palm frond huts. Two roads east and west from the main street, the pavement ends and the streets become dirt roads. I found myself riding up and down dusty streets, watching kids play soccer, dogs roaming between worn down buildings, poorly constructed houses with holes in the walls, hanging clothes waving as I rode by, smelling laundry detergent in the air, listening to telenovelas on high volume, and ranchero music in the distance. I discovered a cemetery where a family gathered with flowers in their arms and I pedaled away, not wanting to intrude on their intimate moment. This time by myself, watching the people, hearing them, was the most poignant for me. As a skeletal dog scampered by, guarding the orange mass in his mouth, I was acutely aware of the poverty here. And I only imagine it will only get worse. The dueno of the hostel I am staying at told me that there are plans to make Tulum two times larger than Cancun. Already, builders are clearing the forest to build an airport. In time this precious area will be brilliant white stone resorts eating away at the land that these people live on. In Fort Collins, the water that comes out of the tap tastes so fresh and clean that it rivals bottled water. Here, in Tulum, I use bottle water to rinse my toothbrush and clean my fruit because the water that comes out of the tap smells so bad I find excuses to avoid washing my face. When water is a necessary resource for human survival, how can we allow people to live in such poor conditions?

Tulum remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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On the plane, wide mouthed, gaping at the splendor of the tri-color water, I told myself I would check out the beach after I got to my hostel. That never happened. At the airport, after the initial shock of what felt like 100% humidity in 90 degree weather, I found the public bus and realized that I had just spoken more Spanish in the short time I had been in Mexico than the last few years in The States. I was on the air conditioned bus, watching some American movie dubbbed in Spanish, heading to my hostel, reveling in the realization that I am in Mexico. I didn't want beaches full of tourists, I wanted to explore Cancun and see how the Mexican's live. My hostel happened to be in the downtown area and after finding it, I headed to the supermercado to buy food to cook for dinner. The streets were dirty, trinkets being sold on every corner, traffic barely stopping and me, joining the crowds, ran across streets trying not to get hit by some bus. A smell that I had forgotten came back to me. I cannot pinpoint the exact source of the smell - exhaust, sun on old pavement, gasoline - but it is a smell I can only associate with a Mexican city. Standing on a random corner, sweat beads sliding down my face, my stomach, the back of my thighs, like a dog I sniffed the air and smiled. After 10 years, I finally was back in Mexico.

The next morning, I had arranged to catch a bus at 7:30am for the hour ride down to Playa Del Carmen. I set my alarm and passed out. When it went off, the room was dark and muggy. All I wanted to do was hit snooze and sleep in a wind tunnel but, knowing neither one was on my list of choices, I got up. Plus, the idea of my curly-haired driver, Ricardo (I met him the night before), nudging me awake was tad-bit too humiliating to want to stay in bed. I stumbled downstairs to ask Alberto, the man in charge, if there was any coffee. He told me it was on the stove, and then I noticed it was only 5am. I, like the moron I can be, set my clock wrong. My only condolence was that I was still on Colorado time. So, up way too early, in the dark morning, surrounded by tropical plants, I sat on a terrace in Mexico, drank the best coffee (ever), and listened to multitudes of bird sing to each other as Cancun slowly awoke from her slumber.

I could and should stop the story there, but what is the fun in that? Overwhelmed by the surreal feel of the morning, I decided to do some stretches as the sun rose. Isn't that the kind of relaxing stuff I am supposed to do on a vacation? I decided to stretch on the upper deck of the cement patio - that way I could view the park across the street. Well, because I am a graceful ballerina, as I began to stretch, I stumbled backwards, slipped off the deck and hit both my knee and my face on one of the poles supporting the patio awning and fell back into a few of the chairs. I heard Alberto running up the stairs. Luckily, I was able to get in one of the chairs and feign wellness. Noise? What noise? No, I didn't hear a thing. Despite being in Mexico, I was glad to know that I still could find ways to bruise my legs. I could hear my friend Monique's words: "Where you at, there you is." The saltwater stings the cut on my knee.

The night before, I had decided today would be spent doing nothing but laying on the beach. I got to Playa Del Carmen, put my stuff away and walked the 1/2 block to the beach. Once again, when I saw that water my brain shut off except for one thought: WOW! I have to get in that emerald water. The beach here is fantastic. The sand is the softest (yes, 'soft' is the right adjective) I have ever felt. Walking through the sand feels like whipping cream that has been beaten in a food processor until it is light and fluffy. It just shifts and lifts with each bodily movement. Let me say again, the sand here is soft. Soon, I learned, it also acts as an adhesive to wet skin. I rented a lounge chair for 4.00$ (American dollars) and read a book for about 5 hours. The only time I left that lounge chair was for the occasion dip in the Caribbean Sea. The sea salt was so abundant I didn't have to fight the ocean to stay afloat; I just layed in the water and stared at the sky, thanking a God I didn't even know I believed in for allowing me each of these amaxing moments. I thought about the sterotypical cerveza commercial and if it wasn't for my not-so-flexible budget I may have traded in my water bottle for a beer.

