Travel Brain

Where am I? What’s my name? Should I speak English or Spanish? Can I have another taco?

I was lucky enough to have a few days off, so I took a whirlwind trip to Mexico City over the weekend. My fella is Mexican. Not only that, Mexico rules! I was there for four days, but I feel like I was in airports and on planes longer than my visit. Certainly I am not alone in finding that international air travel is a bit…trying. It wears you down. Your head fills with goo.

I committed to finding a minimum of sixty minutes each day to write, just like I do here in the States. I had enough time in the air that I bested my home field game average. But, goo.

Add to the goo 96 hours of over-stimulation. This particular weekend, I experienced the normal Mexico City, twenty-some million people vibe. But it was Independence Day weekend. Add to that my limited grasp of the local tongue (I can sort of sometimes not make a total ass of myself ordering food), and I was in a foggy, discombobulated but pleasant headspace. A town I already found heightened was heightened further.

So we have a head full of over-stimulated goo trying to write a novel in English while trying to order pozole in Spanish. Good. Great.

My point here is that I am looking forward to seeing what the hell I wrote while in the air, while drinking coffee on Paseo de la Reforma, while trying to process the Pyramid of the Moon and the Teotihuacán Pyramids. I arrived home a few hours ago, and I haven’t yet looked at my work-in-progress document.

I feel hopeful because the experience scuffed me up a little bit, emotionally. I was moved, as I always am, to be a stranger in a strange land. I was tired. I was entirely out of sorts. I am guessing (and honestly, I’m not sure) that what I put down in my draft is a bit train wreck-y. A lot train wreck-y if I’m honest. But in that, perhaps, because my defenses were down, might be some real heart—some emotional truth. Luckily, where I’m at in the novel calls for just that.

Tomorrow, we see what this gringo’s goo brain made.

Serious about that taco, guys.

PHOTO: My own. How lucky am I? I had the opportunity to be in the Zócalo for El Grito with my boyfriend. I’ve not experienced anything like it. A privilege. ¡Viva!

PROGRESS REPORT: 82,000 words. The aforementioned goo writing was all about the love story at the heart of the book. Maybe the longest chapter in the book at 4,000ish words. Yikes.