Why We Left an Anthology of American Women Expats

by Janet Blaser

  That’s when we started thinking about how we were going to get all this “stuff” and our fur-babies to Mexico. Get a U-Haul? Not an option. (Where do you return your U-Haul in Mexico?) Fly? Not putting my dogs in a cargo hold. What about making them therapy dogs so they can just fly with us? Not an option with our dogs. (If you met them you’d know why.) We decided we were going to drive to the Yucatán Peninsula from South Carolina. Even if we drove straight through without stopping, that was 50 hours with two dogs, a pick-up truck and a pull-behind trailer.

  We kept thinking, no problem, we got this. The more research we did about driving across the U.S. / Mexico border and the roads we’d be driving on, the more we realized that taking a trailer and keeping all our possessions safe on this journey was just not feasible. It was time to rethink what “precious” meant. The list began to narrow. We decided to keep a few things in storage in the U.S. Because, like Heath said, “We can always go back.”

  The “taking it to Mexico list” became very short. We planned to pack a suitcase each for the journey, dog food, dog beds and dog toys. I bought clear plastic totes and packed our clothes and shoes, my favorite kitchen tools, a set of dishes, Grandma’s silver (which are now our everyday utensils), a medicine box, a pared-down version of Heath’s art supplies and a few small kitchen appliances. We also brought our favorite artwork that would withstand the heat and humidity, some books, three tool boxes, fishing gear, a computer, printer and scanner. Doesn’t sound like a lot but when you’re packing it into the bed of a truck, wow! We also numbered every box and made a manifest with all the items in each box in English and Spanish, along with the value in U.S. dollars and pesos.

  At this point we were thinking, planning, researching and stressing out about crossing the border with all our stuff, worrying about the best route to take, crossing the border, what it was going to be like when we got there, crossing the border, were the dogs going to adjust, crossing the border, getting health records for the dogs, crossing the border, do we get residential status or tourist visas, crossing the border, practicing Spanish every day and crossing the border. It was honestly the only thing I could think about. I had nightmares of tidal waves washing over our new home and not being able to find the dogs or my husband. I was waking up for hours at a time in the middle of the night. I was sleep-deprived, exhausted and now menopausal. (Seriously?! Now?) At this point I was still working and hadn’t even considered telling my boss about my plans. In fact, the plans still didn’t feel real to me yet, even though it was all I could think of. Work continued as if I was going to be there for the next 10 years.

  I finally told work I was leaving. My last day was March 2, and we hit the road on March 7. After about 10 days of taking our time, visiting friends and family, and driving the Natchez Trace, we made it to Austin, Texas, where we had an appointment to secure the health certificates for the dogs.

  We arrived in Laredo, Texas the following day where we’d originally planned to cross the border. After discussing this with several other expats we’d met in Palapa-ville and online, we decided the best place to cross was at the Columbia crossing. We set out at 5:30 a.m. on a Sunday and arrived at the Columbia crossing at 6 a.m. only to find out it didn’t open until 8 a.m. Really?! All this planning and now we had to turn around and drive back to Laredo, where the crossing is open 24/7. That became our new plan.

  We arrived in the dark not knowing what to expect. My Spanish was still pretty crappy at best; it was a good thing Heath had been studying more than me. The checkpoint guard asked for our passports and had us pull over. He asked Heath to open the back of the truck. When he looked in, all he could say was, “That’s a lot of stuff.” He asked us what we had and Heath said we had a list, which, of course, we couldn’t find. After about five minutes of frantically searching the cab of the truck we found it. He read through the list, glanced around the bed of the truck and sent us on our merry way.

