Leafing Through

                When we moved to Merida, we knew things would be different.  We were well aware of our lack of language skills.  We were ready to learn new cultural ways.  When renovating we learned to accept different construction methods and traditions.  Governmental services differ, laws are definitely different, and even police officers differ greatly from their counterparts in the U.S.  However, there is one thing that has hit me like a ton of bricks; something of which I was completely unaware; a daily challenge that may send me screaming back northwards.

                Leaves.

               

                Yes, I said it…leaves.

                Leaves on the ground, on lounge chairs, in the flowers, bushes, palm trees.  Leaves on the roofs, tables, chairs, circular stairs, and on every stamped concrete walkway on the property.    I thought that we had landed in paradise, a place of perpetual summer where raking leaves might have to be a thing of the past.  After all, if it is always summer, leaves will never fall off the trees, right?  RIGHT???

                How naïve I was (some might say stupid).  I have learned that every tree has its own life cycle, and that they definitely do not all share the same one.

                The leaves began falling in January.  Not a lot of them, and not very large ones.  Small leaves falling off small trees.  One leaf-gathering chore every two weeks or so seemed to suffice.  This continued through March, it seems.  I was living in a fools-paradise, however, as the size and frequency of the falling leaves began to increase, exponentially.

                By the end of April I was seeing not only leaves, but what we always called whirlybirds – those little twin-sided wings that we used to love watch elegantly spin gently to earth.  But my initial nostalgia turned to chagrin as the numbers increased and I started digging them out of every nook and cranny of the property.

                The end of May saw the fruit trees begin dropping their little round, mushy balls.  I don’t have a clue what they are; all a neighbor was able to tell me was, “it’s a fruit, but I forget the name”.  Really?  There are so many different fruits that you cannot even identify them in your own back yard?  Well, join the club.  If the fruit was not falling off the trees and into our yard, then the iguanas were up in the trees eating, and dropping them half eaten, all juicy, slimy, and soft, into the yard.  I pick one up to toss it over into the abandoned yard next door and along goes a handful of our yard stones, stuck fast.

                June.  The small leaves continue to fall, the whirlybirds find their way into the spaces behind my pool equipment and water heaters, and the fruit is now nearing the end of its season and is even grosser when I have to pick them up.  Now, a huge old tree in the next yard decides it is time to shed its gigantic brown leaves to make room for the new, green ones arriving daily.  Now I spend most of my day in our rear courtyard picking up thousands upon thousands of leaves, fruit, and whirlybirds.  I get the area all nice and clean, go in the house for a bite to eat (okay, more than a bite, but let’s not talk about stress eating right now), then return to the yard for my next chore when, bam!  I eye the ground and start foaming at the mouth and babbling in some unknown tongue.  The courtyard is again awash in leaves.  It looks like a brown carpet.  So I spend another hour picking up leaves.  Now, I say pick up the leaves because it is virtually impossible to rake them.  First, we have too many obstacles to rake around: water heater, water softener, cistern, a small tree, flowers, bushes, a walkway, a circular stairs…you get my drift.  So I pick up the leaves one by one and place them in an old paint bucket for dumping back into the next yard from whence they came. 

The rear courtyard milliseconds after removing leaves

                Removing the leaves in the rear courtyard has become an obsession…and I’m not one prone to obsessions.  (Well, there is that little road sign issue, but, again, let’s not go there right now.)  I find myself bending over several times per day, duck-walking through the courtyard, gathering every little leaf, twig, stem, and the odd bird feather (don’t know where THEY are coming from).  I walk back to our laundry area and as I pass through the courtyard the leaves begin to laugh at me. 

                “Hahahahaha, think you have beaten us, do you?  Well, my bent over American friend, you have not even BEGUN to see the last of us!  Hahahahahaha.”

                This constant bending over is aging me much faster than my actual young 6^th-decade age would suggest.  As I stood outside our front door the other day, waiting for our most recent guests to arrive, two women walking by dropped a coin in my hand.

                It is early July and the leaf dropping shows no signs of slowing.  I am now spending more time in the rear courtyard than in my bedroom.  I was prepared for the daily duties of running a Bed & Breakfast, and actually enjoy most of them.  I don’t mind sweeping the walkways, cleaning rooms, making breakfast and doing the many little maintenance items the crop up each day.  Just today I finished sealing the roofs for rainy season.  But raking leaves???  Whodathunkit?

