La Vida Mexico
Ah, Mexico Life
As we wind down our stay here, it still seems surreal.
A typical day begins with us both waking up just after sunrise....we have been retired for a year and we still rarely sleep past seven. Robert opens the front and back doors, and we let the morning air flow through the little studio apartment that has been our home since April 5th, when we retreated from the beach to make way for the throngs of people that came to the shore for the two week Easter holiday of "Semana Santa". Coffee is soon brewing, we hear Mamacita behind us shouting orders at Beto and Anna, and the baby is crying. A bird is making a ton of squawking racket ouside the front door, and a dog is barking.
My writing has stalled. Writing about the storm that blew us here is painful, almost crippling. The next three chapters are the worst of it. I know I have to just dig in and get it done. I read my own words and they seem completely inadequate..how can I possibly convey with words the terror, and the sheer determination we had to get to land in one piece? How can I describe how we felt when the ship almost capsized coming over the breakwater to an unknown cove, and having no clue as to where we were? Or the joy that overcame us as we realized that no matter where we were, we were safe, even though our beloved sailboat was badly damaged?
I read other writers' descriptions of similiar experiences at sea, and this does not help. Words that once would have seemed artfully crafted to me before fall short. I only find one or two writers that get close. The truth is, there are no words.
We have grown to love this little city by the sea. We inhale it's sights, sounds, and smells like addicts getting a fix. We sit in tiny restaurantes and gingerly dab our tortillas in little bowls of fire, laughing as sweat pours out of our cheeks and our noses run. Someone is blowing a conch shell, and several vendors are shouting- "Tor-teeeee-yas!", calls one....."He-la-das!, Coco Freeee-oooo", calls another....
We love to watch children playing freely on the beach, barefoot in the warm blue water, laughing as the waves chase them or a seagull lands nearby. Their parents lounge within arm's reach, sipping cerveza and enjoying a much deserved holiday. I miss taking my own children to the beach, and long for a way to turn back the hands of time, if only for a moment. Everything is pure when seen through the eyes of a child.
We pick up fresh tortillas from the tortilleria, and a couple small loaves of bread from the panaderia nearby, crusty and warm. The tortillas will set us back five pesos, the two loaves are seven pesos.(Less than a dollar usd for both purchases) I slice the bread on a diagonal and spread warm refried beans, chopped ham and cheese over it, put it under the broiler for a couple minutes, then sprinkled on some tomatoes freshly picked from the plant on our balcony. The dish melts in our mouths.
Outside the propane delivery driver goes by, loudspeaker blaring it's little jingle...."Zeta, Zeta, Zeta Gas"...
We haven't even left yet, and I find myself daydreaming about coming back.
We have met so many warm and wonderful people here....friends. Friends from Mexico, friends from Canada, friends from Texas. I don't hesitate to walk pretty much anywhere in town in the daytime and I do not ever feel unsafe. I usually walk down to the beach and take the Malecon into the Centro to shop for groceries so that I can see and smell the ocean on the way. I have finally forced myself to stop picking up shells and stones and tile and everything pretty I see in the sand and leave it for others to enjoy. It's hard, though, because I want to take it all with me.
But if we are coming back, I have to finish the book, and hope like hell that people want to read about what happened here, and how we turned tradgedy into triumph, lemons to lemonade. Hope like hell I can somehow turn it into words that inspire page turning.
I sincerely thank those that are supporting my endeavors on Patreon. You make my world turn right now. And to my wonderful husband, for never saying, "You can't."