Playa Del Carmen, it doesn't take a genius to figure out, is a mecca for tourists. The main street, Avenida Quinta, is a brick walk that follows the coastline. In truth, I found it to be a sardine packed cement canister of shops, hotels, and bars. I could not walk the street without being accosted at every other shop to buy this or buy that or accompany some man to go dancing in the evening. At night I went exploring with a Canadian woman, Olivia. At 10pm, Avenida Quinta was more crowded than it was at 3pm. I was sorry that I was staying there two nights and decided to leave for a day trip the next day. From the top terrace of my hostel, I could see the lights of Cozumel in the distance. After experiencing Playa Del Carmen, Cozumel was not an option. I could only imagine all the same tourists riding the ferry to experience that island.

Today, I found the priceless gem Puerto Morelos. Puerto Morelos is a small pueblo about a 30 minute bus ride north of Playa Del Carmen. Nobody in the hostel had heard of the town and the man working the desk had nothing to say about it. Already, a sign of good things to come. The bus dropped me off at a corner of Hwy 307 where a taxi waited. The taxi man, a thief in civilian clothing, wanted to charge me 10$ for a ride to the town. Quickly, actually without a bit of hesitation, I decided my legs worked just fine. The walk turned out to be 20 relaxing minutes along a rode lined with Mangroves. I didn't even know what a mangrove was when I woke up this morning, but now.... Sadly though, many of the mangroves were dead due to Hurricane Wilma in 2005. I am quickly learning that Wilma, that crazy girl, destroyed a huge portion of the Riviera Maya and much of it still has yet to be restored. I would equate walking into Puerto Morelos to holding your breath in a long, dark tunnel and finally exhaling in the bright, warm light of day. It is a quiet town with few tourists. I walked straight to the ocean and met Paco and Gustavo, two men who run a snorkeling business. They made me feel comfortable right away. Maybe it was because Paco has a friend, Steve, who lives in Denver. Ah, Steve. Good guy. I eventually went snorkeling with their guide but first I walked the bright and empty streets. I saw a few workers, a small farmer's market, and only a handful of cars driving by. The town was quiet except for an occasional child's voice and a lone bird. I was in love. The quiet solitude of Puerto Morelos was a sweet fruit after all the crowds and noise of both Cancun and Playa Del Carmen. Following the advice of Paco and Gustavo, I found a group of palm frond huts where the local artisans were making and selling woodwork, ceramics, hammocks and clothes. One woman showed me how she handstitched and embroidered all the dresses in her shop. From a corner she brought out the materials she just recently bought to make blouses. I was truly honored to be talking with this craftswoman. I regretted not bringing more money because her work was exceptional. Instead of the blouses and dresses that I coveted, I opted for a simple blue, hand-embroidered head scarf. I then headed to the vacant beach where the only other tourists were native spanish speakers - except for the woman sun bathing in only a thong, I suspect her to be European. Walking the streets, smelling the sea air, hearing a solo bird sing, I couldn't help but smile. Here, in Puerto Morelos, nobody tried to sell me a tacky beer holder or overpriced "Riviera Maya" labeled hat. I didn't want my day in Puerto Morelos to end. Compared to the crowded, over-developed Playa Del Carmen, here I was on my own private island. If you ever get a chance, go check out Puerto Morelos. But be sure to find Paco and Gustavo near the leaning light tower. I recommend paying 20$ and spending 2 hours snorkeling - your life will shine a bit brighter afterwards.

Quintana Roo remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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I am leaving knowing I have some of the best friends in the world. The last few days, I have holed myself away at home, dealing with my nerves, feelings, and packing for this trip. I found myself to be cranky and each friend gave me the space I needed while I gathered my strength to go on this journey. Last night at dinner (see above picture), my friends asked me if I was ready and I couldn't answer the question. I was a bundle of nervous energy and wasn't able to focus enough to even search for the answer. Here I am now, needing to hop in the shower, make sure the cats have water, and re-check that I have all the necessary documents, and I ask myself "am I ready?" No matter what the answer is, I am leaving in an hour. But yes, I am ready. Despite my sister's unyielding belief that I will meet a gruesome death in Mexico or,in my father's words, that I am "wasting money" going on this trip, I am ready. I don't know what is going to happen down there but I do have faint images of me snorkeling in vivid blue water and standing in lush green jungles, quite alive and loving every money-wasted moment.

One Foot Out the Door and Facing South remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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As for my trip, I am throughly excited. Except for those few times I was lucky enough to accompany my girlfriend down across the Tijuana border while she took photographs, I haven't left this country in a decade....and damn-it, the time has come for me to go somewhere. In this whole world, I choose to explore Yucatan, Mexico. I am baffled by why? Why Yucatan? - as a solo woman traveler, wouldn't Europe be a wiser choice? So, I continue to ask the questions: What does Yucatan have in store for me? What adventures? Lessons? Life fun and heartbreak? I am really excited to find out the answers to these questions and those that I never thought to ask.

The Small Miracles of Everyday remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The "To-Do" List remains copyright of the author KimiKat26, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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