When I’m feeling particularly homesick, my family end up in my dreams.

I’ve been thinking about my little brothers lately and how I really haven’t seen or spoken to them properly in six months. I Skype regularly with my parents but haven’t actually had a real conversation with these two guapos in all that time.

I miss having long, intense conversations with Fy Brawd about life, politics, society, books and films, and the fact that even though I’ve met a lot of wonderful people on the other side of the world, he’s still the funniest person I’ve ever met. I miss living with Baby Brother, cooking him Gypsy toast and nearly setting the house on fire, and having simultaneous cuddles and arguments with him.

Being away from them has made me realise that I don’t think I’ll ever be as close to anyone in the world as I am to them. They make up a huge piece of my heart.

I miss you both so much, mis hermanos. Thinking of you. Wish you were here. Wish I was there. ♡x♡x♡x

I loved San Cristóbal de las Casas.

It was my Mexican equivalent of San Francisco in that it provided me with much inspiration and really touched my heart.

For months leading up to my visit, Rachael had been telling me about how much I was going to love it there, that SC was undoubtedly that much better than big, smokey D.F. and how I should keep my options open with teaching opportunities.

She was right, of course.

We were lucky to arrive in San Cristóbal just in time for the Festival of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Streamers, balloons, flags and all kinds of decorations lined the colonial streets. Gunpowder lined the roads, and the sounds of fireworks being let off all over the city consumed the usual silence of the night.

The first few days were filled with adventures of wandering around the city, taking in all of its wonderful sights and immersing ourselves into its culture.

We took a walk up the Cerro de San Cristóbal which, thanks to the altitude, was not without it’s problems. Every three minutes, we’d stop to “take in the view.” (That’s code for, “Stop to catch our breaths and try not to die.”)

It took about 20 minutes for us to climb up here, puffing and gasping for air, and, as we neared the top, we began to really feel like we were accomplishing something. That is, until a local man, on his morning jog, ran past us like Rocky Balboa, not even breaking a sweat! *ahem*

A man in tears was on his knees at the front of the alter of this church (Iglesia de San Cristóbal), praying aloud and in despair. We decided to wait and take in the view from outside to give him time alone.

In the evenings there was a scurry of activities and events at the Zócalo as part of the festivites. One night some of the local kids entered breakdancing and beatboxing competitions. I managed to catch the beatboxing king on film:

We also caught the main celebrations on the Cerro  and at the Iglesia de Guadalupe. I’d never seen anything like it before. We ate plantains covered in chili and churros covered in chocolate and joined in the festivities.

Gunpowder going off in the streets!

Some freakin’ awesome dancing:

The posada we were staying at also served as long-term rental accommodation for half of its residents. As a result, we ended up meeting quite a few English teachers – fellow Brits and Americans – who showed us what it was really like to live in San Cristóbal and enjoy it’s nightlife.

I think what surprised me most was how open and friendly the young people of the city were; Everywhere we went, someone would strike up a conversation with us and be eager to show us around.

In spite of the beauty and authenticity of the culture, there was something bothering me. Hell, I’ll even go so far as to say it was spoiling my time there.

The cold.

I know that seems ridiculous coming from a Welsh girl. And it sounds like a white whine. I mean, you’d think I‘d be able to tolerate a little cold weather given how my homeland isn’t exactly known for its blue skies. But this was bothering me more than it ever had.

I guess the fact that I’d only packed weather suitable for the Caribbean didn’t help. San Cristóbal’s high altitude means it’s a far cry from where I’d been living for the last five weeks.

On top of that, Mexicans generally don’t have central heating in their homes or carpet (most floors are adorned with hard, ceramic tiles). Add that to the fact that our posada only gave cold showers. That combination in a very colonial town only contributed to my constant shivering. I’d walk around wearing every piece of clothing I had with me at once but, wherever I wandered, I couldn’t escape the chill.

As I’ve mentioned before, I can handle the cold. I’m a Welsh girl after all. But the constant shivering was beginning to make my bones ache. I felt miserable when I wasn’t wrapping myself under blankets and I knew I couldn’t tolerate it anymore.

After a week, I bought a ticket to leave.

