Today, my 52nd birthday, marks two weeks that
we’ve been in Mexico.
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| Sunset from our rooftop. |
After a grueling and fascinating two-day drive caravanning
with my sister from San Diego to California Baja Sur, we were accompanied by an
intense sunset during the last leg from La Paz to Todos Santos. In the charming
downtown, we ate our initiatory Mexican dinner in an open-air restaurant.
Then my sister led us the last ten minutes south to El
Pescadero. After passing through the shadows of the tiny pueblo, we took a right
on an unmarked dirt road. Our blue Subaru earned its all-wheel drive cred
bumping toward the ocean in the dark. When we got to our small resort, dogs
came out to greet us. We soon learned this place is dog heaven, an off-leash
life.
That night, we dragged our stuff into our empty casita and
collapsed on an air mattress. A few hours later, my body awoke to mattress sag.
The re-inflating mechanism was so loud that my sister, whose place is next
door, said she thought we were making smoothies in the middle of the night.
The next few days meant facing the reality of what we’d
done. We were owners of a house in a foreign country, near an incredible beach
and town—a house that needed furniture, a refrigerator, curtains, air
conditioning, and a washer/dryer. It lacked cabinets and a bar/counter to
complete the kitchen and bathroom. The talavera
sink had to be installed in the bathroom. The one plant in the yard, a palm
tree, was dead, a victim of Hurricane Odile. We didn’t even own a broom, a
sponge, a beach umbrella, a local cell phone.
Our To-Do list was epic. And handling it all in shaky
Spanish? Amidst a culture where things are done in a different style and pace? In
the middle of a dusty resort that has a lot of construction going on? The only
choice was take it easy, a bit at a time. Poco
a poco.
In 14 days, I’ve had (only) two meltdowns. In each case
going to bed helped (that is, after we said adios
to the leaky air bed and hola to a
real mattress).
I’ve also been doing yoga and meditating. I remind myself
that a beach walk, a soak in the Jacuzzi, and a swim in the pool are incredible amenities. As
is being a homeowner, especially in a place with a built-in community.
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| Hermanas con perro. |
Having so many great people around has been a life saver. My
sister, her friends who’ve become our new friends, other casita residents, and
the resort staff—everyone has been a font of information and, most importantly,
bienvenidos.
Without a working kitchen, we collaborated with my sister to
make meals in hers. Our bilingual friend Paul took us on a trip to Los Cabos
(an hour south) to help us buy a slew of things and arrange to have them
delivered. The next day, Dave and I went alone, an hour east, to La Paz stores.
We’ve been to Todos Santos many times, buying other furniture
and food. We’ve been to several excellent restaurants, including the one here
at the resort that serves pizza made in a wood-fired oven by the pool. Our
favorite is a pescaderia that serves
the freshest (and cheapest) fish tacos ever. Down the street is a little tienda where we buy handmade tortillas.
Dave almost wept the first time he held the warm bundle in his hands.
Whenever we drive around and see the leftover ravages of the
hurricane—buildings and homes and cacti toppled—I’m reminded of our incredible
fortune. Nothing of ours was destroyed. We have shelter, food, and water. And
each other.
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| Unharmed cacti. |
In just two weeks, we’ve enjoyed cocktail parties and meals
on neighbors’ roofs, watching the sunset. We’ve dipped into the warm ocean waters
and taken long beach walks. We went to the Farmer’s Market and live music on
the playa.
We’ve had incredible conversations with people, most of
whom—like us—live alternative lives. One was a young Polish woman we picked up
hitchhiking; she was traveling Baja alone. Another was a Swiss couple on bikes
who’d ridden all the way down from Canada.
Some people have retired here. Others have young children.
Some live in Cabo or La Paz and come here for the weekends. One guy lives here
a few months at a time, spending the rest of the year working in the states.
Some live to surf or fish or just be near the sea. Others love four-wheeling or
hiking through the desert hills. Some were born here. Others fell in love with
Mexico and never wanted to leave.
Every once in a while an odd feeling seizes me. A sense that
we’ve jumped off the biggest cliff ever. Funny I’d say that after all we’ve
gone through in the past two years: retirement, getting rid of all our
possessions, traveling all over—oh, and brain surgery.
One morning, a few days in, I woke up with anxiety crawling
up my skin. I closed my eyes and prayed for new internal space to open up. I
felt around inside for the richness of the fertile void. I asked for a sense of
something—purpose? clarity? happiness? peace? What did it all mean, this living
thing? My mind scrambled around like a rat in a cage.
I went for a beach walk. The ocean, my sanctuary. On my way
back, a young man standing with two young women near the surf school asked me in
Spanish if I knew how far it was to the bus stop. I pointed down our dirt road
and told him it was probably at least a 20 or 30 minute walk. He seemed on the
edge of tears and—switching to English—told me that a friend had brought them
to the beach last night and then disappeared. He said his mom was going to be
worried about him; he couldn’t call her because his cell phone ran out of
juice. They were in their early twenties and from Guadalajara.
I guess they’d spent the night on the beach. They looked
exhausted. They reminded me of my students. I said, “Wait here. I have a car. I
will drive you there.”
A surge of energy and joy blasted through me. I ran to our
casita and grabbed three bottles of water and three granola bars. I hopped in
the car, blasted the A/C, and drove over to get them. As we bumped down the
dusty, rutted road, they drank the water and tore into the food.
“Can I be your dog?” he joked. We all laughed. Clearly, they
couldn’t believe their luck. I couldn’t believe mine, either.
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| Casita-in-progress. |
So, we are two weeks in, and I’m writing at my computer on
my new little rustic table. Jazz plays from speakers attached to Dave’s hard
drive that holds thousands of songs. The house is filled with furniture, a
washer/dryer, a fridge, and new talavara
sink. A sweet new palm is planted in our yard. We even have a dresser. What a
luxury to have my clothes in drawers after so many months in suitcases.
Three guys are installing the A/C right now. Another guy has
been in and out, working on the finishing touches of our kitchen counter. I was
able to string together Spanish words to create Frankenstein sentences that
seemed to work, more or less.
Yesterday, our neighbor Kimberly, who makes jewelry,
mentioned she’s collecting driftwood on which to display her work. On Dave’s
and my morning beach walk, I found three pieces that I brought to her. She hugged
me, said they were perfect. Later, she came by to wish me happy birthday. Then
she fitted me with an anklet the colors of the sea.
