by Janet Blaser
When I arrived in Guadalajara, I immediately called my mom in tears. The plane had been delayed in Mexico City and the taxi driver couldn’t find my new apartment address. I missed my home. It was a real city, with graffiti everywhere, sirens and dogs barking and so many other new things. After finally arriving at my apartment, I remember lying in my bed that first night, listening to the sounds of the city and thinking, “What have I gotten myself into?”
The following weeks were some of the best in my life. It was like I’d been given the gift of new eyes. Everything was so loud, bright and colorful! I felt so alive, and for the first time in a long time, I felt strong enough to take on whatever life threw at me. Since I didn’t own a car, I walked everywhere, enjoying the golden Guadalajara sunshine. I hammered through conversations with my almost non-existent Spanish. (The locals were very patient.) I drank fresh-squeezed orange juice, visited my local taco stand, enjoyed the city view from my rooftop patio and bought a tiny Schnauzer puppy. I noticed that even though materially speaking I had very little—no car and a bare bones apartment—I was happier and far less anxious.
My teaching job was great, and absolutely different than my job teaching in the U.S. The students at my new school were happy and polite. They always said, “Good.” The international community was warm and welcoming. On campus, birds were singing, fountains were gurgling and the students were laughing. I had a bit of culture shock because my job back in South Carolina was so incredibly different. I’d traded fist fights and school resource officers for blue skies and smiling students. When greeting students at my old school, I was often met with the rolling of eyes and negative body language. Here in Guadalajara, the students eagerly greeted me with, “Good morning, Miss!” It was definitely a different experience for me professionally.
One of the struggles I had when I moved here was how to process seeing so many impoverished people and children on the streets begging for money. Seeing little kids selling chicle or senior citizens washing car windows in the hot, squalid traffic broke my heart. More importantly, it also deeply humbled me. For the first time, I recognized the role consumerism and social class had played on my self-esteem, and how I had allowed it to brainwash me. I wondered why so many Americans were so angry that there are poor people, even while they rarely have to see these disenfranchised people. The U.S. has such strong safety nets, many for the very poorest of society. Yet Americans can’t seem to get past “helping others.” I think maybe the key to this is simply the old adage, “Out of sight, out of mind.” It’s much easier to demonize the poor, imagining they lead a life of leisure and begging, instead of “choosing” to work and support themselves. It’s much more difficult to be angry when it’s someone your grandmother’s age, someone who should be taken care of in her old age, that you see begging on the streets. One thing I realized only after moving to Guadalajara was this: Any happiness in my life would have to come from within me, and certainly not from any material thing I possessed.
Fast forward eight years. I absolutely love my simple little life here in Guadalajara. I’m a different person than I was when I first took a leap of faith and came to Mexico. I met an amazing tapatio, (meaning he was born in Guadalajara) and we hit it off. We now have a four-year-old son together. Raising a child here has been wonderful. There’s so much less competition and judgment about parenting here. Kids are “allowed” to be kids, and not expected to be adults. Here in Mexico, we can afford to have a nanny that helps take care of our son and also helps around the house. It’s so nice to have someone you trust that loves your child and enjoys spending time with him. We own a car, but I still walk almost everywhere in our neighborhood; to the fruteria, the grocery store, parks, taco stands, restaurants, coffee shops, popsicle stands, etc.
Our little family has traveled a good deal in Mexico and I’ve enjoyed seeing the beauty of this culturally vast and diverse country. My anxiety rarely rears its ugly head anymore. I eat freshly cubed mango from the corner fruit vendor for less than a dollar. I wake to the sound of the sweepers outside my window, and in the evening, I hear the screeching of green parrots flying overhead. Hummingbirds live in our garden year-round, and I’ve zeroed in on the best taco stand in my neighborhood.
