5 Is The New 1

We got five things done today.  FIVE!  That’s a new Mexico record for us.

When Steve and I arrived in Merida, one of the first things we noticed was that life moves at a slower pace here.  And that was exactly what I was looking for.  I was never very good at multi-tasking – I’m a linear thinker and can only work on one thing at a time.  When I was teaching and working on something while the class worked on their own project, if a student walked up to me and asked me a question it would take me a moment or two to break away from what I was doing and turn my attention to focus on the student.  They usually had to repeat their question.  I guess they thought Mr. Hines was a bit slow.

But life in Mexico has really agreed with me.  I move from task to task, working at my own pace, and have learned to slow down in some areas of my life. (Not walking, however…I still walk like there’s a fire behind me.)  So the fact that you can usually get only one thing accomplished each day has actually been a way for me to force myself to slow down.  If I can go to the bank and pay the electric bill, that’s a good day.  Shopping for new shoes?  Takes a day.  Buying groceries: a good afternoon when you add in the bus rides to and from Mega. 

There are other projects, such as sealing the roof, painting the metal staircase, or cleaning the air conditioning filters that allow more leeway.  I can finish three or four of THOSE each day.  The problem is whenever I leave the house.  Anything you must do that involves other people, just plan on completing one project each day and consider yourself fortunate.  And get used to standing in line.  It’s just a way of life, here.  I've stood in so many lines in the past 2 years that now I am drawn to them like the proverbial moth to a flame.  If I don't have anything to purchase when I leave a store, I break out in a cold sweat and my upper lip trembles as I by-pass the checkout lines.  

So, one project per day is the norm.  Still, there are projects that take even longer.  Take renewing your visa, for example.  The first day we went to immigration we were given the forms to fill out and the list of other items we must bring with us when we returned.  The second trip we turned in the documents.  We were told to look online for our appointment date.  Three weeks later our third visit resulted in us leaving with documents to take to a bank to pay our fees.  The fourth trip was to turn in the payment vouchers.  The fifth trip was to turn in our photos (they would not take the photos from us until we had paid the fee).  The sixth trip I was certain we would receive our renewed visas.  Our seventh trip was to have all documents stamped “approved” by someone somewhere in D.F.  The eighth trip we walked out with our visas good for another 3 years.  Yay!

So except for that fast-walking thing, I’ve adjusted pretty well to the slower paced life.  So color me hyper-excited because today I actually got FIVE things done. 

It all started with an appointment with our attorney, who needed some documents from us to file some annual something about our whatever.  From there we headed to Home Depot to pick up a couple of items – we walked out with a dozen in three bags.  Then we walked across Prolongacion and down a side street to catch a bus on Technologico to Costco.  Did our weekly shopping for the B&B, then hopped a taxi stuffed with 4 cases of water and sundry other items, and dropped Steve off at Hacienda to pay our June taxes.  I know, I know…I hear you.  We cheated because while Steve stood in line at Hacienda, I continued home, put away all our purchases, and walked to a copy shop down the street to make more copies of a map we give our guests.  But I DON’T CARE!  We bucked the system – We looked death in the eye – We fought the law and the (Uh!), law LOST!

Five things in one day.  GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLL.

A new world record, ladies and gentlemen! 

And I still have time to watch an episode of Modern Family.

The View From There - Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Meri-Who?

Steve has known Rick since their seminary days.  Don’t try cleaning your ears, I said SEMINARY.

Whereas Steve decided there was no future for him in the Baptist Church – professionally, at least- Rick stayed on and earned his Ph.D.  There have been many years when we have not communicated with Rick, but when we do we just pick up right where we left off.  Rick is a professor at a small, private college in Kentucky, so his proximity to Louisville, my hometown and where Steve also lived for a while, has been the impetus for us to get together over the years.

While we were staying with our friend, Diana, in Chicago, Steve wrote Rick to catch up.  Rick wrote back that he envied our “adventure” (we just saw it as a failure – Rick always sees the positive side of things) and that he had a great suggestion for us that he would talk about when we got together.

So we got together.

Steve and I drove to see Rick and at dinner he said that the college had a program and campus in the town of Mérida, in Mexico on the Yucatan peninsula.  Seems Rick had run the program two different years, so he was pretty well versed on the town. Rick highly recommended the city as a great place to live; he missed living there, himself.

Mexico?  Really??  MEXICO???

We had been studying many exotic locales: Hawaii, several islands in the Caribbean, countries in South America, such as Ecuador, and many warm climes in the U.S.  I certainly did not see Mexico as a viable choice.  I mean, people go there to lose their heads, right?