I knew I’d have to cut my trip short anyway (I’d been accepted as a teacher in Mexico City while I was in SC and was eager to get to the Big Smoke to find a place to live). But the weather pushed me to leave even sooner.

I have no doubt in my mind that I’d have stayed much longer – probably up until Christmas – if I’d had the right wardrobe or hadn’t arrived straight from the hot Caribbean beaches and a humid jungle though.

San Cristóbal was incredible, after all.

It was such a wonderful, beautiful place full of such amazing culture and locals that it set the bar way too high for any other town or city I’ve visited since.

I wanted to go to Mexico City because I assumed I’d feel like I belonged there and everything would feel right.

But it’s actually SC that’s been haunting me ever since I got here. It really has been livin’ hell to me because I can’t stop thinking about it.

The stories I heard from the locals – deportation from the States, financial woes, and even the joys of writing and performing music – were both shocking and inspiring and allowed me to get a glimpse into people’s lives that I’d never seen before. The sense of culture and tradition among the elders of the city and the new ‘Western’ influences on the young ‘uns was an incredible combination to live amongst and, as I spent more days travelling away from that city above the clouds, I knew there was nothing like it.

For now I can only make a promise to San Cristóbal de las Casas: I will return. I’ll be back with an open heart ready to discover more about your wonderful community and culture. I’ll just have to remember to bring a jumper with me.

The water looked like milk as it cascaded over here:

Every person is different and every person gets moved by different things. That’s why I try to ignore talk of how you’re  supposed to feel when you visit an incredible place. I don’t want to feel as though I’m not getting the travel experience I should be. I just want to have my own feelings.

Yaxchilan, however, was something different.

For the first time, I understood what that feeling was – That magical feeling that touches your heart, mind, body and soul; That once in a lifetime sensation that you’ll never get to experience again - and why people feel the need to spread their stories.

I want everyone I meet to go to Yaxchilan and experience what I experienced. I want them to feel the place touch their heart, body, mind and soul.

What makes Yaxchilan different from yet another Mayan site?

Well, for one thing, it’s hidden.

I should have known that visiting this site would stir something in me when we arrived on the banks of the Usumacinta River after 3 hours of driving. We’d left our jungle sanctuary at dawn while it was pouring down with rain and were picked up by a mini bus full of other sleepy travellers. No-one said much on the drive and only attempted a bit of small talk when we stopped for breakfast.

Now that we were at Usumacinta River, I had plenty to speak up about.

I’m afraid of water.

Going for a splash in the sea is something I can handle as long as the water goes no deeper than my chest.

Walking over a bridge or travelling by boat, however?

I could feel my heart pounding. I instinctively reached for my inhaler as I felt the panic start to spread. Life jackets were being handed out and everyone else was clipping them into place as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

Part of me wanted to cry.

I voiced my sentiments in a light-hearted way, trying not to put a damper on the lively atmosphere.

Most people just chuckled.

I was really going to have to do this.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed aboard and said a silent prayer (y’know, to the God I don’t believe in) that everything would be alright.

Five minutes into the ride I discovered that the land on the other side of the river was actually Guatemala. We were straddling a thin stretch of river between the two countries that thousands of migrants attempt to swim across every year to begin their journey towards the United States.

I realised then that I shouldn’t be focusing on my fears. I was exploring a place that so few people ever get to see. The fact that Yaxchilan is so hidden and out of the way means that a lot of travellers tend to avoid it. It also means that migrants face a world of mistreatment when they make it across the river – torture, robbery, rape – which is kept conveniently hidden.

I decided then and there to focus on the experience itself rather than the What could happen?

We were out in the middle of nowhere witnessing and experiencing things a lot of people wouldn’t ever get to see.

We were also right in the middle of a hot spot for migrants with silent voices: Those who are brave enough to set out and make the journey but are rarely able to make it out of Chiapas without facing horrific abuse from the local gangs.

Twenty minutes later and we’d made it to the site.

Rather than the usual busloads of tourists that usually surround the entrance to a place like this, we were shocked to find nothing. Just stillness.

