Today as I tackled a few chores related to loose ends that stand between life in Colorado and a future in Yucatan, doubts crept in and cast a shadow over the enthusiasm that has persisted since the time in Merida and Valladolid a couple of weeks ago. The amount of effort required to shut down the trappings of a life established over decades here invites doubt about the whole objective.

Is this just laziness, or are there legitimate questions about the goal and what is being left behind?

One of the items I have to deal with is getting an adoption set up for a great little foster dog we've grown quite fond of. The story I've constructed for myself about this is that moving and getting re-established with her if I adopted her myself would be a big challenge (and make things even more complicated), and there are so many neglected Mexican dogs that need a shot at a decent life, I want to be available for that.

We should be able to find a good forever home here for Rocket the foster girl that will assure her a good life, and maybe even foster another couple of rescue dogs before we depart.


Sanctuary Evolución is a Merida shelter for dogs in need of a home.

The other stuff today was just deferred maintenance - the kind of work I should have done years ago just because it needed to be done. No problem there - this is what always happens when we start to think about unloading our real estate.

Late in the day, we went for a long walk with the little dog along a couple of beautiful ponds in a natural area. When I returned home, I checked my email and found a reply from a Merida artist I had sent an inquiry to about availability of art supplies there. After describing the local supply situation and some mail order options, and expressing his interest in getting together after I arrive there, he closed his message as follows:

"Take care and leave that USA as fast as you can and don't look back:)"

It seems like I'm getting the right messages at the right times to keep me on track and focused. I'm convinced that the basic plan is sound, and the real challenge is to remain sufficiently confident and disciplined to pull it off finally. I hope the messages continue - they help.

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Surely I'm not the first person to observe the metaphorical dimension of doors, or entries. What lies on the other side? How might lives have been transformed over time as various family, lovers, officials, workers, strangers crossed that threshold? Could some of that transformation be ours? Could we somehow leave behind a small portion of our troubles simply by experiencing whatever environment lies beyond some portal? Or might we invite new troubles into our tenuous cinematic realm of existence? Each coming and going builds the tally that will eventually be cashed out when impermanence is finally demonstrated to us in some fashion.

There is probably not a person who is susceptible to the magic of colonial Mexico who has not at least stopped to admire a door or entry now and then as they wander about. No matter how humble the dwelling or business that lies beyond, there is an elegance and dignity that speaks to us. I'm among those who feel compelled to record at least some of what is seen and appreciated, and here - to share.

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During every trip I make to Mexico, I keep an eye out for the motor vehicle that will win the prize for most attrocious appearance or questionable roadworthiness witnessed during that visit. The winner from a past trip top Merida was honored with a painting after I returned home, and is displayed above. Earlier this month when I was in Merida, I walked by this location (on Parque Santiago) for old times' sake. Nothing much has changed - it felt good to be back.



I guess the winner this trip was the modified VW Beetle above. I hesitate to make fun of it, because it is probably a source of some pride (and much utility) for the Izamal family that gets around in it...

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Patrick contemplates a Mayan structure in Izamal.

It is not because life is difficult that we do not dare. Life is difficult because we do not dare. -Seneca Maior

It has taken me more than a few years to realize the truth of the above statement. I hope that now I can make use of that small incremental increase in wisdom, as I perceive time to be running short. Well, noticably shorter than it appeared a decade ago when this idea of living in Yucatan began.

It seems I have been seeking out reasons why the idea of living in Mexico (in general) and Yucatan (in particular) might be inadvisable right from the beginning. Most of the early fears have by now been dismissed as irrelevant, but more recently I've dredged up a few new issues to obsess about, like Dengue Fever, and I'm ashamed to admit that I might have been ever so slightly discouraged by the sensationalized U.S. reporting of narco-violence.

With regard to Dengue, a read through the article linked above and here indicate that the risk is acceptable, and in Merida the resources are incredibly supportive. As for the violent crime situation, I ran across a short item today that re-emphasised what I really already knew about Merida, now a self-proclaimed (deservedly) City of Peace. One would never guess I once lived fearlessly in Oakland, CA, and as recently as a few months ago considered moving back to California to live in bankrupt and sort-of-scary Vallejo.



Clearly I have wasted time looking for excuses to not dare to resume the journey to Yucatan.

Another long-time hangup has been my attachment to stuff I have accumulated over the past three or four decades.

Perhaps it's time now to remember the weeks I spent erasing all the signs of location-specific material existence when my Dad died several years ago. I hope he did what he really wanted with his last years, and had the experiences that brought him joy, peace, and fulfillment. Perhaps he was content, but if he ever felt constrained by all the stuff and the place where it accumulated, I wish he could have realized how easily (OK, it didn't seem all that easy to ME at the time) everything was transferred to new owners by donation or sale in a few short weeks, or placed unceremoniously in a landfill.


