Why We Left an Anthology of American Women Expats

by Janet Blaser

  Having chickens

  Not being cold

  Hanging laundry outside to dry

  Walking through town and knowing folks

  Having time to do things

  Exploring new areas

  Learning Spanish

  Meeting characters and drop-outs

  Going to exercise classes

  Doing something completely different we never thought we could do

  Things That Are Way Annoying

  Bugs, bugs everywhere

  Sweating through everything

  Not ever getting whites white (how do the local moms do it?!)

  Leaving friends at home

  Having it be too hot to do things

  Not understanding enough about the culture to not make a fool of myself

  Not knowing enough Spanish to really communicate everything

  Meeting weirdoes who think they’re cool

  Running into scary dogs with no one watching them

  Thinking that our adventure might be over someday

  After almost 12 years of living here full-time, I no longer fear that our adventure will be over. I’m living my “bucket list.” Like most working folks and parents, I still have to remember to take time to enjoy, but I now have the time to take if I want it—and the perspective to know the world will not fall apart if I do. (Oh, and the local moms finally told me that a combination of salt, lime and sun can make anything white again.) Even after so much time here, I still feel frustrated that I can’t fully express myself in Spanish. But it’s more than that; the longer I live here and the more Spanish I speak, the further apart our cultures seem to be.

  I know that’s not what you expected to hear, but it’s my experience. The subtleties of language and culture are not to be underestimated. It’s easy to translate words and sentences. But even with perfect diction, these words change their meaning based on context, relationship and facial expression. Sarcasm, humor and intent are tricky to express. The most polite tenses and phrasing are only learned by a few. The definition of family in Latin American cultures is different, as are understandings of community and time. We Americans are famous for bringing our capitalistic, individualistic and efficient moral judgments out to the rest of the world and expecting them to be truths. Being an immigrant in another country teaches one, if nothing else, that all your assumptions are simply that: assumptions.

  In my time here, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. Most tell me they’re here forever; most are not. Do you know what still amazes me? Folks from around the world move here to change who they are. I’ve seen folks move here to forget they have a bad marriage, or to forget they have a mental health issue. I’ve had the sad experience of working with a family who moved here to forget that their child had a serious learning disability. In all these cases, after the expected three- to four-month honeymoon period, each and every one looked in the mirror, and guess what? There they were, still and again, problems and all. Surprise!

  I don’t think I moved here to change; I moved here to be myself. We often talk about what our family would be like if we’d stayed in the United States. To be honest, I think we would be very much the same. I think we’d still be married, live in a nice home, our kid would be in college and we would have a tight community.

  But I also think we would have missed out. We’re healthier, more relaxed and less judgmental. I grew up in a Jewish middle-/upper-class home and lived and worked in the Bay Area. I could not have been more politically correct. My “bubble” consisted of people just like me. I think I was lying to myself when I said folks who had different lives were just fine. I didn’t know these people, really; how would I have?

  Here, I’m exposed in close quarters to people quite different from myself. Maybe they’re not educated, maybe they barely work and maybe they speak a different language. But they’re my friends. In a world without borders, we’ve raised a bilingual, bicultural son who feels comfortable in different settings and with different people. Taking yourself outside of your comfort zone helps you learn who you are as you can see which traits travel with you across those borders and which are simply left behind. Chances are the characteristics and traits that follow you in your travels are truly you. When you look in the mirror, there you are. There are certainly other ways to get out of your comfort zone and discover yourself besides relocating to another country. Whether it is for a year, a week, a day or a moment, try it out.

  The other day I loaded up our three dogs and went to a nearby beach. It crossed my mind as I was pulling out of the driveway that I might have once thought twice about going to a quiet beach all by myself and feeling comfortable. Now, it’s just something I do. When we got there, we were quickly joined by two other dogs who know us. With now five dogs in tow, I walked down the beach, cooled off in the water, chased birds (OK, that was them, not me) and finally plunked down under a tree to take advantage of the shade. I ate the sandwich I’d packed, gave the dogs some water and sat back to relax and read the book I’d brought.