A look at some websites about Mérida and the Yucatan touted many positive aspects of the peninsula.  There were beaches, cenotes (what’s a cenote?), Mayan ruins (what’s a Mayan and why do they live in ruins?), a growing economy, tourism (so they said), and a quality of life that was said to be healthier and happier. 

Steve and I had made a checklist of what we wanted our next B&B attempt to have:  a warm climate (Mérida, check), a good economy (check), a growing tourism industry (check), affordable (double-check), a government more welcoming to entrepreneurs (check), an international airport, good healthcare, excellent educational opportunities (check, check, check), plenty of culture and a local population who would be glad to see us arrive.

On paper – or on the Internet I guess I should say- Mérida was right on target.  In fact, we were hard-pressed to check off even half the number of our “wants” when we looked at other places around the world, and I’m not certain we quite believed all the great things we were hearing about Mérida.  But it begged a visit, at the very least, so when Rick offered to accompany us on a week-long investigative trip to the colonial town, we all made plans to fly to the Yucatan and give it a once-over.

We all arrived in Mérida the second week of January, 2012.  Steve had made reservations at a few B&Bs in town.  We wanted to experience as many of the existing accommodation venues as possible so as to see what was available and also to help form our idea of what a great B&B should be.

The first place at which we stayed had been open in Mérida for 20 years.  The owners have run the place the entire 20 years and are beginning to look towards retirement.  20 years in the B&B business is like 150 human years; statistically, most B&B operators suffer burnout in 5.  Each of the 8 rooms at this place are decorated in an old-world style, highlighting a famous Mexican artist.  Staircases wind their way up and around to the various rooms, and until you learn the layout you get lost exploring the many nooks and crannies.  We stayed in a room on the ground floor dedicated to the very famous and much loved Frida Kahlo.  There was a double bed with a single bed in a loft overhead.  It was a bit dark for our taste, but interesting.  It showed its age; we stayed three nights. 

The owner is a real character, what we used to call a “Key West character”, and at breakfast one morning we learned that he had actually lived in Key West many years ago.

The second night in town we ate at a very popular restaurant.  Expats, particularly, love it.  We each ordered our own plates, of course, and when Rick offered a taste of his crabcakes, Steve took him up on it.  I did not.  As we were going out the door after our meal, both Steve and Rick were complaining of an oily taste in their mouths.  I did not.  On the way back to our room, the oily tastes in their mouths moved southward and they mentioned a bloated feeling in their stomachs.  I did... yeah, okay, I was spared. 

About 2:00 AM in the morning, I awoke to hear Steve in the bathroom, obviously in distress.  His entire gastrointestinal system had been compromised.  From the loft I heard Rick ask if Steve was sick.

“Yeah, sounds like something is definitely disagreeing with him”, I said.

“Me, too.”

By morning both Steve and Rick were in deep trouble, and without being too graphic, suffice it to say their new best friend was a gleaming porcelain entity that never fails to offer us all comfort in times of distress. 

Everybody sing!:  

“When I find myself in times of trouble,

Porcelain Fairy comfort me,

Seeking stomach freedom

Let me be.”

Fortunately the B&B owners had a doctor in their Rolodex who makes housecalls. (If you know what a Rolodex is we can be great friends.) 

Dr. Castro arrived to our room in less than 30 minutes, quickly and assuredly diagnosed the problem, went to the pharmacy, and returned with antibiotic shots for both our suffering hombres.  This was another check on our list – a doctor who makes house calls.  How great is that?!  Nevertheless, we all spent the next two days cooped up in our room, and even moved to our second B&B on the third day.  Steve and Rick were still recovering when we checked into Los Arcos B&B. We love Los Arcos, and David is a great guy and very talented artist.  He has only three rooms, but he is always full as he knows how to treat guests.  All guests gathered for breakfast each morning at his dining table.  We enjoyed it, but thought that we would probably offer separate tables for guests; that way they can join in the conversation or keep to themselves.

When the guys finally recovered from their bouts, I was chomping at the bit to get out and see Mérida.  And see Mérida, we did.  We walked and walked that town, which I loved.  One of my favorite things in the world to do is walk and hike.  Steve, too.  Whenever we travel we look for hiking opportunities.

We got a fairly good sense of the layout of the town and liked what we saw very much.  Beautiful parks every few blocks with cocina economicas (inexpensive kitchen), fruit and vegetable markets, museums both large and small, historic and modern, restaurants to appease all tastes and preferences, all kinds of Mom and Pop stores selling everything from hardware and paint to appliance parts, piňatas, paper goods, electronics, furniture, candy, food – in short, everything one would require on a daily basis for life in a colonial city. 

At breakfast the next morning our host, David, hooked us up with his friend and realtor, Jim.  Jim showed us several properties that were very interesting.  However, none of them spoke to us that they could be our B&B. 