The river bank kept a few dimly-lit stone-paved steps which led up to an untamed brush of foliage. As we climbed up we saw a handful of women’s faces, tired and worn down, ready to sell us their handmade jewellery and trinkets. All were dressed in traditional Mexican shawls and looked at us with pleading eyes.

A few of us bought necklaces, bracelets and earrings before continuing up to Yaxchilan.

Unlike other ruins we had visited, we were taken aback by the emptiness of the place.

With no other tourists in sight, we were left alone to explore and reflect. Nothing but the sounds of birds calling to each other and windchimes that had been carefully hung in the trees filled the air.

I felt something in the air as I walked from ruin to ruin: A calmness and tranquility.

But I could have sworn there was something more.

Climbing up mountains and hills to get to each structure, each piece was placed in a beautiful setting, surrounded by trees, wildlife, and perfect open space.

With no-one else around it felt like we’d landed on an abandoned island.

The truth is that I find it difficult to explain how I felt at Yaxchilan.

Something overcame me; A feeling or presence that I’d never experienced before.

The history of the Mayans was still so raw and alive here. It surrounded us and touched us with every step we took.

After hours of exploration, we made our way back to the river to wait for the boat.

I sat alone on the steps and took in the view, enjoying my last moments of calm.

When the boat arrived, I didn’t have to think twice about getting on it this time. I felt so at peace with what I’d experienced that my fears immediately took a back seat.

I was even brave enough to whip out my camera and record some footage:

We even stopped for a few minutes to say hello to this guy who’d popped out to say hello:

Our next stop was Bonampak, a smaller site which was once dominated by Yaxchilan.

While this was also a site far away from anything else, we were eager to visit after hearing tales of the Temple of Murals – a structure whose inner walls were covered in still-intact, ancient Mayan murals.

Once again, we found ourselves in a place seemingly devoid of other travellers.

When we found the Temple of Murals, we were strictly given the rules before going inside: Leave your bags outside and switch the flash off your camera.

We did as we were told and entered the Temple.

Scenes of priests, rituals and ceremonies, wars and prisoners, dancers and orchestras, heirs, governors and gods, filled the antiquated walls. Kerosene provided the layer between the painting and us as a protection against the calcium carbonate that builds up from the rainwater.

Staring at these pictures that the Mayans had left us, I couldn’t breathe.

The combination of the energy I’d felt in Yaxchilan and the memories left behind at Bonampak stirred something inside me and I began to well up. The power of these two sites was too staggering to hold in anymore. I let my emotions out and gave whatever part of me was responding to the ruins over.

I suppose it’s misleading to say I had a ‘spiritual awakening’. I don’t believe in spirits, for one.

It’s probably closer to say that I felt something among these Chiapas ruins that I’d never felt before. Part of me, inside, was touched and affected by what I saw and explored.

It felt like I’d landed at Arcadia and achieved a kind of nirvana.

I felt connected to the history of these sites and experienced an all-knowing, all-understanding, that was new to me.

As I said before, it’s incredibly hard to describe those feelings properly. All I know is that my heart really felt something in these places and, during those moments of adventure, the high-strung, self-centered, domineering Ceri began to fade away. The calmness and compassion, the happiness, satisfaction and contentedness, all broke forward and began to take over me.

My life changed.

Today marks six months since I left the UK.

As I look through my archives from 2011 that lead up to my big flight, I can’t quite believe how much I’ve changed since then.

They say you go travelling or embark on an adventure to an exotic land and everything about your perspective changes. It’s one of those “life-altering journeys” that people take to “find themselves.” I hate to be just another statistic but it’s true: I really have changed and I really have found myself.

The last six months has calmed me and seen me smile more than I’ve ever done in my life. It’s taught me a lot about the kind of person I want to be and what I want for my future.

But I know I’m getting ahead of myself at the moment.

I realise I haven’t actually kept this blog up to date with every single one of my adventures and still have a lot of experiences to share. I haven’t even explained where I am or what’s happened since I left the Caribbean coast. I haven’t got around to doing one of those ‘Life – Right Now!’ posts and have let the beauty of my life distract me.

So, let me give you a quick update on the highs and lows of the last six months:

♡ November 2011 ♡

+ I lived here …

+ I got robbed on the beach at 3am, losing an asthma inhaler, $2000 MXN pesos and my little travel bag.

