hot pants

The infamous cheetah pants. Let me explain by saying that I expected Mexico to be warm. Like sundress and sandals warm. So clearly it made sense to bring only one pair of pants. They'd be perfect for flights or overnight bus rides or unseasonably cold and rainy days. Right? Well it turned out that the first 7 days in Mexico were full of those things. And I was stuck wearing velvet cheetah print pants for a week solid. The first couple of days were fine, but when you only bring a small backpack, clothing variety isn't really an option. I was wearing my cheetah pants with every other article of clothing I brought. Cheetah print with tie die? I wore it. Cheetah print with a striped shirt and striped jacket? I wore it. People stared, people commented. spanish spanish guepardo spanish spanish spanish. A woman selling lucha libre masks even waved a cheetah print mask at me! (which I promptly bought) Cassidy suffered the brunt of it. She had to walk with me, be seen with me, and look at me every single day. I am not lying or exaggerating when I tell you that one afternoon she exclaimed in a exasperated voice, "KYLIE, CAN'T YOU JUST TRY TO BE PRETTY?"

four wheels. (and a spare)

We drove back roads, wrong roads, and over a million speed bumps. We drove the wrong way on freeway entrances, we drove in circles and circles through big cities and little towns. We rode in the front seat, driver seat and on the roof. We left our GPSs at home and used paper maps and roadside directions. We argued over car names. First Blanca, then Lupe, then Rosa. We drove into the jungle on a dirt road full of potholes and got a flat tire. We drove to convenience stores and stocked up on snacks and fresca. We blasted Lake Street Drive's "I Want You Back" over and over until we could squeal every lyric. It's crazy to think that a simple car could be full of as much adventure as nuts and bolts. I guess it's the pure romance and magic of road trips. 

zapatistas

We have so much to learn from each other. 

Vallalodid

Valleyoye. Voyalodid. Volladoye. Valleyodid. I couldn't remember the name of this town for the life of me. VIE-YEH-LO-DEED. (remember: delicious cafes, sketchy-ass pepsi restaurants, homemade fireworks in the city square, cheddar and nutella crispy crepes, and most importantly: 10 pesos coconut helado. 

yeah, i still can't believe these are real life.

We pulled off the two lane highway onto a dirt parking lot on the side of the road. We paid 100 pesos, pulled our snorkel out of our bag and dropped our chacos and bags on the dock. Visiting cenotes had been on our itinerary for the Yucatan and the "Grand Cenote" had a pretty good ring, so we figured, why not? We walked down the stairs to the underwater cave and could hardly believe the lushness. We had tried our best to be inconspicuous tourists up until this point, but all caution was thrown to the wind and we soaked up all the excitement. We spent the first few minutes watching a Chinese mama pulling her screaming babies through the water, all four of them bloated with giant life vests, navigating the fish filled sinkhole. After strategizing, we took my gropro and headed to the quiet corner of the cave and took turns filming each other pretending to be mermaids. 

CENOTES

out-of-this-world-magic-ridiculously-nuts-seriously-this-isn't-fake-omg-mexico-is-my-favorite-evah. 

San Cris (part dos)

San Cris

San Cristobal de las Casas, our colonial mountain town nestled deep in Chiapas, known for its coffee, Zapatistas, and bright colors. I will remember it for its tacos al pastor, my friend Augustine, our girlie bus friends feeding us sandia and flooded streets.