From Los Arcos we next moved to Medio Mundo, another great B&B in Mérida.  We enjoyed their use of color on the property and knew that was the direction we wanted to go, should we be able to open our own place.  The owners have run this B&B for about 12 years, and it was beginning to show.  We didn’t see much of them.  However, they run a very nice place: clean, comfortable, inviting, with a good staff and a continental breakfast that, if not completely filling, sufficed until lunch.  However, this is where we decided that at our B&B we would offer a full breakfast to our guests and start them on their day ready for anything.

Another thing we liked about Medio Mundo is their gift shop.  They have items from all over Latin America, which is a nice idea and one that we definitely want to include in our own venture.

Our week was over in a flash, but we felt we had a good idea of the city.  On our last day walking around town, Rick asked where we might like to eat dinner.  Since we were so new to the city, we had been letting Rick guide us and make most of these kinds of decisions.  But now he seemed at odds about it.  He stopped and said something about us not liking Mérida and that he was sorry it didn’t work out.

Didn’t work out?  We loved Mérida.

I guess we were so focused on discovering the town that we hadn’t been very animated about it all.  Rick had interpreted our focus and concentration as dislike of the city. 

But we liked just about everything we saw, heard, and did, and had already decided that Mérida would be our next attempt at a B&B.

Back in Chicago we made plans to return to Mérida in March to see if we could find a property that would suit our needs.  We met with Jim again, and he showed us a lot of properties – probably 15 – 20 – I lost count.  After Jim showed them to us in the mornings, we spent the afternoons walking from the Zocalo to each one.  But, still, none of them fit the bill.  One was too far from the Zocalo, another too small to have 6 guestrooms (the minimum number of rooms we had decided upon), some would cost too much to renovate, some flooded during rainy season, some too expensive, etc., etc., etc.  We could tell Jim was a bit frustrated with our rejection of every property and probably thought we were not serious buyers.  But if this was going to be the place we spent the rest of our working lives, it had to be right.  I guess it was too much to walk into the first property and fall in love, like we had in Italy.

On the last day we again saw a few properties and again they were not right.  The last property of the day was in Santa Ana.  We were walking to the property from the car when we ran into the property’s owner.  Jim told him we were about to look at his house.  But the man said the house already had been sold and the realtor had neglected to remove the listing from the website.  We were a bit depressed and started to form plans to return to Mérida again in a few months to look at properties.  But that would prolong our feeling of being in life-limbo.

Then the owner of the house that was already sold said he had another property for sale.  It was just around the corner and he said he had just lowered the price.

Jim looked at us and said we had to see it.  He knew the property, but had forgotten it was for sale as it was not listed on all the real estate websites; it was only listed on the website of the real estate company that the owner worked with.  So the man took us to the property.  It was in Santa Ana, three blocks from the park and four from Paseo de Montejo. 

The front of the place was not very special – just a double door and a window.  Through the front door we entered into the living room.  It was a dull grey color, with grey pasta tiles that had probably been laid in the 1970’s, judging from their pattern.

There was a staircase to the right that led to a second floor, we surmised.  Beyond the living room were a small kitchen on the left that led to the back door, and a dining room on the right that led to another room beyond.  That room was being used as another living room and there was beautiful, old pasta tiles on the floor.  They were probably as old as the house – maybe 100 years.  It had a bathroom off it that was shared with a bedroom beyond.  You could pass from the second living room to the bedroom by crossing through the bathroom.  The bedroom had bright pink past tiles on the floor.  Could we work with these?  There were also two exterior doors to both these rooms off a small vestibule outside.

Beyond the back kitchen door ran a long walkway next to the living room and bedroom to the right.  Beyond that was a patio and then a small garden.  An old cement above-ground cistern was located on the right side, and a small laundry room past that.  The rest of the yard was dirt, save for two medium-size trees and a small square of plantings – mostly succulents. 

The property was narrow – just 7 meters in the front, and narrowed to just under 6 in the rear, but it was long: 69 meters.

The second floor had one large room and a terrace overlooking the street.  There was a very small bath, but we immediately felt we could live in that room, if we had to.

Well, Steve and I both got that excited feeling we had had with Coppo 7.  We felt the property was about as good as we were going to get for the price.  We felt we could afford to renovate it into 6 rooms: the two existing rooms on either side of the first-floor bathroom.  With a little creativity on Steve’s part, we could manage to build four more rooms and put in our requisite pool.

As we had with the other properties we had seen, we again walked from the Zocalo to the house on Calle 66.  Some of the routes weren’t the greatest of walks, but if we guided our guests three blocks up Calle 47 to Calle 60, then they would arrive at the perfect place to either turn right and head South to the Zocalo, cross the street to Santa Ana park, or walk one more block to Paseo de Montejo with its mansions, museums, and monuments.

