“This is what I’ve been looking for.” It was an unusual, potentially spooky check-in-with-your-father text, but it was the only logical message I could send after finally wandering slack-jawed through the center of Oaxaca de Juarez in a lover-boy daze. I’m not entirely sure what I meant, but I meant it. I combed the lovely grid of perfectly tanned or shockingly multi-colored structures guarded by giant, old doors, custom wrought-iron fencing, and blankets of bougainvillea. Feeling simultaneously lost and found at the center of the universe, the sun was setting behind me and everything dripped with gold. Women hung laundry on their roof, speaking softly to each other in their neighborly chatter. Vibrations of cumbia music rolled out of windows. For your sake, I won’t attempt to describe the smells, but I will say it seemed there was food cooking behind every door exactly as it was meant to be cooked, and I was floating three inches off the ground. By all means, my week in Oaxaca was nearly cinematic. I followed the smoke inside the perfectly crowded Mercado Benito Juarez, past the sweet bowls of atol de elote and spicy piles of chapulines, to find the hazy, hidden hallway lined by smoking grills and fast hands serving plates of tasajo and peppers in a culmination of potentially world peace inducing flavor. I screamed R.E.M. lyrics, fueled by mescal, in an unfamiliar key with a self-proclaimed cartel cog and his henchmen on a crowded nightclub balcony. I was taught how to dance properly on the down-beat. I was treated to nieve and politically charged conversation. I hiked among the agave to sit beneath the massive petrified waterfall of Hierva el Agua. I doggedly hunted down the remarkable murals and the culturally, aesthetically sharp grabados. I met a photographer, a model, a pilot, a chauffeur, a medical student, a life-guard, and so many more truly beautiful people worthy of intense friendship or simple admiration in the land of mole and magic. Traveler’s glory was mine. Until the final night. I grew increasingly aware that I have the stomach of a guero. The wear and tear of eating like a king in a foreign land of unfamiliar spice left me physically and mentally feeble. I was facing the finale of a phenomenal experience without the enthusiasm that a Oaxacan Saturday night deserved. Homesickness intensified my weariness and self-pity. Heartbreakingly, I made an admittedly embarrassing decision. In submission, I hid away from the extraordinary beauty of chance in Mexico. I plugged into the hotel WiFi. I logged into Netflix. I watched “Crazy Stupid Love.” Wild sounds of revelry ricocheted into my room as I welled up with hot tears and cold sweat watching Steve Carrell win love back in heroic fashion. I eventually gave in to uncomfortable sleep, but my night was not over. I shuffled to the bathroom around 4:30AM to the unmistakable tune of a nearby couple thoroughly enjoying their stay at our hostel. Eyes half-shut in the dark, relieving myself, I attempted to release some seemingly innocent gas. Wrong. There is simply no cool way to describe pooping your pants. I can only hope that the desperate lovers weren’t bothered by my laughs of disbelief or after-shock giggles inspired by that fart gone awry. I innocently became the dirtiest part of our secret threesome. I cleaned up, wrapped my soiled underwear along with Mexico’s most unlucky hand towel in a spare plastic bag and threw it in the trash bin. Back in bed with humorous comfort, I was heartbroken to find that my co-conspirators had quietly called it quits without ceremony. I snuck another hour of smiling sleep away from the coming sun. I packed up my backpack, hailed a taxi, and wandered alone among the giant ruins of Monte Alban in the cool morning air before my afternoon flight. I reflected on the devastating beauty of that vanished society as I reflected on the trip of a lifetime. I was coming home from Oaxaca a different man. A man heavy with a shining pride in humanity, a man vibrating from a renewed vigor for strange experiences, and a man down one pair of dependable boxer-briefs.