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.

                

I Guess It's Better Than The Alternative

                I will be 57 years old in a few short months.  To say I have been feeling my age recently is an understatement.  The “little aches and pains” my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles  always talked about are now my claims to their realms.  My constant worrying about every little ache and pain and what they potentially may be both embarrass and anger me.   I find myself turning into a bit (okay more than a bit) of a hypochondriac.  Completing the age-old cliché, most of the conversations I have with friends and family ultimately include talk of getting old.

                Last week my sister and her husband visited us.  On their third day I slipped on wet concrete and performed one of those incredible body gyrations you do when you will do anything to keep from falling.  Fortunately I caught myself after performing a stunt that must have looked like a killer orca rising up out of the water and twisting and turning for all it’s worth before lumbering back into the water.  As I said, I caught myself, but I must have twisted something because the next day, and for five days after, I was almost unable to walk.  Just pulling my left leg out of bed onto the floor was no easy feat.  And every time I breathed in a stabbing pain hit me in the back.  If I hadn’t known better I would have sworn I had a samurai sword stuck in my liver.  The pain slowly, and I mean SLOWLY dissipated until by the seventh day I was able to return to my normal routines.  But, wow, I have never experienced any kind of back problem and it has made me think about…and accept…my age!  (Did I say accept?  I mean begrudging allow.)

                I remember my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles always talking about their little aches and pains.  It was SO boring.  I was determined not to sit around and be the kind of middle age fogey that couldn’t wait to share the latest bump on my head or how many times I got up last night to pee.  But here I am, worrying about all the same stuff, asking my mother if my father had this little rash, or insisting that my friend Diana take a look at my poop.  I guess it’s just part of growing old... if you’re lucky.  I know I should feel fortunate that I’m still alive at 57, especially after the history of the men in my family.  But it makes me mad that I am succumbing to the fear and loathing, and hypochondria, the little aches and pains bring.  I should be celebrating each day I wake up in the morning!  Instead I am certain that the looseness in my hip means I need a hip-replacement or that the pain in my lower abdomen is cancer or a headache means I have a huge brain tumor, and you know that no one survives a brain tumor.  I am constantly certain I will go to sleep and never wake up.  (Yeah, but what a great way to go, please God.)

                I suppose what all this is really about is death.  I am going to die.  We all are going to die.  And it is the ultimate end, or transition, or whatever you believe it is.  But whatever we believe, it’s pretty clear we all want to stick around as long as possible.  And in my quest to stick around I look for every little clue I can find that might tell me it’s not yet my time.  I am on the site DeadOrAliveInfo.com constantly.  It somehow reassures me that someone who did something that made them famous enough to be listed on a website went before me.  I also like it when I see that someone made it well into their 90’s…gives me hope.  Esther Williams was 91.  Aw, I liked her.  Sorry she died BEFORE ME!  James Gandolfini was 51?  5 years younger than me?  Man, have I got it going on, or what?  But then there are those who are way up there and still hanging on.  Betty White, you bum me out, and yet curiously thrill me at the same time.

                So now I sit around and figure how much I will need to retire, not because of all the great traveling I will do or great places I will see, but because with the way my body is failing there is no way I can work until 66 (and 4 months, thank you very much Social Security Administration!).  How much will I need to retire?  How long will I live?  Is there really any point to all this, acknowledging that growth on my ankle? 

                Well, I’ll tell you how long I’m going to live:  144.  That’s right, I decided when I was 21 that I was going to live to be 144 years old.  I am going to die on New Year’s Day, 2100.  And since I have no idea at what age I’ll ACTUALLY buy the big one, I may as well shoot for the moon.  Unless, of course, my recent forgetfulness is, just as I feared, the first signs of dementia, in which case, please just tell me I made it to 144.  

Yucatan Haciendas

                When you visit the Yucatan, there are three things you must see: at least one Mayan site (and I highly recommend several), at least one cenote (and I highly recommend as many as you can fit in), and at least one hacienda.  One hacienda that is now more of a museum than a working hacienda is Yaxcopoil, just an hour outside Mérida. 

 

Entrance Arch

                Hacienda Yaxcopoil (yaksh-ko-PEL) is located on Highway 261, on the road to Uxmal.  You enter through a driveway to the left of the large entrance arch, which is closed, probably to save it from accidental destruction by vehicles hitting it as they pass through.  It is a stunning piece, and suggests to me architectural design borrowed from the Middle East.  Its curved arches contain lights, making it look like a giant candelabra. 

                The walkway up the middle of the front yard is still mostly intact, as are the steps leading to the wide front porch stretching the entire width of the main building.  Inside the main hallway we paid our entrance fee, and then continued on.  I expected this building to be pretty much the entire hacienda, but I was in for a bit of a surprise as we discovered room after room, structure after structure, and fields that stretched on for, seemingly, miles and miles.

                The main building contained much of the owners’ family’s living quarters.  There were bedrooms with much of their original furniture, and a salon, all with their original pasta tile floors still intact and gorgeous.  I am constantly amazed at how well these old pasta tiles hold up in construction, design and color retention. 

       

Pool and bathhouse rooms

Maintenance Building

         The next building contained a library, dining room, and at least one kitchen.  Behind that was a pool and bathhouse for those hot Yucatan summers.  As we continued beyond the bathhouse we came across the property’s well house, with a huge, old water pump reaching deep down the well to suck up the water running in the underground rivers below to disperse throughout the house and gardens.  A huge concrete reservoir (I thought it was another swimming pool), sat next to the well.

       

         The grounds are beautiful, if not 100% maintained.  But it is easy to imagine the huge cost of running a hacienda, with all it encompasses.  There were trees to be used for lumber, all kinds of floral offerings, areas for vegetable gardening, and some agave plantings.  As we strolled the gardens an employee of the hacienda stopped and asked if we wanted to see the maintenance building.  Of course we did.  So he unlocked a gate and guided us through a field (where locals happened to be playing softball) to another huge structure. 

Storage Building

This was the building where all the heavy machinery was located.  There were old saws, lathes, smelting equipment, welding equipment, and a huge smokestack just behind the building.  Just beyond, stunningly, were two more huge, ornate buildings with statues and many carvings.  These, we learned, were for storage.  Then, beyond these buildings, were acres upon acres of the hacienda’s land, some still owned by the hacienda, some having been given to locals to farm many years ago. 

             

Smokestack

   I had no idea these haciendas were so large and so self-sufficient.  Next to the main house were several other buildings.  One was a small hospital, one was for feeding the hacienda’s employees, and one was a school for the children of the hacienda’s workers.  It was a small town contained on one family’s property.  I suppose you could see it as the Yucatan’s Downton Abbey.

View from the Maintenance Building

                There are several haciendas in the Yucatan, and some are still working haciendas, where you can see workers cultivating and processing henequen into rope, baskets, purses, rugs, and many other products.  A trip to the Yucatan should definitely include a trip to at least one hacienda.  

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?