The street the house sat on is a mix of old and new, pretty much like the rest of Mérida Centro.  Every other property seems to be in the process of renovation.  Three had already been renovated and another was in the process of a first-class upgrade.  Seemed like a great place to locate a business.  Plus, cross the street and you can hop a bus down to Centro and the main market for 6 pesos (A bus ride has since risen to an outrageous 7 pesos).

We snapped photo after photo of the place, made drawings, and already made plans in our minds for renovations.  Suffice it to say we liked the place.

      As all realtors like to do, Jim told us there was another offer coming in on the property and that if we didn’t “jump on it” we would lose it.  Well, we don’t pay any attention to that kind of stuff, but we had already decided that this was the property for us, so we wrote a contract that afternoon.

The owner accepted the offer and we made plans to close by proxy from Chicago.

And so in three short months we had gone from homeless, living off the kindness of our good friend, Diana, to budding B&B owners.  All we had to do was more than double the living space on the property, squeeze in a pool and breakfast terrace, and include a laundry and maintenance space. 

That next phase would prove to be the most challenging, yet. 

Front of house

Living room and stairs leading to second floor

Kitchen

Dining room with second living room beyond

Second living room 

Walkway out back door

First-floor bedroom

Cistern and laundry building

Kitchen

Back Yard

Second-floor room

Second living room

Dining room

Ode to a Fossa Septica

Ode to a Fossa Septica

O, wondrous tanks I see

Work your magic when I pee

Hidden under limey loam

Grey, ivory, plastic, foam

Trio of tapas cover all

No need to lift until the Fall

We can’t see your inner world

None wish to see the innards curl’d

Now my lucky fingers cross

The cost won’t feel a total loss

Praying all will flow and go

As it all swirls down the bowl

So let the people do their best

The soft’ner, washer, all the rest

Send it down the deep, deep hole

And free me from my weekly dole

What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation

What I'm Doing On My Summer Vacation

     Eating

     Watching "Law and Order" and endless repeats of Mother's Day movies on "The Hallmark Channel".

     Eating

     Washing my mother's hair.  (you heard me...don't make me say it again.)

     Eating

     Waiting for Wednesday.

     Eating - you get the idea.

     May is a slow month in Merida - or so we're told; we've never tested that rumor.  But I do know it is hot.  In fact, May is the hottest month in the Yucatan, and if the three weeks leading up to May were early indications, we are in for a long, hot summer.  So May is when we choose to close Casa Del May for a month for maintenance and upgrades (new doors, new paint, and even - now hold on to your seat - a new, larger septic tank!).  But May is also the month we fit in a trip to the U.S. to visit family.  And for the most part, and for many years, this has been an enjoyable visit that I looked forward to.  But things are changing, and have changed.  I am finally in that time of life when parental obligations are taking hold.  They have already taken hold for my two brothers and sister-in-law and nephew.  But living away from Louisville has spared me some of the stress and strain of my mother's slow decline into elder-hood.  And this visit is proving that this is going to be a quicker and more rapid process in the near future.

     My mother is 88 and by all indications is healthy, both physically and mentally.  But she is, and always has been, something of a hypochondriac.  Mom has a touch of COPD from being a smoker for about 20 years.  Thankfully she quit smoking in her 40's, so she has spared herself a lot of the effects that I have seen evidenced in other people over the years.  But she does have that COPD.  And when I say she has a touch, I mean a touch.  Her breathing is barely strained.  Don't get me wrong, it is strained, but ever so slightly and I think she has chosen to make much more of it than she should.  But it is what it is, and she has convinced herself she needs to be on oxygen 24/7.  This one decision is driving all other decisions in her life.  And because she chooses to be tethered to a steel tank and plastic tubing, she has found it difficult - not difficult, bothersome - she has found it bothersome to perform many of the everyday things we all take for granted.  Because she feels she cannot be off the oxygen for even 10 minutes, she has stopped taking showers and "bathes" at the sink.  Because she is afraid of too much heat near her oxygen tube she does not cook meals and eats much more "junk" food than she should.  Because taking that portable oxygen tank with her out of doors is cumbersome she has stopped leaving the house.  Many members of our extended family meet at a local restaurant every Friday night, and for years Mom attended.  She has not been to that dinner in over 8 months.  She is not even dressing, but sits in her recliner all day in her nightgown.

     We are all flummoxed about what to do.  This is partly because this is so unlike my mother.  She has always been fairly active.  For 35 years she walked to and from her job at A&P.  And except for one, brief stay in the hospital after my sister, Tina, was born, she has never suffered from much more than a cold.  And it is partly because she digs in her heels whenever we try to discuss what she needs to do to keep her quality of life high.  

