lie no. 29 | 11.21.19

I was awakened suddenly on my second morning in San Miguel—not by lights this time, but by birds. 

The night before had been a much later one than planned.

On Isla Holbox, where I’d been with Matt just a week earlier, the whole island goes to the beach to celebrate the sunset—not just watch it, actually celebrate it. I’ve always loved seeing the sun rise and fall but it was there I fell in love with the ritual of taking a timeout on everything else, with everyone else, to simply marvel. What the hell else are we here for if not to be dazzled?

The first night in San Miguel, armed with a list of recommendations from friends, I’d gone to everyone’s favorite sunset spot for a drink only to get there and find most of the view obstructed by construction. The second night I took myself to see sunset at a quiet little spot I found on my own. Then I’d enjoyed a casual 8-course tasting menu, as one does when traveling alone.

Joking aside, it was a liberating experience. Couples would walk in and shoot looks of sympathy my way. To be fair, I should mention I got pretty dressed up for this meal. I even overheard a few fellow diners make comments about my table for one. The group of four next to me even tried to get me join them. 

“Are you sure?” they asked when I politely turned down their offer. “You’re more than welcome to!” 

Beneath the friendly facade I saw how instinctively most leapt to the assumption that I didn’t want to be there alone—as if I hadn’t had a choice in the matter.

I started making a mental list of all the scenarios that might elicit more awe than aww. What if I were some famous restaurant critic?! What if I was from Michelin?! What if I was someone who loves travel and food and, crazy idea, myself, too much to miss this culinary experience simply because I’ll have to go alone?!

In the end I had the best night and while there were no leftovers, I did leave with the reminder that how others react or respond is more a reflection of them than me.

I was still stuffed the next morning when what sounded like hundreds of birds took up residence on the patio outside my room. I hadn’t seen, let alone heard, a single bird on that patio since I got there. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. They were so, so loud.

With sleep out of the question, I did what anyone would do: I googled “San Miguel shaman” and emailed the first one who came up to see if he had time for me that day.

My mother gave me three books last fall: one about travel (I booked my Hong Kong and Mexico City trips that week), one about love languages (stashed that one in a drawer after realizing I didn’t know Matt’s or even my own) and one about finding freedom from self-limiting beliefs (which I dove headfirst into after The Bahamas).

“If The Four Agreements is going to royally fuck me up by page 7, should I stop or keep going?!” I texted my mother during a Tamiflu-fueled binge read. “The intro is all about how our parents, teachers, religion and society screwed us up as kids by instilling their belief systems in us, forcing us to become inauthentic actors in life rather than our true selves.”

She told me to keep going.

“I probably should’ve read this after Mexico...” I texted her. “Now fear I’ll wind up in a desert with a shaman talking to great grandma like this author did. 🤦🏼‍♀️”

What can I say? I’m pretty impressionable. I guess dipping my toe in the shaman pond should’ve been a foregone conclusion on this trip. There was no desert nor conversation with my great grandmother, that wouldn’t come for another 8 months—different shaman, different country.

I didn’t even know what it was shamans, or holistic healers, did. It seemed like a stretch I’d get in—for what exactly I still did not know—but it was my last day in Mexico so I had to try.

I went to a coffee shop to write for a few hours while I waited to hear back. Still no response. His website listed four time slots a day he took appointments: 11, 1, 3 and 5. I wandered around town as the likelihood of it happening dwindled with each time slot that passed. By mid-afternoon I decided it wasn’t meant to be and dropped it. It’ll give me a good excuse to come back, I reasoned. Obviously, minutes later he replied.

“Dear Rebecca,

I am able to see you at 5:00PM today, Tuesday. If you are available, please confirm and I shall give you the exact location.”

I took a screenshot of his email and texted two girlfriends to ask if I should do it—both of whom I knew would totally support me emailing a stranger in a foreign country I’m traveling in alone to get the address for an undisclosed location where I would later meet said stranger. Predictably, both said yes, a good thing because I’d already replied to confirm. One told me to try to be more open than usual. The other told me to remember I didn’t have to do anything that made me uncomfortable. 

At 4 p.m. the only thing making me uncomfortable was that I still hadn’t heard back from him. This was ridiculous—I’ve done some serious sleuthing in my life. How hard could it be to find this guy’s address?

Turns out all I had to do was ask google for it. Perhaps full-on mocking me by this point, it sent me back to the same website I’d contacted him through that morning. Sure enough, right above the list of time slots was his address. I emailed him again at 4:30 p.m. to let him know I’d see him there soon and wandered back to my hotel to get ready.

I stopped at the ATM on the walk there—I wasn’t sure if shamans accepted AMEX. With minutes to spare I strode into the building listed on his website and was greeted by a full-blown construction zone. I climbed over the debris and around the masked workers till I found a relatively dust-free bench. I sat down, waited till 5 and emailed him again to let him know I was in the building’s plaza. I swear I could hear single men everywhere breathe a collective sigh of relief in that moment that I was someone else’s problem.

After a few more minutes of waiting I got up and did exactly what people are not supposed to do in horror films but do without fail every time: I went up the stairs and down the hall.

There were no lights on. The sun was starting to call it a day so not a ton of help until I got back to that same plaza on the second floor. It smelled like a freshly saged spa. I told myself that had to be a good thing, right?

Then I looked to my right and a bald white man in a denim button down and jeans was locking a door, his back to me. Next to the door was a sign with the shaman’s name on it. Bingo. 

“Uh, Mr. Wolf?” I said, entertained by the fact that shamans, like strippers, don’t use their given names professionally.

“Yes?” he said as he continued locking the door, not yet turning toward me.

“I’m Rebecca,” I said.

“Oh! I’ve been expecting you,” he said as he started to unlock the door and turn around. “You never emailed me back so I didn’t know if you’d show up!”

I explained that I had, several times, ahem. He explained that the construction knocked the power out in the building hours earlier so emails weren’t coming and going at full speed. This sounded about as believable in the age of smartphones as when the dental hygienist tells you the x-rays are perfectly safe as she covers you with an apron and then leaves the room before taking them. But I let it go.

I told him if this time no longer worked I totally understood. I don’t know what kind of social life shamans have! I know I’d be super annoyed if a client never confirmed a 90-minute meeting starting at 5 p.m. and still showed up. 

“Come on in,” he smiled as he motioned me toward to his dark office. “Your soul brought you here for a reason. This is exactly where you’re supposed to be right now.”

My head was too busy wondering what the hell my soul had gotten me into this time to tell my body to turn around, so I followed him in and he shut the door behind me.