Piece of Work

It’s not very often that I let myself get affected by other people.

Ok, this isn’t true.

Tonight I was walking through my favorite street (my favorite street, today) after stumbling upon a sound bath on the beach. I guess I should stop writing right here, because I even sound annoying to myself at this point. I was walking down the street…and just stumbled upon…a little magic. It sounds delightful, right? I’m just meandering through this literally dreamland? amusement park? beach paradise? bablyon? consumeristic hellscape? beautiful heaven? that is the town of Playa del Carmen. There are many lenses on the kaleidescope that you can view this place through. Sort’ve like life, Playa del Carmen has many sides to it.

Anyway, I’m standing on this street that has caught my eye because it reminds me of burning man, and it’s the sort of street that you walk down and could easily spend three lifetimes on. Copal is burning outside of the restaurant, and someone who works at the restaurant burning the copal stops me. He thinks I’m cute, and I’m pretty aware that he’s stopping me because of that. He starts talking to me and asks if I know Spanish, to which I respond “no habla espanol!” (that’s not true, I just look at him apologetically and say, “no, I don’t know much.” He starts talking at me a bit more and teaches me the word for write “escribar” - at this point, I am pretty tired out and need to walk the mile back to my living space. However, socially deaf this kid continues to talk to me and I just go with it. This kid named Chris who works at one of the restaurants stops me to chat.

I’m almost 5’8” and am a real live giraffe compared to a lot of women (especially petite Mexican women), I am a few inches taller than this kid. He has on glasses that look like they are from Warby Parker and has curly hair. He shows me some pictures off of a website in Tulum and tells me his second job is being an architect. Oh really? I say. He’s definitely bullshitting me and has taken my blonde hair color literally. He has on glasses that look like they are from Warby Parker, he seems well-meaning and I don’t take the fact that he’s taken me for a gringa with no cerebrum literally. No, I didn’t get dropped on my head as a child, hopefully.

I had made the mistake of stopping to smell the copal that is burning near the tree. This kid takes this as a sign that means “SHE IS INTO ME”. This is what happens when you take the time to stop smell the roses, ladies and gentleman. You get sexually harassed. The existential mystery has been solved, finally, phew. That’s what happens.

I have been meandering my way through Playa del Carmen this spring mostly solo, and it has been a journey where google maps has been especially helpful. This kid takes pity on me after talking to me for five more minutes and coming to the conclusion that I didn’t take any high school Spanish. He also thinks he can convince me that he is the designer of these giant buildings in Tulum, because I didn’t take high school Spanish.

He asks me if I would like to sit down at the restaurant - and I say, sure, why not. He hands me a piece of paper and a. pen and I start doodling.

And then the piece of cake arrives. It doesn’t just come out of the kitchen, this gigantic piece of chocolate cake - arrives.

Yep, that’s right ladies and gents - the piece of cake of here. This is not just any piece of cake, this is giant, chocolatey, glutinous piece of cake. It’s frosting tastes like 5 milky ways smashed together, like a Reese’s cup belongs in between the cake filling. It is beautifully decorated with berries. Strawberries, blackberries, and chocolate sauce reminiscent of Hershey’s syrup. It could actually be Hershey’s syrup on the cake. If there was a description needed of the silliness that happens in a place like “Playa del Carmen” - this could be it. It’s the only place where you can smell Copal and eat chocolate cake drenched in Hershey’s syrup - on the same block. I can easily imagine eating this cake and then immediately needing to see a Shaman, which, on the Yucatan Peninsula, I could probably do. One of my favorite things about my time here in the Yucatan has been the interesting combination of things that can happen. It’s like an ever evolving piece of abstract art.

So, anyway, here is this beautiful piece of cake. It’s sitting in front of me, and only me. I still don’t believe that the waiter (who appears to be the manager of the restaurant or be very willing to make a bold move) is also an architect. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it would also be like me saying I am one of Elon Musk’s 14 legitimate - to illegitimate children and there are just some ideas in life that are probably not true. So this piece of cake is in front of me and I am doodling alone, and I have already made the pinky promise with myself that there is no way in H-E- double hockey stick that I am going to eat this piece of cake. There’s just, no way, Jose.

Watch me nay nay.