     For Mother's Day I prepared a breakfast for Mom.  She, my two brothers, my sister-in-law, and I ate at Mom's dining room table and had a nice time.  But Mom refused to dress for the occasion.  I almost insisted she dress, but she flatly refused.  

     So now I'm trying to figure out what is the problem, and what to do about it.  Is she depressed?  Does she feel physically bad all the time?  Does she not perceive any reason to live?  I cannot figure it out, and she won't talk about it - just says she cannot do this or that because of the oxygen, or because she is not feeling well, or because her back hurts.  But she has been to the doctor and she has ruled out all these reasons, but cannot help us further.  

     So I think we are about to make some decisions for Mom that she may not like.  Or maybe she will, who knows?  We are about to hire someone to come in 3 times per week to help take care of her.  We'll see where that leads - and how I feel about things in a few months.

     This puts me, and my family, in different shoes.  We are now becoming the parents, as so often happens.  But when it happens to you it seems much more daunting and foreign.  How do I now turn to my mother and tell her how things are going to be?  I have to tell her that if she does not do certain things to take care of herself that we will step in and take over her life.  We will decide when she goes to the doctor.  We will decide who comes to her condo to help take care of her.  We will take over her finances, which will be such a turn of events for Mom that it is hard to imagine how she might react; Mom has ALWAYS been the family accountant.  My father had no clue how to even make a withdrawl from the bank.  And we will decide, when we must, when and where she will live, next.  

     I guess I knew all my life that this time would come - that the children must become the parents.  And now that that time is here, I am very uncomfortable with it.  It feels like a betrayal.  I can certainly rationalize it - I know that the changes my brothers, sister, and I will force upon Mom are for her own good - but we will probably never feel good about it.

     In the meantime, I'm spending my summer vacation in Louisville, Kentucky, getting a taste of what it might be like when - and if - I'm 88, and vowing not to follow my mother's lead on this one.  

     I want to be like other 88 year olds: Bob Barker, my 92 year old friend Raul, who is embarking on yet another 2-week walking tour of an Asian country, or even Betty White, who has given us all a new outlook on growing old.  It's going to happen to us all, if we are lucky.  I just hope I handle it well.  

     But right now I'm getting in a lot of doughnut time.

I Did It!

                I finally did it.

                Two years in Mexico and I finally did it.

                It took me a while to buck up my courage, but I reached way deep down and said to myself, “Self, you know you gotta’ do this.  If you truly want to call yourself a Yucateco… Yucateca?...  Yucatecan?... ah hell, if you truly want to call yourself a Mexicano…Mexicana…shit. 

Just gotta’ do this.”

                I’ve been avoiding this since we moved to Merida.  I would walk to the market…the one in Santa Ana Park or Santiago Park…or even the main one (Lucas Galvez?), I would walk in and see the hanging corpses, the split open flesh dripping red over the table and then snaking its way to the closest hole in the floor.  Entrails piled in the corner and in barrels waiting to be picked up by – whom?  And the stench!  My God, the smell makes you want to hurl.  And yet, I’m supposed to purchase some of these dead corpses and turn them into some type of dish that won’t make Bobby Flay run for a toilet.

                So yesterday was the day I was going to take the plunge.  

               All during my walk to Santiago Park I kept making like Jack Handy and trying to calm myself with my own DeepThoughts.  And it kinda’ worked.  By the time I approached the back side of Santiago Park I was feeling that finally buying one of those (fresh?) chickens in the market was going to work out just fine.

               

                As I turned the final corner on Calle 70, which runs behind the Park, I was feeling positively elated at the big step I was about to take.  I almost skipped around the corner and headed South and there, right in front of me, was a man suffering from exactly what I feared I might be in the not-too-distant future.  He was bent over, one hand on a light pole, the other on his knee as he projectile vomited onto the sidewalk.

               

                Oh yeah!  This is a GREAT omen!

                I quickly crossed the street and almost ran past the spot where the man stood heaving in a herculean effort (if I do say so myself) to avoid looking at and – please God – smelling the results of his liquid gift to the city. 

                I began searching my mind for a better thought to push out the vision my imagination was trying to cram into my brain.  But like always, this only backfired and my thoughts were filled with the image that I always use to punish myself.  Suffice it to say that seeing your parents in flagrante delicto when you are 17 is one of those images you can return to again and again in your life when your mind forces you to a dark place.

                I drug myself into the little market area inside Parque Santiago.  I began first in the fruit and vegetable section.  I made my purchases of a pineapple, papaya, cantaloupe, and bananas, then turned to face the dreaded meat room.