                “It’s always somethin’,” as Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say. (If you get that, your AARP card is waiting.  If you don’t, come back when you have been properly schooled on one of the greatest comediennes of the last century.)  But not to worry; I have thrown in the towel.  If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, as they say.  I found a way to keep the grounds nice and clean AND get my full 8 hours of nightly rest.  If you don’t believe me, just stop by and take a look in the rear courtyard.  Just don’t trip over my bed.

               

                

Cenote Summer - Part III

Ek Balam and X’cane Cenote

One of the joys of running our B&B is being able to take our guests with us on some of our day trips.  That’s exactly what we did on a Saturday this June when we spent the day at Ek Balam and its cenote, X’cane.

                The young lady staying with us for a week wanted to see a cenote and a Mayan civilization site, but we could not find a tour operator going to the site that day.  So Steve and I thought we would go ourselves and invite our guest along with us.  Ek Balam was on our list of Mayan sites to visit this summer, so this was definitely a two-birder.

                We rented a small car, loaded ourselves in, and headed for Ek Balam, a Mayan civilization site just a few kilometers north of Valladolid.  The trip takes about an hour and a half, and the roads are excellent all the way, IF you ignore the pot-holed driveway into Ek Balam itself.

                When we parked the car a young boy was waiting, and told us he would “watch” our car.  Yes, we were kind of being shaken down, but it is really a tradition in the Yucatan to tip people who help you park your car.  A lot of these people are very poor, so who can begrudge 5 or 10 pesos? 

                Inside the entrance to Ek Balam we paid our two entrance fees to the two government entities that run the site.  One government department collects for the administration of the site and the other is for maintenance and buildings.  It is always amusing to me that the government cannot figure out how to charge one fee and split the appropriate monies to the two departments, but it is this way at every Mayan site we have visited.

          

      Ek Balam is not Chichen Itza, thank goodness.  It is smaller, with less tourists (at least on this day), but no less spectacular.  We first approached a small building that was open on all four sides.  We thought it might be some sort of entrance building.  As we continued through the site we came across two pyramids across the grounds from each other.  The Oval Palace is the smaller of the two, and we climbed it first.  We reached the top and surveyed the area.  The green canopy of trees of the Yucatan spread out across the countryside.  This was a very good spot to get a feel for the layout of the entire site.  We looked across to the Acropolis and suddenly couldn’t wait to climb that one.  So down we went.

                About 100 steps take you to the top of the Acropolis.  It’s a bit of a slog, but your reward is a spectacular view of the Ek Balam area and about 30 kilometers in all directions.  We could see that there were probably many more buildings yet to be uncovered;  indeed, one of the site employees told us that Ek Balam extends at least 4-5 kilometers beyond this main section.  It must have been quite a civilization and makes me want to know how and why this great culture collapsed.

 

                We spent quite a bit of time at the main site, but eventually wound our way to X’cane, the cenote nearby.

                At the Ek Balam entrance there is a rough road that leads to the cenote.  You can rent a bike for 20 pesos, or take one of the bicycle taxis for 30 pesos, round trip.  We decided to just walk, which normally takes about 20 minutes.  I say normally because about 5 minutes into our trek the clouds opened up and it poured rain the rest of our way to X’cane.  By the time we made it to the ceonte entrance we were, of course, soaked.  But that was no problem; after all, we were there to get wet anyway!

                Cenotes are like snowflakes: every one is different.  X’cane has a very large, round opening, and it drops down about 150 feet to the beautiful water below.  There are two sets of very steep, wooden stairs on opposite sides of the cenote, with wood walkways and two suspension bridges connecting them. Outcropping of rock jig-jag in and out as the stone walls drop dramatically into the water.  As nature will always find a way, lush greenery is everywhere.  Trees dip their long roots all the way to the water and vines have spent decades twining their way along the stone walls.

                There are ropes hung from various trees at the top of the cenote that swimmers use to swing out over and into the water.  Several teens were taking advantage of them.  One guy with very long hair – we called him Fabio – stood on one of the wood stairs about 60 feet up and dove into the water to much appreciation and applause. 

                We swam about 45 minutes, then sat on the wood boardwalk and watched the other visitors enjoying the water, then headed to the little restaurant on the grounds and had beers and a wonderful jamaica (ha-MAY-ka). 

                The walk back to the car was drier, if not any less muddy, and by this time we were pretty hungry.  We headed to the wonderful town of Valladolid and ate at the restaurant connected to the hotel El Meson del Marques.  By the time we got back home, we were all pooped and headed off to a restful nights’ sleep. 