+ I started a teaching course at IH Riviera Maya.

+ I met some of the most incredible people …

+ I played Indiana Jones in Cobá.

+ I visited a cenóte.

+ I was disappointed by the Tulum ruins.

+ I swam in the sea at sunset here …

+ I attended my first ever music festival.

+ I danced under the stars at midnight on the beach.

~*~

♡ December 2011 ♡

+ I completed my CELTA course and became a qualified English Language teacher.

+ I said a round of tearful goodbyes to wonderful friends.

+ I left the Caribbean and headed for the jungle in Palenque.

+ I camped in the jungle.

+ I visited the ruins in Palenque.

+ I made a life-changing visit to Yaxchilan.

+ I visited some beautiful waterfalls.

+ I fell in love with San Cristóbal de las Casas.

+ I bumped into Rachael from RKA in LA.

+ I witnessed the Festival for Our Lady of Guadalupe.

+ I secured a teaching job in Mexico City.

+ I developed a phobia of salsa dancing.

+ I surrounded myself with beautiful friends and artists …

+ I got assaulted in Oaxaca City.

+ I tried molé.

+ I got tipsy in a mezcal factory.

+ I watched women hand-make rugs.

+ I walked into a tomb.

+ I made friends with the fiercest bunch of girls I’ve ever known …

Photo credit to Arielle.

+ I moved to Mexico City.

+ I got food poisoning on Boxing Day.

+ I spent New Year’s Eve at El Ángel de la Independencia with two French dudes.

~*~

♡ January 2012 ♡

+ I visited Museo Nacional de Antropología on New Year’s Day.

+ I caught a chest infection from the smoggy city air.

+ I was given sick leave on my first day of work due to my chest infection.

+ I moved in to my new apartment on my 25th birthday.

+ I started my job as a teacher.

+ I learned that you should never walk around asking where you can buy “churro” as it is also the word for weed.

~*~

♡ February 2011 ♡

+ I received my birthday present from my family …

+ I got robbed again.

+ I met up with my ex-tutor from the Caribbean and received my official CELTA certificate …

+I learned to live with cockroaches.

+ I bought my plane tickets for a trip to California.

+ I learned how to cook tacos.

+ I started blogging again!

~*~

♡ March 2012 ♡

+ I visited Sierra Chincua Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary.

Turns out it’s nearly impossible to catch butterflies with a point and shoot.

+ I got food poisoning again!

+ I experienced my first of many earthquakes.

~*~

♡ April 2011 ♡

 + I went to California for a week.

+ I suffered from the worst bout of homesickness so far.

+ I visited Frida’s house …

+ I conquered my fear of salsa dancing.

+ I received my FM3.

+ I let these guys help me in moments of crisis …

~*~

And that brings us up to now.

The last six months have gone by so quickly I can hardly believe it. It doesn’t feel as though I’ve been here that long. But then some of the memories above are like a distant dream, almost as though it all happened to someone else.

A lot of my priorities have shifted since moving to Mexico. I’ve witnessed things which have been horrifying and made me truly realise what’s important in the world.

I’ve also witnessed a lot of beauty in this country. It gets a bad rep because of the war up north but if people only knew that there was much more to be seen than drugs, gangs, and party towns (Cancun), perhaps they wouldn’t be so scared of this place.

I want to tell people from back home about how different each part of this country is. I want to tell them about the poverty in Chiapas, and the ugliness of the rich in D.F. I want to show them how the police here will openly flaunt their corruption and how children are wandering the streets, barefoot, at midnight selling trinkets and bubblegum. I want people to know that Mexicans are some of the happiest, liveliest, friendliest people I’ve ever met and that they’d run in front of traffic just to help after you’ve tripped over in the street.

I want to open people’s eyes to the world around them and show them what I’m seeing … not what the media wants them to see.

I’ve missed writing. And seeing more places and meeting more people has only inspired me to get it all out on the page more.

Over the last few months I guess I’ve come to realise that writing’s in my blood. I can’t not write – whether it produces good or bad results – and what I want to write about are the things I see.