                I walked down the little walkway and turned into the room, noticing a band saw on my left that looked like it MAY have been cleaned at the turn of the century – the 20^th century, I think.

                A few feet further was one last poultry seller still open at the late hour of 1:30 PM.  The room was hot and smelly, and I was terrified of contracting some animal-borne disease just by being in the room, let alone eating anything that had been hanging out in it. 

                I approached and one of the two women behind the counter left her lunch to assist me.  She looked up at me and knew right away the kind of Gringo she was dealing with.

                “Pollo?”

                After what seemed an eternity I managed a little, “Si”.  Was that me that said that?  It sounded like a 9-year-old little girl who was about to cry.

                I looked down on the counter to see a chicken languishing on the table, already sliced in half.  Each half had a breast, thigh, leg, and more flies hovering about than I’ve seen in the bottom of a very recently used septic tank (but that’s a story for another time).

                The chicken had a nice amount of meat on it, so that was a positive.  The flesh was shiny, not dried out.  I noticed all the fat was still on the specimen as my eyes pored down the breast, past the thigh and down to the legs with…their feet! 

                I tried to be non-chalant about the whole thing – like this was something I’d done a million times before.  I said to the young woman, “I’ll take it all”, then remembered where I was and tried to use my oh-so-excellent Spanish. 

                “Todo.”

                “My God, this chicken has feet”, I thought.  “What am I supposed to do with feet?”

                Now look, my uncle was a farmer and I spent a couple weeks with him and my aunt each summer when I was a teen, so I learned a lot about farming and milking cows and slaughtering hogs and I know chicken have feet.  But, my God, this chicken had feet!

                The woman seemed to sense my distress about what to do about the feet, so she picked up a cleaver and cleanly chopped them off with a quick 1-2.   It didn’t make me feel much better, but at least I wouldn’t have to deal with chicken feet.  I mean, I know you can make soup with them or even fry them, but I am NOT about to each chicken feet.  You know they walk in their own poop, don’t you?

                The woman plopped the chicken pieces into a plastic bag and nimbly tied it as they seem to do with all plastic bags, here.  The bag was clearly wet and slimy from chicken guts, and I started looking at my own recyclable cloth bag I had brought with me to carry home my purchases for where to put this bag of chicken without making a stinking, sticky mess before I got home.  But then I looked up to see the woman place the first bag into another, stronger bag with handles for carrying.  Guess I underestimated her.

                I paid for the chicken – 70 pesos – not bad at all – thanked her and headed out the opposite door of the meat room and started my trek back home.  I kept my right eye closed as I hugged the walls next to the very narrow sidewalk opposite Mr. Vomit in an effort to keep from seeing that horror scene again, but I only managed to fill my brain with that horrible image of 85-year-old Mrs. Probst on her front porch in a lovely house dress – and nothing else – sitting with her legs spread wide open for all the world – and teenage boys - to see.

                I think I need help.

                Upon arriving home I immediately stuffed the chicken pieces into a pot, filled it with water, and got it cooking as soon as possible.  I probably over-cooked it out of my irrational fear of poisoning Steve and myself, but it made for a nice, rubbery addition to a chicken-broccoli-rice casserole we ate on for a couple of meals.  And guess what?  I’m still here!  All my body parts still work – well, if you don’t count the knees – and we don’t, yet, feel any repercussions.

                So I did it!  I made that great leap from the grocery store and its scrawny, over-yellowed, shrink-wrapped, perfectly cut pieces of chicken (with no feet), to just about the freshest, juiciest, plumpest natural chicken you can find anywhere.  Next week: fried chicken, chicken panuchos, and even chicken salad!

                Who knows, I just might fit in around here after all.  

New Friends

                One of the things Steve and I always enjoy about running a B&B is the fantastic people we get to meet and with whom we have become friends.  We’ve met folks from the U.S., Canada, Mexico, Italy, U.K., Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, Japan, Egypt, France, Australia, Germany, Austria, Romania, Argentina, Columbia, Brazil, Spain, Syria, Iran, Lebanon, and many other countries I have momentarily forgotten.  I can safely say that they all have been interesting, friendly people. 

                What makes this come to mind today are two things:  we are approaching the end of our first year at Casa Del Maya, and the departure of some guests who have been with us three times, and whom we now consider to be good friends.  Lee and Paul are finishing up a house in Merida, and we look forward to the day when they are living here.  Until then we must satisfy ourselves with their periodic renovation-check visits.  Come back soon, guys.

                Departures are bummers, because we hate to see our guests leave.  But I guess without the coming and going of our guests we would not have the chance to make new friends. 

                We hosted a fascinating Japanese artist, who works in several mediums, including creating live silkworm installations.  He also creates sculptures in stone and wood.