  Now where to? Finally, we found our way to the immigration building, a few blocks from the crossing. I surveyed the parking lot and surprisingly, there were several other loaded down trucks with U.S. citizens crossing the border into Mexico. A couple hours later and we were back on the road. Everyone had told us to get through the crossing and away from the border towns as quickly as possible in the daylight, due to illegal activity, the cartel, banditos, etc. They also say leave space at red lights between you and the car in front in case you need an escape, and whatever you do, don’t drive at night. All this sounds very scary but we had absolutely no problems. Again, not to say this kind of stuff never happens but it didn’t happen to us. Besides, you can be massacred at a country music concert in Las Vegas, your children can be murdered at their elementary school in Connecticut, or, in our hometown, you could be shot in the back at a traffic stop by a police officer or slaughtered by a racist for going to Bible study.

  Anyway, after a scenic eight-hour drive through the mountains we arrived at our first Airbnb in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato. What a beautiful town! If you ever have the opportunity, I highly recommend going there, but don’t take a truck. You can refer to our YouTube videos if you want to see why.

  We had originally decided to take our time traveling to our destination, but after a couple weeks of living out of a suitcase, some bad weather and packing in and out with two dogs every day we decided to speed things up. I have to tell you there are some shady hotels in Mexico and finding a dog-friendly place is not always easy. Having everything you own in the back of your truck and leaving it parked on the street or in a parking lot that’s not secure was not something we wanted to do either. We thought we could just look on the internet and find something, right? But you’ll find great reviews for some really strange places. In Mexico, it’s common to drive into a single car parking garage, enter your hotel room through the garage, and pay by the hour through the little window in your bathroom while you rifle through the sex toy menu. Let me tell you, after checking the bed for bed bugs, I slept in my clothes on top of the covers at that place. We followed this with a stay at a Hampton Inn in Villahermosa, Tabasco. The Hampton Inn never seemed so exotic. Then we spent a few days in Campeche at another Airbnb with a fantastic host in a beautiful town. Muy tranquilo! I was still pinching myself and couldn’t believe I didn’t have to get up and go to work the next day. Instead, the next day we would arrive in our new home.

  We have been in our palapa now for about six weeks. I can see the Caribbean from my living room where I’m typing this. I have a lovely woman cleaning my house today for about $25 bucks and I may go paddleboarding in a few minutes. I have a massage scheduled every few weeks for about $25 U.S.

  Not every day is like this, however. I’ve had so many mosquito bites I can’t begin to count them, my hair has become a tangled, frizzy mess (and I have straight hair), I’ve been infected with pinworms, had three days of Montezuma’s revenge, had an assassin bug land in my hair last night, and am just now recovering from a rash on my butt from wearing a wet swimsuit too many days in a row.

  But I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. Everyone we’ve met (with the exception of one super-pushy restauranteur) has been very pleasant; not always on time, but pleasant. Things move at a much slower pace here and I’m starting to catch on. Mexican time is different—no one’s really in a hurry. Things can be done luego or mañana. People do what they want in the moment, and everyone seems happier for it. And I totally get the whole siesta thing (not that everyone does it, but I do). It’s pretty freaking hot here, and it can really zap your energy. It’s actually a pretty good idea to take a break in the middle of the day, aka siesta time.

  When we left the States to come to Mexico I was worried about things like getting sick, health insurance, finding a doctor, a veterinarian, dentist, etc. Well, in our three short months here, Heath had to have a metal shaving removed from his eyeball and along with the post-op medication it cost about $78 U.S. dollars. We also had a doctor make
a house call (this seems to be pretty much the norm) to check out my rash and check Heath’s blood pressure—to the tune of a whopping $38 U.S. dollars. And in both instances we were able to see the doctor on the day we called to make the appointment. What is America doing wrong with healthcare?

  I took my first trip back to the U.S. last week. It made this adventure seem like a dream. On the plane ride there I actually started to worry about getting sick in the U.S. and how I would pay for medical care. By day two I was homesick for Palapa-Ville. I was missing my husband, my dogs, the rain dripping through the palapa roof, hanging my clothes on the laundry line (I’d never hung out laundry before moving here; it’s sort of cathartic, you should try it!) and the iguanas that guard the laundry line, paddleboarding, the sound of the wind rustling through the palms, the barking geckos, morning walks and the greetings of “Hola!” and “Buenos dias!” from the men roofing the palapas. Don’t get me wrong—I also miss my non-frizzy U.S. hair, sweet pickle relish, real Q-Tips, good linens and a store where I can buy everything on my shopping list in one place. But where’s the fun in that?