I guess I’ve made the decision to keep my options open. I’m proud of some of the writing I’ve done in the past and want to continue to be proud in that way. I want to dig into my creative side a little more after I let it die a few years ago.

And teaching?

I love teaching. I really do. I’m good at teaching too. I don’t want to give it up any time soon. It gives me the opportunity to meet a dynamic range of people who I can talk to and get to know and discover a lot about the country I’m living in. And the feeling you get when a student’s grasped a concept they didn’t understand five minutes earlier but now fully understands because of you is really heartwarming.

I guess I want to teach by day and write by night. I want to keep doing what I’m doing but not be afraid to do what my heart tells me.

I think it’s the 18-year-old hippie in me that never completely died. She’s been a lot more prominent lately – the peacekeeper, the positive soul, the girl who wanted to save the world. I guess she’s returned with an older point of view.

I’m now someone who understands more about the world and how people treat it. I now know that priorities shift from culture to culture and that it’s important to respect that. I’m still an idealist in the way that I’ll probably never stop fighting for what I believe in but I have a more realistic expectation of what’s to come.

Six months. Twenty-six weeks. 182 days.

In that time I’ve probably never been happier or more comfortable with myself. I feel like I’ve spent the last twenty-four years in a ball of confusion, desperately trying to figure out who I was.

But now here I am.

I’m me. Filled with enough defiance and energy to never stop questioning or fighting. But also wandering through the world with a smile on my face and a peace sign on my heart.

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I’ve been living in Mexico City for four months now.

Every piece of research I did for Mexico all seemed to center on this big, smoggy city: Films were set here, musicians grew up and played their first gigs here, protesters and politicians flocked here to make their views publicly known, my husband ( ) and one of my idols, Frida Kahlo, called it their home …

The more I read about this city, the more I was determined to settle there and teach English for a few years. I’ve always loved big cities and I knew I’d love D.F. I’d find inspiration and excitement from the craziness of one of the biggest cities in the world and get the chance to live amongst a different culture and speak a different language at the same time.

But I was wrong.

I arrived in late December 2011 but never felt that spark, that inspiration, that joy, excitement or happiness I was expecting. Instead, I was faced with smog, chest infections, another robbery, stern faces and dangerous traffic. The city was cold, grey and had some of the ugliest parts of the Western world.

There were some parts I loved – the whole of Condesa, Frida Kahlo’s house, the beautiful Ángel de la Independencia. But I didn’t feel any connection. I expected my heart to feel something towards this city; Something that would tell me I was in the right place, doing the right thing. But nothing ever came.

It was actually a disappointment.

Then I took a break from it all and went to California.

And something strange happened.

I always imagined liking the United States: It saw it as a very modern, Western place that would feel like being back home.

I never imagined how much of a culture difference there would actually be: The people’s positivity, the energy, the openness, the way of interacting, the lifestyles. It was all very different.

And I loved it.

I’ve always had something of a phobia when it came to talk of settling into somewhere and having a home that you owned right there. The idea of being tied down to one village/town/city for the rest of my life was something that baffled me. Why would anyone seriously want that?

But then I met San Francisco.

The view outside the hotel, just a few yards from Sutro Heights Park and the Sutro Baths.

An overwhelming sense of belonging encompassed me as I walked up and down the hills of Frisco. I felt comfortable – More comfortable than I’d ever felt in any place before. Even back home in South Wales.

To try to define what I felt as I wandered the streets, took in the atmosphere, talked to the locals, seems almost impossible. The only thing I can say is that it felt right. Really right.

Suddenly I remembered everything I’d been expecting from Mexico City and realised I was feeling it here. In San Francisco. All those feelings of inspiration, excitement, joy, euphoria, and passion were triggered at once and it scared me a little. I hadn’t been expecting to feel so much for this place.

Some of my favourite moments …

♥ The Golden Gate Bridge and Bay

I love what the clouds are doing here.

Alcatraz Island

♥ The Sutra Baths

View from inside a cave.

♥ Chinatown

♥ The hills

♥ Boba Tea!

♥ California Man’s Life-Changing News

♥ Union Square

♥ Views of the Pacific Ocean

♥ Sushi in Japantown

If you didn't already know, this guy's a pretty big deal in California.