Jordy and his partner, Steve, welcome guests to Casa Del Maya Bed & Breakfast in Merida, Mexico.  Their six rooms offer hand-crafted Mayan furniture, pasta tile floors, talavera sinks, air conditioning, pool, full breakfast, and much more, all centrally located for easy access to Merida attractions and the Mayan ruin sites of Chichen Itza, Mayapan, Uxmal, Ek Balam, area cenotes, Celestun, Progreso, and many others.   For information and reservations, visit www.CasaDelMaya.com.  

Cenote Summer???

Okay, so the title is a bit of a misnomer.  No cenote visits this time, no Mayan ruins or museum visits.  With all our running around this summer it is nice to take a day once in a while to just sit in the pool and enjoy our own little paradise.

                May was hot.  We knew it would be hot.  Everyone has told us since we moved to Merida, “May is the hottest month”.  People not from the Yucatan are usually amazed that May is the hottest month of the year…we were.  I grew up in Kentucky, where the hottest months were July and August.  But by July and August in Merida you are beginning to feel a slight cooling effect.   Okay, I guess I can’t really call it cooling, but it is definitely less hot, more tolerable. 

You really learn the reason for the famous Mexican siesta when you spend the month of May in the Yucatan.  There is no way you can do much between the hours of noon and 4:00 PM.  It is simply too hot.  Just walking to the grocery store causes me to sweat my body dry.  I cannot drink water and Gatorade fast enough.  That is why I am so much in awe of anyone who works outside for a living.  Our construction workers last summer worked their buns off…even when the mercury reached the top of the thermometer. 

Why aren't you here?

The sun seems to be about a mile overhead, and makes even the stamped concrete walkway an experience akin to walking on hot coals.  So a couple days a week I take a few hours and sit in the pool with my Kindle, trying to finish the impossibly long read I am currently half-way through, or continue my Spanish studies by stumbling through the online version of the local newspaper, Diario.  I ease myself into the refreshing, cool water, and instantly experience a renewed sense of being.  It is heaven.  The heat disappears as I settle into the shallow end, where I can sit with my head above the water.  I prop myself in the corner, pick up my reader, and soak up a little color while the Germans plan for their attack on Poland.

An hour slips by in an instant.  I am refreshed and have forgotten about the heat of the afternoon.  I pause to watch as the plastic swan chlorine dispenser moves past me on its never-ending laps around the pool, propelled by the pool’s water jets.  Every so often I dip my head under water, keeping even that huge sun-magnet cool and breezy. 

I feel ready to tackle another project; I can face sealing the casita roof or cutting the overgrowth from the neighbor’s yard.  There are painting touch-ups to be completed and concrete cracks to repair, and I’m ready to tackle them all.  So I stand and start for the pool stairs as the heat begins to again swirl around me and I see the hot air rising off the walkway.  Ah, heck, those cracks won’t be getting any bigger; I think I’ll just take a few more moments and try to finish this book.   After all, why else am I living in Paradise?

I Wanna' Be Like Uncle George

     My Uncle George was married to my Aunt Maxine, my father's sister, for over 60 years.  You know how when you are young you think everything anyone over 30 says and does is lame?  Well, that was me, as well...in spades.  I thought I knew it all.  I wouldn't listen to anything.  I questioned why Maxine and George continued to live in and pour money into that small, old house they lived in.  I couldn't understand why Uncle George fussed over his Chevrolet Impalas (he only bought Impalas).  Seemed a lot of work to keep a hunk of metal and plastic in such pristine condition when he could always just trade it in for a new one.  I even questioned the little things, like why Uncle George would step off the porches of his house at the worst possible points.  Lame, right?