  They’re doing something right here. I feel like this country is more free than the United States and if you’re not involved in the drug trade and are cautious about what you’re doing and when and where, you’re safe.

  I video-conference with Ginger, my best friend of 35 years, almost weekly. She’s the person who introduced me to my husband/best friend, as well my old roommate/new Mexican neighbor, Nan. She has always been the adventurous, outgoing one in our friendship and has been very supportive from the beginning of this journey. After we arrived, though, she confided she never believed I would actually follow through with this crazy idea of moving to a trailer in another country. We’ve had several visitors (and some nay-sayers) who’ve come to visit us since we arrived. And guess what? Every single one of them says, “I get it now. I understand why you left and why you chose Mexico.”

  I’m so glad we got here before they put up that damn wall to keep us Americans out of Mexico.

  Wendy Wyatt is currently retired and has been living in the Riviera Maya with husband Heath and two fur babies, Gertie and Granny, since March 2018. Born and raised in Tennessee, she graduated from the nutrition & food science program at the University of Tennessee. She also worked as a registered dietitian for 25 years and as the nutritionist for the weight loss surgery program for the Veteran’s Healthcare Administration in Charleston, South Carolina. Wendy remains interested in the field of nutrition, health and the science of food and cooking. When not trying to learn Spanish, she enjoys running and biking with Gertie, paddleboarding with Granny and doing everything in between with Heath. Follow them on YouTube at “Mexicoing with Heath & Wendy.”

  3. “Living My Dream”

  Glen Rogers

  San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato & Mazatlán, Sinaloa

  I once overheard a friend telling someone that “Glen is always reinventing herself.” Although I wasn’t sure it was true at the time, I liked the idea. And as I’m writing this, it appears to be true.

  My first trip to Mexico was on my 15th wedding anniversary; we went to Playa del Carmen via Cancun. At that time, it was just a small beachfront community with a few fish restaurants and beach bars offering tequila where you sat on swings instead of bar stools. We visited the Mayan pyramid of Tulum on the coast, then drove further into the Yucatán to visit Chichen Itza, a highlight of the trip. Those were the days when this famous archeological site received only a few hundred visitors a day compared to the current count of 4,000 a day. Although I saw some incredible sites, this had to be the worst vacation of my life—and it wasn’t Mexico’s fault. I swore to myself I would divorce the man as soon as I returned to California. However, I hung in there another five years before jumping off into a new life.

  I never felt an affinity with Mexico; my sights were always set on Europe. My secret fantasy was to have a second studio in the South of France or Italy. As an artist, I imagined myself following in the footsteps of Picasso and his crowd, spending my time in various studios depending on the season. Although I had friends who regularly traveled to Mexico and spoke highly of Oaxaca’s fabulous Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration and Mexico City’s world-class museums, still I had not even a glimmer of interest.

  A couple of years later, living the artist life in Oakland, California, I visited a psychic to see what my future would bring. She was very insightful, gave me lots to think about, and at the end of the session, asked for questions. I wanted to know if she envisioned me in that studio in South of France. “No,” she said, “I see you in Mexico.” Her vision included me looking down from a balcony to the street below. (A fact that has come to pass.) Although her reading momentarily piqued my interest, I didn’t make any moves towards Mexico and pretty much forgot about it for several years.

  I was enjoying a rich and productive life in the San Francisco Bay Area, exhibiting my paintings and prints as well as designing and installing public art projects. During this time, I often got together with girlfriends for weekend travel adventures and finally began feeling the pull to Mexico. One of our group secured an invitation to stay at the home of a mutual artist friend who had a home in Mazatlán. Although I’d had a contentious relationship with this woman for many years, I decided to bury the hatchet and let it go in order to enjoy my re-entry into Mexico. She was nothing but gracious and introduced me to the city, local artists and the surrounding areas. Through her eyes, I saw the possibilities.