  About a half hour later, my dogs ran and barked at some folks walking toward me. I stood up to find out what was going on and a lovely Mexican man stood in front of my dogs and asked me if they were brava, or aggressive. I said no, but that the little one was a little nervous, my standard response. We started chatting and he said I had a lovely spot. I said, yes, it’s lovely but it’s not mine (referring to the house behind where I was sitting). He nodded and smiled, and then he and his family of about 30 joined me under the tree. Like all good multi-generational beach picnics, they had a cooler, fishing reel, a small BBQ and a speaker. I returned to my chair with my dogs as they set up camp. Some of the children came over to pet the dogs, ask their names and share their own pet stories. One of the young parents came over with his toddler and together we labeled dog parts for the little one: cola, boca, naris (tail, mouth, nose) … quieres darles besos? (Do you want to give them kisses?) After a bit, the kids were busy playing, the dad took his toddler in the water and the rest of the family started fishing, relaxing and socializing. My dogs were in the middle of all of them; nobody seemed bothered. I picked up my book and returned to my reading.

  Once a practicing psychologist, Lina now lives with her family in Sayulita, Mexico and dedicates her time to random acts of volunteerism, whether they want her or not. Her passions include anything to do with the environment, good food and traveling. If she’s not at home working, you can find her in town bothering people to get off their you-know-what and do something for the community, pretending she knows what she’s doing in Pilates class or plotting some type of fundraiser. Lina loves taking her dogs to the beach, cooking for friends and spending time with her family. She is the proud founder of the local farmer’s market, Mercado del Pueblo (http://mercadodelpueblo.org/) and Eco Sayulita, a community group focused on ecological projects in and around Sayulita.

  6. “Bagels, Bats & Bikes”

  Susie Morgan Lellero

  Mazatlán, Sinaloa

  In 1996 I was living what some would call the American Dream. I had a cushy job with seniority at the local hospital in Longview, Washington, a brand-new, custom-built home in the country on two acres, a new car and all of the material possessions a girl could ask for. And I had a very pleasant and handsome (albeit unbearably dull) husband. From the outside it appeared I had it all. And yet ... and yet … something was stirring inside of me that made me feel like a caged animal. My perfect life was not a fit for me, and yet I didn’t know what I wanted, either.

  In September of 1996 my mother invited my sister and I on a two-week “girls’ trip” to Mazatlán, Mexico. That trip was the beginning of the end; or better said, the beginning of the beginning. I felt alive there. I felt free there. I adored the beaches and the warmth and openness of the people. When the time came to get on the plane and go home I was inconsolable. I felt as if I’d left a h
uge part of myself behind. Once we arrived home my sister and I began to fantasize about moving there. It was obviously a pipe dream. (Or was it?). After all, what could a couple of non-Spanish speaking foreign women do to survive in Mexico? Hmmm ... what could we do? WHAT could we do?

  I’ve always been very much in tune with my dreams and this occasion was no different. One night I woke up and realized that opening a bagel business was the key. Only God knows where that idea came from! Thinking back, it was just such a ridiculous and random notion. But there it was. Bagels in Mexico in 1996? Yet instinctively I knew that was my “calling.” I had no clue how to bake, but I bought a book titled “The Best Bagels Are Made At Home” and began to practice. I invoked the guidance of my late grandmother and asked her to sit on my shoulder while I kneaded and formed and boiled and baked. I baked like a madwoman and made my neighbors and co-workers be my guinea pigs.

  Needless to say, most people thought I was nuts. I had it all, what the hell was I thinking? The only person who understood my restlessness was my psychologist. He told me that although leaving everything behind and moving to Mexico to start a bagel business was unorthodox at best for “normal” people, for me, living the life I was immersed in was what was unorthodox. I was born with wanderlust and had to follow my dream or die little by little every day.