Dad's garage. The remains of a life, waiting to be hauled off to the dump.


Here I am in 2004, discarding a bunch of work ties in anticipation of moving to Merida...

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One of the tings that intrigues me about modern Mexico is the effort that still goes into repairing and maintaining things. It seems there is more incentive and motivation to keep stuff alive that we discard without a second thought here in the EE.UU. Old tube TV's, VCR's, radios, boom boxes - take the failed item down to the shop at the mercado, and some guy will tear them apart and work on their innards with a soldering iron. Oh, his sign - El 'Cautin' - means The Soldering Iron. And he is open 'DE LUNES A DOMINGO' - Monday to Sunday. Isn't that every day? How successful is he with his restorative efforts? Quien sabe...



The shoe repair guy (Renovadora de Calzados - his vertical sign on the entry) probably has a better shot at consistent success with his efforts, although he told us his machinery was about a hundred years old...

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The combination of old and new, traditional and modern, aesthetically pure and shlocky is part of the magic I feel when I am in Mexico. For example, in the picture abve taken in the local Valladolid mercado, there is the very old construction of the building, the hand lettered baño signs, the old wooden table for the attendant, the shrine to the Virgen de la Candelaria...and a 32" LCD flatscreen monitor. For what? To watch the occasional important futbol match?


Then there is the Valladolid bus station. Again, the Virgen de la Candelaria casts a reassuring gaze over the proceedings.



I'm not sure this is along the same lines, but in Valladolid, I saw several variations on the childs' bicycle seat, fabricated from odds and ends of lumber. This is probably more in the category of genius or ingenuity borne of necessity.

In any event, to me - it's all magic.

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It seems a number of people are uncomfortable with the way meat is handled and sold in the local mercados of Mexico. Big chunks of pig, lamb, goat, beef, and chicken hang on hooks and sit in piles on the butcher stands of various sellers during market hours. There is no refrigeration, but things turn over quickly during the limited market hours and things appear pretty clean. There is the occasional mosca (fly), and at times one will find a lucky dog hanging around waiting for a scrap to come his way.

I, on the other hand, am offended by what I believe typically lies behind the little styrofoam trays stacked in the meat counter of grocery stores here in Colorado (and everywhere else in the States). The living conditions and handling of factory farmed animals - especially CAFO (Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation) practices - create a problem for me in a variety of dimensions. Compassion, health and nutrition, the environment - I think I would rather take my chances with the mercado, assuming that the poor critters passing through at least might have had a decent life, eating what nature intended while enjoying some sunshine and fresh air before surrendering life on their way to my kitchen and table...

Having said that, there is an increasing awareness of the multi-faceted benefits of raising, marketing, and consumption in the US of sustainably and humanely raised livestock. It is available in many areas if ones seeks it out, and is willing to pay the understandably higher cost associated with this kind of meat production. I've seen roaster chickens in a local market that cost about $25.00, so it does present a challenge for many folks. Grass-fed and finished beef is available here for between $6 a pound for hamburger to $9 for modest steak cuts and $16-20 for fancier cuts. If you can deal with the Mexican mercado, the cost will be quite a bit less than the products of our massive factory-farms north of the border.

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Here in Colorado, I check out the produce in the flyers that arrive Wednesday morning. When I get to the store, the prices are mostly high and the quality mostly poor.

In Mexico, I imagine that my shopping with produce would mostly involve heading over to the local market to see what's available. A few mangoes from this Señora, some radishes and cilantro from that one over there. Some inexpensive flowers to grace the cocina...





While in Colorado (and many other places in the US) the movement toward buying and consuming locally produced food is a new and trendy fad, in Mexico it has always been so. While there are long-distance exotic foods available out-of-season at the big chain stores (I bought Washington State apples at a Walmart spinoff in Merida), the local mercados pretty much assure that you will be eating local and in-season.


Flowers are about eight cents a stem. Maybe a dollar for a huge vase.


Maybe a kilo of eggs?

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Hah! After posting my doubts earlier tonight about seeking work again here, I went back and read a bunch of old blog entries. Have a look at what I posted on December 29th, 2008. Seems I have been down this path before...

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Since we returned from Yucatan a few days ago, it seems a series of cosmic tests have been assembled and thrown my way, to challenge my commitment and clarity about what the best opportunity is going forward.

Little Rocket, the foster dog who we grew so attached to and then finally adopted out reluctantly to her 'perfect' home, has returned. I started getting troubling emails several days before we returned from Mexico, indicating problems and requesting that we retrieve her. Since she was in Denver, we picked her up late (around midnight, after our flights got in) from the failed adoption home, and brought her home with us.