  We visited in April, one of the most beautiful months of the year in Mazatlán, and I have to say, it was love at first sight. Here was the place of my dreams—a historical city on the ocean that even looked like my dream of the South of France! It was only a three-hour flight from the Bay Area, housing was still very inexpensive and the town looked like New Orleans by-the-sea. Add to that my discovery that in the indigenous Nahuatl language, Mazatlán meant “land of the deer”—my personal animal totem—and I was in.

  I went to see a realtor the next day as if in a trance and said, “Find me a little house.” For under $30,000 USD, I bought a place in beautiful Centro Histórico, then referred to as Viejo (Old) Mazatlán. My realtor later told me I got the prize for the fastest sale. There was nothing special about this small one-bedroom house, but it had been recently renovated and was ready to move in. I loved that it was situated on Calle Venus (Goddess of Love!) and its close proximity to the heart of the city and Olas Altas beach. It was a great location, and you know what they say: “Location, location, location.” Soon after, I added a second-floor studio with skylights and a terrace. I spoke little to no Spanish at the time, but with help from my new friends, both expats and Mexican, it came together pretty easily. Contractors are referred to as maestros in Mexico, and this one really lived up to his moniker. Within three months, I had a spacious, new, light-filled studio.

  It was 1999 when I made that first trip to Mazatlán and bought the house on Calle Venus. My intention at the time was to keep my place in Oakland and come down occasionally—just like my fantasy. But as life happens, on one of my trips down, I was introduced to a music professor from the art school and pretty quickly fell in love. We maintained a long-distance relationship until finally I had to question our living apart. There was also another element to the equation. I’d been working with an architect as an artist consultant for 10 years on Art & Architecture projects in schools in the Bay Area. We created amazing projects such as art fences, stairwell barriers and tile projects in collaboration with students and teachers. It had been an incredible introduction to the public art field but I was ready to move on and work independently. Since these projects provided my bread and butter, I had to come up with a creative solution to reinvent myself. I decided to move to Mexico, rent out my house in Oakland and continue applying for public art opportunities.

  Once I settled into Mazatlán, gone was the hustle and bustle of everyday li
fe in the United States. Gone was the dependency on my car and the two-hour plus commute to job sites around the Bay Area. I was delighted with my new lifestyle of walking everywhere, including to the local market, or mercado, to buy fresh fish, fruit and vegetables. The Plaza Machado, a couple of blocks away, was just coming to life again after years of dormancy, with outdoor cafes and strolling musicians. The newly renovated Angela Peralta Theatre was a jewel and offered free or very inexpensive cultural performances, including the symphony, opera, ballet and modern dance. The beach and the beautiful Sea of Cortez were just a few blocks from my home and an 11-mile ocean front boardwalk, the malecon, hugged the shore where I could walk, ride my bicycle or meet friends to watch the sunset. What was not to love? I had found my Paradise: a beautiful, inexpensive place for an artist to live and work.

  I was very content with my life, very productive in the studio, and like any other city I lived in, I became involved in the local art scene. However, I soon realized that Mazatlán’s one downfall was its lack of art galleries, museums and opportunities for visual artists. But it was also a blank slate—you could create what you wanted. With the help of the City’s cultural organization, I put together an Open Studio event in Centro Histórico based on my experiences in San Jose, California. This was an annual event to highlight the local talent of painters, sculptors, photographers and more. As in other cities, visitors pick up a map and go on a self-guided tour visiting artists in their studios and, if they like, they can purchase art directly from the artist. It was such a success that after two years, the event morphed into a monthly Artwalk from November through May during Mazatlán’s high season. Fifteen years later, this highly acclaimed tour is still going strong, now organized by the city’s Cultural Department and supported by the Office of Tourism and local businesses.