  Coincidentally, at the same time, the hospital where I worked was going through a “re-engineering” process and I was selected to be on the team. The task was to eliminate one position in each department in order to streamline work flows and save money. As luck would have it, the CEO of the hospital really liked me and we co-conspired a way for me to eliminate my own position. This came with a nice severance package that allowed me to chase this crazy dream of mine. Things were beginning to fall into place. I began working on a name for the business and the logo, and also started contacting the friends we’d made in Mazatlán to let them know we were on our way. When I shared with my very pleasant and handsome (albeit unbearably dull) husband what I wanted to do, he yawned and just said, “Okay.” At that moment I knew I was choosing the right path for myself.

  December 28, 1996. My sister and I arrived in Mazatlán armed with baking equipment, T-shirts with our logo and lots of enthusiasm. Things had fallen into place so quickly that I had no doubts what we were doing was going to work out. As luck (or synchronicity) would have it, while there on vacation we’d made a friend who was very influential and owned an entire block in the Golden Zone of the city. He gave us space to use free of charge and loaned us a wooden cart with wheels and an awning. The restaurant owner across the street from our apartment generously offered us the use of the big ovens in his bakery, as our apartment oven was way too small. I was baking 200+ bagels per day and needed an industrial oven. We were set!

  Two Sisters Northwest Bagel Company officially opened for business on February 5, 1997. We enjoyed great success for a while, but the long hours of baking, shopping, working at the cart and passing out flyers in the evenings proved to be too much. The cart closed a few months later and I went into a partnership with a local restaurateur. A short time later my sister left and moved on to Cabo San Lucas, while I managed and worked in the restaurant. I was blessed with an amazing crew who trained me to be a decent waitress, and I hired a baker and taught him how to make bagels. My Spanish skills grew.

  I felt like I’d finally found my niche. The bagel business grew and thrived and even the Mexicans started to order them. They pronounced them “beagles” and used them to make “molletes,” a traditional Mexican dish of toasted bread with beans and cheese on top … but hey, they liked them!

  Being a female business owner in a foreign country was tricky. I worked hard to prove to the employees and other business owners I was not the stereotypical gringa tourist in search of love and adventure. Some of the male employees found it difficult to have a female boss, especially a foreigner, but little by little we found our way and they became my family. To this day we remain friends, and they now own a successful restaurant in the tourist zone.

  My partner and I made the decision to close the restaurant in 1999 because of a decline in tourism. I moved on to work for a woman who designed and sold clothing made from sarongs. I still sold my bagels on the side, but most days I was transporting clothing and models to the local hotels where we did poolside fashion shows. I was the “animadora” (Mistress of Ceremonies) and narrated the fashion shows in English and Spanish. When the show concluded I would help the tourist women stuff themselves into the designer dresses and wraps, assure them they looked amazing and that their fabulous frocks would be suitable north of the border as well. On the days there was a cruise ship, I worked in the boutique at the cruise ship terminal. I loved that job and actually saw many folks from my “other life” pass through as they disembarked the ships. It was surreal to have my old world and new world collide.

  At the same time, I was worn out; worn out from being broke. I was worn out from feeling isolated (at this time there was no Facebook, internet phone service, nor a computer in every home.) Most summers I was one of very few foreigners remaining in Mazatlán and the neighbors in my all-Mexican barrio looked at me as if I had two heads. I was lonely down to my core and started to miss my “other life,” if for no other reason than simply having enough money to buy groceries. One of the most valuable life lessons that’s had a lasting impact on me is that there’s zero correlation between what we need and what we want. Coming from a cushy life to being in a situation where many times I didn’t even have two pesos for the bus was a leveler and deeply humbling. I hold these values near and dear to me to this day.

  I often joked with the other shop owners at the cruise ship terminal that I was planning on returning to the United States soon, as I was going to get married. After they’d congratulate me, they’d ask me who the lucky man was. We always had a good laugh when I told them I had no idea. It was, after all, just a joke. What they didn’t know is that I really was planning on packing up my cat and my few belongings and heading back to Washington State in the near future.

