Travel Writer Application

As I approached the outskirts of Sayulita, I immediately felt a distinct impression, starkly different from the Mexican tourist spots I had visited in the past.
Eagerly, I sprung out of the taxi anxious to experience a side of Mexico I had never seen.
A rare sense of comforting chaos loomed.
I carefully meandered towards the town center and parked myself at El Tejon, one of countless restaurants lining the streets.
The spicy aroma of barbequing meat hovered while I indulged in authentic Mexican grub. As the thick humidity detoxified my pores and eased stresses, I processed the nuances of my new home for the week.
Cobblestone streets weaved a narrow maze that only locals could navigate flawlessly. Pedestrians, cars, dogs and horses all shared the roads equally.
This was quickly understood after the second elbow graze, causing the salivating-worthy guacamole to be knocked into my lap seconds before reaching my mouth.
Barefoot children maneuvering through traffic, malnourished dogs wandering towards any trace of food or shade and unnecessarily large trucks, scraping past tiny gaps in traffic were common practice.
It was around this time the voice of every mother who ever lived consumed me. I envisioned my child-self standing by a front door, starring up at a hunched over, finger-waving, matronly figure screaming, “Look both ways before crossing the street!”
This was the first time my mom’s advice resonated with me and I vowed to willfully oblige. Who knew those robotic grade school lessons would come in handy?
After inhaling everything on my plate, minus the small amounts of residue in my lap, I closed my eyes and sat back with my face aimed towards the sun. The car engines, the children’s cheers and the sounds of distant mariachi bands washed over me while I sipped on my perfectly crafted lime-margarita.
For a moment I transcended as the combined sounds transformed to ocean waves. The sun pierced through the lids of my eyes and in the haze of muddled brightness, I felt at peace.
It didn’t take long before a small, weathered trinket seller yanked me back to consciousness. I’m not sure if it was my elated mood or the margarita but his array of hand crafted wooden bowls seemed impossible to pass up.
We underwent a comical exchange of negotiation and I wound up with some hardware to take home.
Leaving the restaurant, a reassured optimism lingered for the days to come, which in retrospect made the questionable hike back to my villa less intimidating.