Uncle Howard, Aunt Dorothy, and Dad in front of the house - circa 1945

     Maxine and George's house sat high atop a hill in Somerset, Kentucky.  When I was very young there were about a dozen houses sitting on top of that hill.  To make way for a new highway, all the houses except three were razed, leaving Maxine and George's house and two neighbors sitting on top of what was left of the hill.  In summer, when I would spend about 6 weeks with Maxine and George, we would sit in their side yard and watch cartoons on the big Drive-In movie screen about a mile away.  The house sat in the middle of their property, and the yard sloped dramatically down from all sides of the house.  Cutting Uncle George's front yard was actually quite dangerous, as the slope was the steepest there and dropped down to the highway at the bottom.  I wasn't allowed to help cut the grass until I was about 15 years old.
     The house was built in 1895 - my father and his siblings were all raised in the house by Aunt Maxine after their young mother died.  The house had a side porch made of wood planks.  Walking out the side door to the porch, you could walk straight ahead and step about 6 inches down to the ground.  But as I said, the property sloped steeply on all sides, so if you walked to the left just two feet, you then had to face a drop of about 2 feet.  So it always struck me as rather odd that Uncle George would walk out the screen door and move left to step off the steep end of the porch.  Why?  Why make your life harder?  Why put more effort into stepping off the porch when a little step down was available just straight ahead?  Lame.
     Uncle George built highways for the State of Kentucky for 50 years - got a service award certificate for 25 years that hung proudly in one of their rear guestrooms (how three bedrooms fit into that tiny house I'll never know).  He was known for taking the "long way" when it meant doing it right, doing it better.  The younger men on his crew would grumble that they didn't have to do all the extra little things Uncle George made them do.  But that was Uncle George.  You may have not been able to see it, but there was always method to his madness.  And so it is now, 10 years after losing him, and as I age myself, that I see why Uncle George continued, even at age 85, to step off the steep side of the porch.  He was challenging himself, forcing his body to do the things he had always been able to do.  He wanted to continue doing them.

Uncle George and me

     And so now I attempt to emulate his ways.  I try to walk when it would be so much easier to take a bus.  I go the grocery when I need any little thing, rather than wait until I have a large list of items I need, just so I can get the walk in.  I do my best to ignore, and not complain (although I do complain, constantly!) about little aches and pains, about my feet hurting, or about having to lug home groceries by hand (if we only had bought a car). 
     Uncle George was fighting nature - our inclination to make life as easy as possible.  So why not take the easy road?  Well, I would like to be around at least as long as my Uncle George, who passed away at age 88, and not because of any physical ailment; he was heartbroken because he had lost Maxine just six months earlier. 
     I once heard a woman of 75, who was leading an exercise class, say "motion is lotion", and I guess I am trying to adopt that strategy of having a fruitful old age where I can still do all the things I want.  I want to hike the Alps again, I want to swim in the Mediterranean Sea, and I want to retire to a small village somewhere where you walk to the local market each day for your fruits, vegetables, and meats.  If motion is, indeed, lotion, then I want to slather myself with it every day, whether I like it or not.  After all, it is so much easier to take that bus, hop that taxi, or just stay home and sit in front of the TV.  I'm fighting my natural instinct to take it easy, but that won't get me where I want to go.
      So here's to my Uncle George, who taught me many things, not the least of which is how to live a vital existence.  I'll do my best to take the higher step down. 

Slow Food

               When we needed shower shelves for our B&B, my partner, Steve, and I hopped a city bus for the nearby pueblo of Dzitya.  A friend told us that Dzitya was the place to go if you wanted anything in stone.  How right he was.  What our friend didn’t know was that you can find another one of those incredible “Cocina Economicas” (inexpensive kitchen) you find everywhere in Merida.  This one would give us the most “local” experience ever.

                We got off the bus at a corner, on a street where are located about a dozen little shops selling their stone wares.  They all seemed very quiet and we wondered whether they were even open.  Ahead we saw a little more action: dogs wandering the street, children riding bikes, and a few cars parked on the side of the road.  Birds chirped in the trees and a woman in a ragged jumper watched it all from her front door.  We headed in that direction.

                As we rounded a corner onto the dusty road that passed the town square (one of the things I love about the Yucatan is how every town, no matter how small, has a town square), we began to pass a few small, old stone houses.  The last one before the square had a large covered carport attached to the side.  Billows of smoke rose up to the roof and flowed under until it found its way to open sky.  It carried with it the most delicious aroma of pollo (chicken).  We stopped to see a woman grilling maybe a dozen chickens on her barrel grill, with abuela (grandmother) seated near the entrance overlooking the operation.  Behind them were four plastic Coca-Cola tables and chairs set about the carport, and three children of about 8, 11, and 13 helping set up for the day’s hungry guests.  We had seen many Merida cocina economicas in storefronts or set up on the street even, but this was the first we saw in a carport. 

               Steve and I looked at each other and Steve said, “I think we’ll make better shopping decisions on a full stomach”. 