I start to get a little paranoid as I doodle. I have the willpower to NOT DO THIS. I think to myself. Yeah, right, a tiny little cake devil is on my shoulder, laughing at me. He he he…look at this giant piece of cake in front of you….ha ha ha….look at all of those skinny Europeans at the other table who would probably share this ONE industrial sized serving of flour, cocoa powder, milk, and sugar. Ha ha ha…oh you’re like sooooo vegan, right? The voice is taunting me. He he…I bet there’s even..gasp! eggs in the cake…and you know about this egg shortage…right? I continue to doodle and then…uh oh..almost like someone else put my hand on the piece of cake I ..eat one of the blackberries on top.

Ah…

the voice is satisfied. Temporarily. Eat it..eat it…. it’s as if this faux architect that placed the cake in front of me is trying to put me to the test..is she… a yoga teacher or a PHAT KID IN DISGUISE. Is she a glutton or an artist? “Okay, I’ll just try one more berry on the cake”, I say to myself. I will do it, I will eat, just one more berry. I make a fatal mistake though, before I eat just one berry on the cake, I start to eat the inside of the cake. It is the most decadent filling, a mixture of fruit and of candy, a marketing moment of “betcha can’t eat just one!”. I know that this cake is not good for me, anything that tastes this good is not good for me.

But I keep eating it.

Why?? Why did I keep eating the cake? Cake, or pen, my monkey mind swings from branch to branch, cake, or pen, cake, or pen. Mouthful after mouthful goes fearlessly into my pie hole, it’s surprising that at this point I’m not just eating this thing with my hands. Someone should shoot me with a tranquilizer gun and put me out of my misery, I think. The cake is so good, though, I’m past the point of caring.

I am demolishing the cake and am now a part of the cake demolition team. Someone needs to give me a little t-shirt that says “cake demolition team”. I could wear it once I get back to the states and make all of the people I know laugh. I have finally demolished the piece of cake, in the same way that someone would demolish a building. Truthfully, this demolition did not need to happen. It could have easily been post-poned to next July. The cake was firm and …oh god, do I have to write the word? Moist. It was a firm, moist, gooey, chocolatey cake with sugary frosting. Like something your Grandma would put in front of you - and there was no reason to eat it, at all. This cake was a piece of work, a piece of art-work. There was no reason to interfere with the architecture of the cake like this, it could so beautifully have been left intact. I demolish the cake in under ten minutes, along with my digestive system’s ability to process the information from food.

There has always been this question in the back of my mind on whether or not I am a “piece of work” in situations like this. Why did I let that dumb voice win? When I saw the cake, I tried to remove the option of eating it and take that off the table. I looked at it as a piece of artwork, instead of a piece of cake. It was so aesthetically put together that all I could think to myself was “wow, this cake is just a piece of artwork - it belongs in the Art Institute of Chicago”. I can imagine an exhibit being put up at the Art Institute, of cake.

Anyway, my “architect” friend basically only-fansed the entire scene of me downing this piece of chocolate cake. I am waiting for the footage to be released on DVD or Redbox. You can probably find it somewhere at your local 7/111. Afterwards he told me he would be off in twenty minutes and we could take a “walk” together, and I politely declined his offer. After eating a piece of cake that large, I could feel the weight of it in my stomach. I don’t trust men who put a piece of chocolate cake in front of me and then leave me alone.

After eating the cake, I feel remorse.

This narrative I knew to be true at the time of eating the cake (that it would make me feel like dog shit) , was not strong enough for me to not have the self control to demolish it when it was put right in front of me. It was a bit of a trap. In the adult world we are so quick to criticize people for their addictions and flaws instead of to look at another person with an open heart and attitude (buddhism, yo!). There are so many reasons people do this - mostly out of insecurity and competition for resources. “It’s all in the name of survival” we shout as we sit in traffic, as we stand on top of our cars. “It’s all in the name of survival” we shout as we eat ridiculously indulgent pieces of cake. “It’s all in the name of surivival” we say as we book a 3.5 hour massage. “It’s all in the name of survival” we yell as we lay down the architectural plans for another 3 million dollar apartment complex.

It’s exhuasting. “All of this is in the name of survival!”. It’s seldom that we look at the cost of our actions - it’s seldom that we see the ways survival has kept us locked in prison, the way survival has kept us from unlocking the door.

So here I am, a part of this brave new world. All the while, demolishing it, I had to ask myself “Am I a piece of work?”