♥ Coyt Tower

Photo credit to California Man

Photo credit to California Man

Photo credit to California Man

Photo Credit to the dude himself

Photo credit to California Man

♥ The Castro

After 48 hours, I was sad to be leaving this city. Everything I saw, the history lessons I was given, the people I met and spoke to, all changed me in some way.

Everything shook me enough to keep thinking about this place. It brought on a lot of reflection and self-discovery that followed me back to Mexico City.

It helped me make a few life-changing decisions for my future and gave me memories that are still crystal clear in my mind.

I didn’t have enough time to see everything in San Francisco. But, for now, this was enough.

It’s said that only 20% of Americans have passports. Even fewer bother to use them.

When I talk to my US friends about travel, a lot of them appear wide-eyed and enthusiastic when describing the dozens of Europeans and Australians they meet on the road and are quick to comment on how lazy their fellow Americans can be, never longing to see anything further than their own backyard.

Lazy isn’t a word I’d use though.

It’s unfair to compare Americans to Europeans and Australians. It’s inevitable that the latter group would travel more: Us Europeans have access to a huge list of super cheap airlines that fly in and out of each country more than 50 times a day without having to worry about Visas or vaccinations. Australians come from a large enough country but one that’s situated on its own wayyyy down south so it isn’t any wonder they have the inbuilt curiosity to wonder what’s out there.

And then we return to the United States of America. Why aren’t more Americans curious about the world?

Sidestepping the issue that those who follow the media are flooded every day by how dangerous everything in existence is and how it’s going to somehow kill them, we have to take a close look at the country they live in.

Case in point: California.

After spending my first day in Davis, wandering the sunny streets and exploring the beautiful bird-filled lakes surrounded by lush, green lawns, I was whisked away for a day in the mountains.

Our destination? Lake Tahoe.

Driving east of the small town, it didn’t take long for the surrounding fields to turn into trees. An hour was spent driving through tiny villages (pop. 78) that boasted nothing more than a few petrol-oops! sorry, gas stations, roadside cafés and a handful of small pretty cabins, camouflaged by the surrounding forests.

The tranquility I’d felt in Davis followed us as we rose higher and higher with every mile that passed us. It wasn’t long before snow started to appear in patches on the ground.

While it’s nearly impossible to take good quality pictures while riding in a car, here’s a little video I shot to demonstrate the scenery (complete with a cameo at the end by yours truly & California Man):

After another hour of driving and assurances from California Man that even though the state had bears (my reaction was along the lines of: ‘WTF do you mean bears? Turn around! Take me to the nearest airport!’), it was unlikely we’d actually encounter one, we finally reached the lake.

There it was.

That lake I’d only heard of by name in cheesy American films about families who take trips together for the weekend as a ‘bonding’ ritual.

Surrounded by snowy mountains, the silence of this place was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Not a word from another person, not a sound from a car, not a tweet from a bird to be heard. Just perfect silence.

Only the occasional soft thunk of a drop of snow falling from a tree branch to the ground broke the stillness.

There was nothing we could say about the place we’d arrived at. Words weren’t enough to describe how we were feeling. We’d arrived at  a place surrounded by man’s creations: ski resorts, holiday inns, bars and taverns, cafés, hunting equipment shops. But at the centre of it all, we were isolated from the world and catching a glimpse of one of nature’s gifts.

And it was there that I understood why Americans never travel.

Their country is so big and dynamic, they genuinely have everything in their own backyards. In one state alone I’d so far seen sunshine-filled, tranquil small towns, cabins in the middle of beautiful forests and now a lake surrounded by cotton-like snow.

With the economy not being at its best in the States and families getting bigger every year, why wouldn’t they stay in their own country? The idea is not only cost-effective but they also have their choice of beaches, large crazy cities, beautiful countrysides, and mountains full of pure clean air.

This was only the beginning of my trip. So far, California had surprised me. I always knew I’d enjoy visiting the States; I just hadn’t realised how deeply each place, each sight, each encounter would affect me. Happiness radiated through me.

I felt overwhelmed and extra sensitive in this country … but in a good way. I couldn’t explain how or why at this time though. It would take me another couple of days of adventures to figure it all out.