               “Abierta?”, we asked.  That was about the extent of our Spanish at that time.

               “Si!  Entrada”, the old woman said to our question…or something like that.  My ear is still learning to separate long strings of gibberish into understandable words.  She waved her arm for us to take a seat, so we assumed she was welcoming us in.

                Upon sitting, the 11 year old girl set our table with knife, fork, and spoon.  Salt and pepper and the ubiquitous pepper sauce were already on the table.  This was a family affair; the older boy was carrying supplies out of the house for his mother at the grill while the little 8 year old watched us intently, seemingly trying to figure out what she might be able to do for the two gringos. 

               We each ordered half a chicken.  We waited for our orders only the time it took for the woman at the grill to serve up half a chicken on each of two plates, along with freshly cut cabbage and tomatoes.  No sooner did we start digging into the chicken than the little girl arrived a second time with two huge bowls of black beans swimming in the water it was cooked in.  It was really like a bowl of black bean soup. 

              The chicken was plump and juicy, perfectly grilled, and so delicious.  It was like no chicken I ever tasted before - the way you always think chicken should taste.  The vegetables were garden-fresh, and the black bean soup was the perfect accompaniment. 

             We ate slowly, deliberately, and savored every bite. 

             

            Finishing up, we washed our hands at the little sink hung on the wall.  The water went down the drain and into a bucket placed on the floor.  We then returned to our table to relax and savor a great, simple meal.  Then we were ready to head out to shop for…  Uh, now why did we come to Dzitya?

Carnaval!

Every year Merida, Mexico hosts one of the largest and best Carnavals in the world.  This year locals and travelers alike put on their dancing shoes, their colorful costumes, and headdresses to enjoy internationally known artists from the worlds of music and dance, parades, and daily events that will help bring out your wild side.

This year’s Carnaval, titled “Mérida Mística”, brought to the Yucatan internationally known artists to enthrall us with their music and dancing.   From Salsa bands to traditional folk music, from lovely women and handsome men in traditional costumes presenting traditional Mexican dance to brightly costumed modern dancers, Carnaval week held something for everyone.  But music and dance are but one part of Carnaval.  There are parades, from the opening parade with floats featuring school-age children, to the more adult-themed parties and parades later in the week.  Men and women dress up in their most colorful costumes representing their long heritage in the Yucatan. 

The week begins with the “Burning of the Bad Humor” in the main square, or zocalo.  Each night  seed a parade through town with a different theme.  Thursday is the pre-school parade, followed on Friday by the Corso parade, and the week continues with the Fantasy Parade, Bachata Parade, Regional Parade, the Battle of the Flowers, and the weekends up with the Burning of Juan Carnaval. 

Don’t miss this great week of fun next February; come to Merida and let your hair down!

A Sunday Morning Bike Ride

               Looking for a relaxing place to see great architecture, roam colonial streets, eat wonderful local foods, and infuse yourself with local color?  Then the city of Merida, in the state of Yucatan in Mexico, is just the place for you.  Only one of the great ways to experience all these things is a weekly event that every visitor to Merida should experience at least once.  

               

           Each Sunday morning an incredible event takes place on the boulevard Paseo Montejo, the “Champs-Elysees” of Merida.  Hundreds of locals and tourists alike bring their bicycles, or rent one right on the boulevard, and join families, singles, couples, and every other combination you can imagine, to enjoy a leisurely bike ride.  The city of Merida closes down Calle 60 and Paseo Montejo for the weekly event, placing volunteers at every intersection to ensure safety.  The ride begins at the Zocalo (main square) on Calle 60 at Calle 59 (continuing the fiesta that begins on Saturday), continues North to Calle 47, cuts east one block to Paseo Montejo, and continues about 2 additional kilometers.  All along the way you will see water stations, children’s’ activities booths, dancing, exercising areas, music, and much more, all free.  So even if you are not a bike rider, you can take a leisurely walk under canopied trees and stop for coffee and pastries, ice cream, or a full breakfast at one of the many, charming cafes along the boulevard.

 

                You are sure to make many new friends, whether they be ex-pats also out to enjoy the morning, Spanish-speaking locals and tourists, or families from all over this huge globe.  You will marvel at the architecture of the many historic homes lining the boulevard, some of which are open to the public as museums and other public spaces.  You’ll pick up a few new Spanish words, drop a few pounds, and gain new insight into what it might be like to live in this wonderful, historic city with its lovely, welcoming inhabitants.