  One fateful day, February 27, 2000, to be exact, an Italian crew member who worked aboard the Regal Princess cruise ship passed through the shop and asked me what frequency my cell phone was on. That still remains one of the oddest questions I’ve ever been asked. Ironically it was a very effective pick-up line as we got married six and a half months later. I returned to Washington State and once he’d finished his contract on the ship, we flew to Italy for an extended stay with his mother (That adventure could fill another book!) and our wedding. I was then able to travel with him aboard the ship for the first year of our marriage. He left the company a year later and we settled in Longview, Washington for a few months. A short time later we moved to Oceanside, California where I once again resumed the “normal” life of living the American Dream: An expensive condo, new cars and a 9-to-5 job with a grueling commute. That familiar sense of wanderlust and restlessness started to return. It started as a faint feeling of uneasiness and finally grew into a relentless need to go home … home to Mazatlán, Mexico.

  I don’t believe in coincidences. I do believe in manifestation and synchronicity. My husband worked at Camp Pendleton Marine Base as an HVAC Technician. After seven years his entire team was laid off due to budget cuts. He unsuccessfully pounded the pavement and we grew behind on our condo payments. His unemployment checks and my job at an insurance agency were not enough to keep us afloat in Southern California. One evening I suggested he contact Princess Cruises to see if he could go back to work with them. He’s a skilled technician and had been “Employee of the Month” on a few occasions, so they were delighted to have him back. In December of 2008 he flew to Italy to begin his training, return to the company and begin his six-month contract.

  I remained in Oceanside, California. Alone. Bored. Restless. I found myself back in the rut of “go to work, come home, go to church. Go to work, come home, go to church.” How di
d this happen? How did I manage to find myself at this point once again? Go to work, come home, go to church. I was miserable and lonely. My mother, sister and brother-in-law were living in Mazatlán and my husband was at sea. Well-meaning friends always promised to go out for a quick bite, catch a movie or hit the beach, but as is the life in California and most cities in the U.S.A., it never seemed to happen. People get busy and caught up in their own lives. I, too, was guilty of the same thing. There was nothing to bind me to Oceanside, so I made the decision to pack us up, lock, stock and barrel, and move us (and our two cats) to Mazatlán, Mexico. When I gave my notice at work my employer asked me if I would consider telecommuting and continue doing my job remotely. Needless to say, I said yes. It was March 1, 2009, when I arrived home. Home to my beloved city and adopted country. Once again, that was the beginning of the end; or again, the beginning of the beginning.

  Unfortunately, our marriage didn’t survive the long separations and we split up in 2010. We remain close friends to this day, but my ex-husband remains as closely tethered to Italy as I am to Mexico. Moving there has never been an option for me, as moving to Mexico is not for him. “Asi es la vida” as we say here in Mexico. Such is the life.

  Being a single foreign woman in Mexico has been an adventure, to put it mildly. There have been exhilarating highs and devastating lows, hysterical laughter and hysterical tears, proud triumphs and unbearable defeats. Although I continued to march forward in my day-to-day life in Mazatlán, I still felt a nagging disconnect for the first couple of years I was back. I didn’t want to return to the U.S.A., and yet, I didn’t feel truly at home here either. When I was here I missed the creature comforts of my “other life.” When I had to travel to California for my job, I felt like a fish out of water. I felt lost and vaguely uncomfortable in my own skin. Where did I belong?

  There are enormous challenges to living in a foreign country. For starters, the language barrier was, and still is at times, daunting at best. There’s much to be said for being immersed in a sink-or-swim, do-or-die situation. The survival instinct eventually kicks in and we do find our way if we’re persistent. Learning the language has been a double-edged sword. In my first few years of living here again I knew just enough to get me into trouble and not enough to extricate myself from it. I’ll never forget one of the most embarrassing blunders I’ve ever made. I lived across the street from the Art Museum, where there were two large trees in the plaza in front that were home to an assortment of some birds, but mostly bats. Since I was on the third floor, the bats would occasionally fly into my apartment, but usually would do their business on my patio furniture. At that time I had no idea what the word in Spanish is for bat (it’s murcielago) and asked a friend to help. He told me that bats are called “vampiros” … “vampires” in English. That made perfect sense to me and I was excited that I’d learned a new word.