She is such a great little dog - we both love her dearly, and would keep her if our circumstances were a little different. But if we are truly commited to trying out life in Mexico, with the flying down there for progressively longer periods of time it just doesn't make sense. And there are so many needy street dogs down there, one (or more) of which we could probably befriend and adopt.

I'm sure we can find a worthy and loving home for Rocket here and wait until we are settled there to adopt locally. But it's hard to let her go...

Then I spotted a job listing yesterday that was about as perfect a fit as possible for me - a network analyst position with the county school district. The kind of job I've been watching for since we arrived here about five years ago. Of course, there's no guarantee that they would even bring me in for an interview, but I now wonder if I should apply and see what happens. Of course, that would probably mean staying here for another year or more. Would the Mexico opportunity and dream fade away one again in the meantime? I can simply declare myself retired now (with fiscal caution), but would meaningful work bring fulfillment? The longer we wait to make our move, the more risk that a health problem will arise - or sense of adventure will diminish. We're not getting any younger...

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If you fall in love with potential, you learn to live with desperation.

-- Source unknown

It seems that's what developed over the past seven years or so. My love for Yucatan was subtly transformed into a love for the potential. Actions that might actually lead to some fruition diminished, then ceased. I still looked at real estate photos occasionally, but my attention was on the potential. And moving to Colorado was in itself an act of desperation after I felt unprepared for the move to Merida in 2004. I've never felt truly at home here, and often wondered where I might go to regain that sense of belonging last felt in the home we owned back in Hayward for ten years. Various states were considered - New Mexico, Oregon, even back to California now that the full devastation of the real estate collapse has made that imaginable again.

But Yucatan seemed increasingly remote. Lovely potential, but just a notion against a background of desperation.



And then the visit of last week. Action. A real place with associations of sound, smell, sight that were nearly forgotton. After returning to Colorado, we both were struck by the isolation of sitting in a closed-up house, protected from the cold outside. No sound of church bells, jungle birds, or music from a distant plaza. No breezes stirring or scents carried on moist dense air.



We rarely eat out here. It costs a lot, and the quality almost always sucks. While we were in Yucatan, the possibilities were so dazzling, with incredible dishes made with incredible ingredients to choose from. Tropical drinks of such intense flavor and freshness that it would be a thrill to order, see, and drink.



The cost of eating out at the modest places we prefer in Yucatan is about the same or less than if I were to prepare meals at home here, assuming I buy quality ingredients that aren't toxic with pesticides or grown in sterile monoculture soil. Since a lot is shipped in from thousands of miles away, it's usually not fresh.



It seems if we don't want all of this to recede into the realm of mere potential, the course of action must be...continued action.

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So here is the first photo from Valladolid, the first stop on a short and unexpected trip to Yucatan. The content tells you a lot about what I find magical about Mexico. Pasta tile floors, paint flaking off two-foot thick stone walls constructed a couple of hundred years earlier, as moisture is wicked up from the limestone beneath. Vintage Coke and sewing machines under a twenty foot ceiling constructed with ancient vigas of local timber. A small framed drawing of the Virgin of Guadalupe (or is it the Virgin of Candelaria?) graces the center of the back wall, draped with a random wire that seems a part of many Mexican rooms. A beautiful carved door, and a cheap set of plastic drawers.

Why is this magical to me? Who knows, perhaps because it is so far removed from the sterility and gloss that is the U.S. standard. In Mexico you find graceful decay that exudes a kind of elegance. Up North dacay permeates the soul while the surroundings shine with synthetic prosperity.

I almost didn't go on this trip. I had become discouraged about the prospects fro relocating there, and the memories of challenges were crowding out the magic. It had been several years, and when Pat decided he was going on his own, I decided I had better try again, or perhaps lose forever the possibility of adopting a Mexican reality to replace the increasingly depressing U.S. dystopia. I booked the flight he was on, then cancelled it. I booked another flight the next day, and canceled that. Finally, fearing I might never go again, I booked a flight two days into his trip for the following morning. After three hours of sleep, I was up at 2:00am to finish preparing and head for an early departure.



Twelve hours later, I arrived in Cancun to catch the bus from the airport to town, and then to Valladolid, half way to Merida and where Pat had arrived the night before. I didn't have any Mexican cash, and didn't want to accept the rotten exchange rate in the airport kiosk, so I paid with USD for the airport bus, then again for the ticket on the Valladolid bus at the main terminal. The lack of pesos only became a problem when I tried to use the bus station restroom, and found a 5-peso turnstile.

I went across the street to a money exchange place, where it took the two girls (one training the other on a balky old PC system) about fifteen minutes to change forty dollars for me. With minutes to spare, but pesos in hand, I operated the turstile then boarded the bus for Valladolid. The fact that all this stuff worked out with no plan or advance knowledge of how things worked made me feel like the magic did still exist, and that finally, I was tapping into it again.

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