Southern Florida is a strange little universe in its own right. After spending a good nine days helping my mother move out of her house and tetris everything into a storage unit, I was ready to go back across the border to experience the lighter sides of life once again. More importantly, I was going back to reconnect with the side of me I had lost after living in Denmark for six years.
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Always Authentic. Always on its own path.
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On the advice of Walter, our host at the Airbnb in the jungles East of San Pancho, Fine and I would head North to the coastal town of San Blas. “Definitely a local beach,” he told us, holding his pantless blond-haired son porky pigging it around the jungle. “Very few gringoes at all, man. You’ll love it.”
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Fresh-faced and bushy-tailed after parading with the Amazonian women of Pátzcuaro, we made our way South into another unknown Mexican state, Colima. Much like Michoacán, Colima is a state many locals will tell you not to visit.
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Like an explosion of orange confetti, or a leaf blower being used in the fall, the Monarch Butterfly reserves in the state of Michoacán offer visitors an explosion of orange unlike anything they’ve ever seen — and one they can not fully prepare for mentally until their boots are on the ground and thousands of orange wings are fluttering above them.
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My German friend, Fine, lives by the seed of her trousers more than anyone I’ve ever met. Spontaneity is her middle name. I once went hitchhiking with her around the dry arid plains of inland Portugal, waiting hours in the oppressive August heat for a ride. But even in the heat, she was calm and collected with her thumb out waving and smiling at every passing car. “It just takes one person to stop!”
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The Weekend Rambler 