                We met Joel, a singer-songwriter with a gold record for his work with Bonnie Raitt.  We have had actors, writers, artists, and many “regular” people who have been just as interesting, telling us about their world travels.  We even had a Russian princess stay with us. 

                We have had several photographers, both professional and amateur, who have sent us fantastic photos of Merida and Casa Del Maya.  Another interesting chap was Paul, a pub designer in London.  He has created many really cool bars in the London area, and owns several himself.  Suzanne is a TV producer from New York, who we hope to see again.  Our first guests, Zach and Andrew, live in New York City; we felt a real connection with them right from the first. 

                Many of our guests “discovered” Merida while visiting, and some have already moved here or are in the process of purchasing a property.  Dean and John are now living here and renovating two properties and thinking about opening a business.  Paul and Steve purchased two properties, as well, and are moving to Merida in the spring.  Carol and Virgil fell so in love with the city that they returned a few short months after their first visit and rented a home to get a better feel for living here.  These are but a few of the many guests we have welcomed at Casa Del Maya in our first year.  All have become friends. 

                Another great aspect to running a B&B is the way we get to vicariously travel.  Our guests share with us their travels and their home countries, which only force us to lengthen our bucket list.  I was not certain the Netherlands was high on my list before we met a lovely family here for a week who espoused the virtues of their homeland.  The large population of Brazil kind of scared me until two young people from that country convinced us that we should visit.  And although the pyramids and other archeological elements of Egypt have always interested me, I was not certain it was a place for me to visit.  But now that we have hosted some lovely people from Egypt, I am anxious to see it for myself.

                There is not a place our guests hale from that has not peaked my interest.  I want to go to Vancouver, Montreal, Colorado, California, see more of New England, the U.S. South and heartland.  I want to see a musical in the West End of London then have drinks at one of Paul’s pubs.  I want to get out to the countryside of France as well as revisit Paris, and stop in to say hello to Anne and Estelle and Thierry and Alain.  Despite having lived in Italy there is still so much to see of that incredible country, as pointed out by our Italian guests.  In short, it’s going to be a busy retirement, someday.

                So as we round out our first year operating a B&B in this incredible Mexican city, we thank all those guests who have walked our pasillo, shared their lives, and helped us become a top B&B in Merida.  And we look forward to discovering more of the world through the eyes of our future friends.

October, 2015:  An update.
As I reread this blog post recently, I read some things that have changed, and thought I should update the post.
First, the good stuff:  Lee and Paul have finished their house and are in the planning stages of moving to Merida permanently.  Lee has begun an ex-pat website, which we love.  We still look forward to the day they are living in Merida.
Sadly, Dean and John have broken up.
Steve and Paul didn't take to Merida, and have divested and moved back to the U.S.  We miss them.
Shockingly sad is the loss of Virgil.  He suddenly passed away.  But Carol has decided to keep a home in Merida and we are fortunate enough to see her, now and then.
We end year three next month, and have made many, many new friends, and hope to make many more.

Brooke Kelly

             There’s a little girl I think about often…at least two or three times each week she comes to mind.  She is singing a song, playing a comedy scene in one of our high school productions, or just bounding into class with the kind of energy she demanded of herself.  Her name is Brooke.  Her name was Brooke.  She died two years ago.

                I am not one who thinks more highly of people in death than I did of them in life, so this is not what this is about.  Brooke was an extraordinary person, and one from whom I learned much more than I was able to teach her as one of her high school teachers.

                When I think of Brooke, she is usually singing a song from the Broadway musical, Shrek.  “I Know It’s Today” is sung by the character Fiona, actually three Fionas at different stages of her life.  Each sings that she knows a prince is coming for her, today.  Three of my students performed this song in class, and I liked it so much I kept having them repeat it for other students.  All three girls were good in the piece, but Brooke, like she always did, stood out.  Not because of her stump arm.  Not because of her stunted growth.  Not even because of her singing.  It was because of Brooke’s wonderful outlook on life that shone through in everything she did.

    

I took photos of all my students and posted them on the "artists" wall.  This is Brooke her Freshman year.

            I first met Brooke when she showed up for auditions to be accepted into our high school of the arts musical theatre program, which I headed up.  She came in all bright faced and enthusiastic, handing me a professional looking resume and headshot (most of my students didn’t even know what these things were), and even gave me an audition tape.  I was a bit taken aback and thought that this was a bit over the top.  It just didn’t feel sincere to me, at first.  But speaking with Brooke I quickly learned that she was nothing, if not sincere.  Then she sang, and she had a pretty good voice.  But what blew me away was that her routine was perfectly polished; she was a bundle of confidence performing for me and had obviously worked very hard on her audition.  So she offered talent, hard work, discipline, a great life outlook, enthusiasm and love for the art.  Well, what could I say to all that?  She was in.  And it wasn’t out of any kind of pity – Brooke could smell pity a mile away and wouldn’t have any of it – it was because she demonstrated her commitment and love of the art.  That’s all I wanted in a student.  The rest would come later.

