Tonight’s my last night–back in the old favorite Playa del Carmen. Not the greatest beach town, but certainly not the worst, and the array of the Italian tourists’ bathing suit styles and depths of tans is quite impressive.

I had some culture shock a couple of days ago, when I left the not-so-seedy border town of Chetumal and rode the second-class bus four hours up to Tulum. Chetumal has about zero tourist action, except for Belizeans coming up for the day and eating tacos and going to the mall–it was very odd to have black people nod at me in that familiar hello-fellow-stranger way. The day I left Chet, I was astounded to see two Dutch backpackers checking into my chaste little Hotel Maria Dolores (you can only spend so many nights in the Hotel Ucum–the pressure just gets too much to bear).

So when I got off the bus in Tulum and crossed the street directly to the main hostel, I was overwhelmed: Dreadlocks galore! Elephant-size backpacks! Heavy Scandinavian accents! Conversations about prices of everything! I stood in line, with all the tedious travel chatter swirling around me, and actually walked out after about five minutes because I couldn’t take it. I tried to get a taxi to another hotel, but reconsidered–I really needed the easy bus-station access in the morning. I sucked it up and went back in, and happened to nab the last bed, probably available only because no good backpacker would unnecessarily shell out the extra two bucks for a double instead of a single.

The most disorienting aspect, though, was feeling anxiety about my belongings again. It’s not Mexicans who might lift my bag while I go to the bathroom to wash my hands–it’s my damn cheap-ass, sketched-out fellow travelers who might snake things out of my suitcase when I’m down at the Internet cafe. The contrast was especially sharp because one evening at the Maria Dolores, I had come back to my room to find my door ajar. I had a momentary surge of panic, then saw that nothing at all had been touched–then I did some fiddling with the door and realized that it doesn’t click shut immediately, and I had probably left it unlatched myself when I went out for the whole day. Duh and then some. I’m not advising that you wander around Mexico in a state of total distraction, but at least I’m living proof that you won’t be killed by armed bandits if you do.

Also, because I’d been cruising along in a blissful, near-language-free bubble for a few days, just smiling and making primitive chit-chat (‘Soy de Nuevo York’), I was very daunted by the social negotiation called for in sharing a small room with three total strangers. While I was moving all of some glowering Israeli guy’s belongings off of my double bed, I was longing for the simplicity of the rural buses. Somehow, I felt safer and more at ease around guys who got on board carrying unsheathed machetes and big jugs of gasoline. But maybe that’s my problem, and nothing to do with Mexico.

And I was thinking fondly of the excellent service at the Maria Dolores: they change the sheets and clean the place while you’re out! Right, I know pretty much every hotel does this, but I’d forgotten because I haven’t stayed two nights in the same place for ages.

But I’d brought this on myself: I’d made this silly four-hour trek up to Tulum because I’d gotten sick of the restaurants in Chetumal, and couldn’t face walking the main drag and getting stared at one more time — after three days, I was one of the longest-staying tourists on record, and all of the shopkeepers were looking perplexed by the end. I got on the bus to Tulum knowing I’d have to go three hours back down the same road the next day, to visit some hotel on a gorgeous lake, and then haul my ass back up the highway again.

All the schlepping was worth it, though, because at the halfway point, in Felipe Carrillo Puerto, pop. 13,000, home of the Talking Cross liberation movement (hence there’s still a military checkpoint at the south end of town, even though the Caste War allegedly got finished with about eighty years ago), there was the best road treat ever.

Second-class buses stop wherever people want to get on and off, and also wherever someone is selling some kind of food–usually at speed bumps. Although I love the idea of someone selling me food, I could never get too excited about it: the standard offerings were sodas, white-bread sandwiches, cold tamales, plantain chips…all kind of browny-white foods that I can’t decide whether I want, and by the time I’m leaning toward yes, the vendors have already trotted back off the bus.

So when we stopped in the town of the talking cross, and some guy got on holding something pink and red and green, I jumped right up to investigate. Women outside were holding huge trays of panuchos and salbutes, the unofficial snacky treats of the Yucatan: fried-crisp tortillas topped with shredded turkey and avocado, then slices of radish and bright-pink pickled onions, and some lettuce leaves. In either panuchos or salbutes (I can never remember which is which), you get some black beans smeared inside the tortilla as well. And in Carrillo Puerto, the women were dabbing on this mellow red sauce too–really long-stewed tomatoes, simple and perfect, and very salty. And the red rounded out the color scheme wonderfully.

The whole thing was so gorgeous, all laid out on a square of brown paper, that I had to take a picture before I ate it, which made the women laugh. I expected them to laugh when I got off the bus and bought more from them the second and third days in a row, but I guess they’ve seen it all by now. I mean, crosses that talk, for God’s sake.

Oh, and did I mention that these things were also the perfect antidote to the omelet filled with hot dogs that I got fed this morning? I was thinking I’d get through this trip without accidentally ingesting hot dogs (that deep-fried one didn’t count–I wanted that), but no luck. Damn you, you sneaky salchipapas…