Mahogany on the Sidewalk
My second car was a blue Chevy Cobalt. Her name was Madame. I was a nervous mess during the days that I spent looking for a new vehicle (being that I know very little about cars, other than who to call when mine has inevitably broken). When I finally came across Madame in a secondhand dealership parking lot, my only concern was that I had never even heard of a Cobalt before. I felt like I should be throwing my money into a car whose name reminded me more of a vehicle and less of a nail polish color. But I bought it anyway.
As soon as I was driving Madame, I started to see Cobalts everywhere. I sat next to other Chevy owners at stop lights and wondered if they, too, were marvelling at their prior ignorance of Cobalts' popularity. It wasn't until I knew what I was looking for that I could notice it all around me.
During our ETA Midterm Reunion in Huatulco, I experienced moments of obvious, breathtaking wonder.
Every minute spent outside was lovely. From the view of the beach from my hotel balcony, to snorkelling and finding both Nemo and Dory, I absolutely absorbed Huatulco and the beauty it has to offer. It helps that I love all things beachy, including finding sand in my bags back in freezing Atlacomulco, but I think that most anyone would readily admit that this Oaxacan site is an exquisite one.
I didn't think to expect, then, that I could be invited into more wonder than what I already felt by being there.
On our drive to see waterfalls and sample coffee at a hidden-away plantation, I sat in the front seat next to our driver, Walter. Walter was explaining some of the excitement that awaited us at our destination. Then, he began to make casual comments on the town itself.
"Huatulco is a very touristy town now. A lot of people come from the United States and Canada."
I had heard them from miles away at our hotel.
"It is rich in natural resources," he continued. "Those trees planted along the sidewalk are very good wood. Sometimes, people will try and cut branches from them to make handicrafts."
He proceeded to talk more about these trees, which seemed wholly unremarkable, and whose Spanish name meant nothing to me. At the very end of his little informational tidbit, he added,
"In el extranjero they call them 'mahogany.'"
There we were, just casually driving by mahogany trees planted in the sidewalk. I instantly thought of my Grandpa, who was a skilled carpenter, and who taught me everything I know about wood (which, admittedly, isn't all that much more than what I know about cars). I would never have been able to appreciate the trees my Grandpa would have loved if Walter hadn't said something.
Before we returned to the hotel at the end of the day, we had driven by a mysterious bush whose leaves were known to prevent cancer, we had the opportunity to purchase hand-filled cellophane bags of a wide variety of natural remedies to common ailments (especially diabetes, but also cancer), and we had rinsed our faces of spa masks made from the mud we crossed to leap into pools beneath the waterfall.
The already enchanting Huatulco offered more than I had expected. Mahogany trees surprised me in the way that Cobalts had, only manifesting themselves when I could put a name to what I was looking at.
On the last night of our trip, they hosted a "white dinner" for us, where we all wore white and were treated to a meal and entertainment. My friend asked me what I would think if, two years ago, I caught a glimpse of that moment of us on the beach.
"I might think that I was at some kind of fancy wedding reception," he suggested.
Even thinking about it a week later, I have no idea what I would have thought. I'm sure that if I had seen it, I would know that something exciting was on its way. But honestly, I would have had no idea what to expect (I didn't even know what a Fulbright was).
What I can be pretty positive about is that each moment like that one all shaded in white is infinitely more beautiful now that I know what I am looking at.