                Brooke was born with a lot of physical problems.  I never knew exactly what they were, but I knew that there had been problems since birth.  She told me many times that she wasn’t expected to live a week, let alone 16 years, the age she was when she entered high school.  She had been in and out of hospitals her whole life, but it did not weigh on her.  She was highly intelligent, open and loving to everyone, and wise beyond her years.  I could not find a student who didn’t think the world of her.  At first I thought some students might mistreat her or be mean to her and so I was a bit over-protective at first.  But I was completely wrong, as her mother told me when she called me to say, basically, “back off”.  I should have trusted Brooke to handle things as superbly as she did.  Even the most difficult students, the ones who hated life, hated all their teachers, and bullied other students, treated Brook with respect.  She just brought the best out of people.

         

Brooke as a newsie in "Gypsy"

       Brooke had a stump arm, which was really the only outward sign of her physical limitations.  She once asked me if I thought she could be on TV with her stump arm.  I just showed her examples of performers who have overcome various limitations.  She learned about Sandy Duncan and her eye cancer challenges, and I found a beautiful video of two ballet dancers performing an incredible routine, each missing an arm and leg.  I told her she could be whatever she wanted.  And I meant it. 

                The highlight of Brooke’s Freshman year was a Make-A-Wish trip to Hollywood to visit the cast on the set of the Disney show, “The Wizards of Waverly Place”.  She came back on cloud nine, having met her idols and starting to feel that she, too, could be a real actress.  After that trip is when she began asking about her chances to be an actress on TV. 

                Before I had the chance to use Brooke in one of my productions, one of my students, who was directing a short musical for our local area thespian competition, cast her in her show.  Brooke had natural comedic timing and I found myself laughing after her every delivery, even after having seen the production at least a dozen times.  She had great comedic timing, which you cannot teach.  I subsequently cast her in my own productions and found a role for her in most every one.  But one of her proudest moments was early on, when she worked backstage on a production of “Little Women”.  During a scene where the character Beth dies, I had a kite symbolically fly up and away.  Brooke flew the kite and it was quite beautiful.  After each performance she asked me how I liked the kite.  I just said to her, “It was perfect”, which it was.

                In class she was enthusiastic, if not always in attendance due to ongoing challenges with her health.  But when she was there class was different.    The students upped their game whenever Brooke was watching.  There was less of the belly-aching that can go on with high school students.  And the ones who usually sat in the back of the class, unwilling to allow themselves to open up enough to bare real feelings, even they began to join us in some of the in-class performances.  I noticed how they looked at Brooke, and I could sense the impact she had on them. 

                I wanted a great future for Brooke.  She deserved it.  I envisioned her on her own Disney show, “Just Brooke”, or something equally as corny.  The world needed to get to know this kind of energy. 

                I knew Brooke would be successful at whatever she did, given the time.  But time was the big issue.  Although she never said anything, I could tell she was worried about her time on Earth.  I guess that is why she was packing in so much living while she could.  There was no telling when another physical challenge would raise its far-too-ugly head. 

                I left my teaching position before Brooke’s Senior year of high school.  In the fall I received a message on Facebook from one of my former students to tell me that Brooke had passed away.  I was stunned and heartsick.  I really had convinced myself that Brooke would be alive when I was old and gray.  I was certain I would enjoy my retirement watching Brooke on her own show.  I wanted so many more people to get to know her, to experience life from her point of view, and to enjoy that unbridled enthusiasm for theatre, love of her family, and especially of her sister.  Few deaths have seemed so unfair, made me so angry, and left me feeling so helpless.  I try to make sense of Brooke’s death.  Several times each week I think about Brooke and try to figure it all out, all the while Brooke is singing her Shrek song in the background.  Why her?  Why all the suffering?  How did she overcome it all and live the full, gracious life she did in only 19 short years?  But it is, of course, impossible.  How can you make sense of a senseless event?

                I guess the reason I think about her so much is that she did so much more good in her 19 years than I have in my 57.  When I think of Brooke, I become less angry, more enthusiastic.  When I think of Brooke I demand better of myself.  For Brooke’s sake I am working to enjoy life more, be a better friend, try to become the person Brooke knew we all were.  Brooke motivates me to be a more human human being.  I am just so sad that she had to leave us for me to learn those lessons.

                So now I picture her in her heaven, still cracking jokes, stirring people’s passions, and showing us all how to live (if only we would listen).  And I picture her waiting for her prince.  I know it’s today.