Just this weekend, I went with a few girlfriends to a swanky spa at a lake in the mountains. On our way, while passing through a tiny town at the foot of the mountains, my friend’s car broke down. Luckily, we were near an OXXO (like a 7-11). We pulled in and had the gas attendants take a look under the hood. They told us we likely needed a mechanic and directed us across the street. We found the mechanic, who was enjoying an evening meal with his family. He immediately got up to help us out. After looking at the car, he told us he’d need a part, and then hopped on his motorcycle to go get it. Ten minutes later, he returned with the part in hand. He replaced the leaky tubing and we were ready to go within half an hour. He was incredibly polite and professional the entire time. It cost $350 pesos, or about $17 dollars. As we headed back toward our fancy spa destination, we couldn’t help but feel how fortunate we were to be living among such gentle and kind people here in Mexico.
Life isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty great most of the time. I’m a different person than I was when I left the U.S.A. I’m more grounded, humble, patient and open-minded. I don’t care too much about having flashy things or “fitting in.” The truth is, I likely wouldn’t fit in here even if I tried, which has been quite a relief, actually. Here, away from my native country, I’ve found a way to just “be.” To live simply. To slow down. Thank you, Mexico, for the second chance at authentic happiness!
Nova Grahl is a coffee connoisseur / Mama of Theo / International school teacher / Bibliophile / Lover of the slow life / Travel enthusiast.
12. “Falling in Love (Twice!)
South of the Border”
Nancy Seeley
Mazatlán, Sinaloa &
Zihuatanejo, Guerrero
Three decades ago I got off a plane in Zihuatanejo and instantly fell in love. This unexpected event merged with a very strong dislike of cold Wisconsin winters to set the scene for my “temporary” move to Mexico in October 1995. I’ve since relocated to Mazatlán, but it’s 23 years later and I’ve never once regretted my decision to pull up stakes and head south of the border. Barring an unforeseen catastrophe, I have no plans to move back to the U.S.
There’s a quartet of reasons for my contentedness:
Weather: Some people scoff at the notion of seasonal affective disorder (SAD). Not me. As the temperature dropped below freezing and the sky turned gray and grim each year, my mood took a simultaneous dive. The first snowfall only worsened things. Sure, the picture-postcard perfection of the scene was great for a day or two. Then driving on slippery, ice-covered streets, getting off work in late afternoon darkness, seeing my breath the minute I went outdoors and piling on layers of clothes to ward off the frosty chill quickly diluted my appreciation of Mother Nature’s idyllic landscape. By my late thirties I found myself cringing when turning the calendar over to November. Plus, I’m a worrywart and fretted about the harm I was doing to friendships and working relationships given my surly disposition. Time to do something about it, right? Mexico was—and is—the answer.
Pace of life: Hijole! ... as we say here in Mexico. Though I was thankful to be working for a state government agency where my job was generally fulfilling and the security and benefits meshed with my personal needs, endless meetings and rigid schedules began to feel uncomfortable … REALLY uncomfortable. It seemed there was always a calamity brewing, something that meant I’d be taking my work home with me. Trying to fit in social outings with family and friends got to be more challenging. Coming back from vacations was angst-inducing because I knew my inbox would be overflowing. The relaxed state in which I returned would dissolve within hours. I realize that was partly due to my own personality, but still, I needed a change.
Cost of living: I was a white-collar w
orker, divorced with no kids. I had a lovely home nestled below an old stone quarry at the end of a cul-de-sac. My job paid the bills, but there wasn’t a lot left over for the travel I craved, for the experiences I knew would broaden my horizons. Being my dad’s daughter, I wasn’t willing to go into debt to have the life I wanted. It only took one trip to Mexico to realize that here I could live at a fraction of the cost I was spending to be comfortable in Madison, Wisconsin—and there would be no snow, no ice and only infrequent gray skies.
Segueing to the present, here’s a comparison I love: I recently vacationed in Washington, D.C. with my sister. We checked out the newly-renovated southwest waterfront area. Stopping for a late lunch, we each ordered a glass of wine. The price was $17 apiece before taxes and tip. A month later my novio (sweetheart) and I stayed in a squeaky clean, well-equipped hostal in Leon, Guanajuato for a little less per night than what I paid for that one glass of chardonnay. That’s only one example of many. It’s gotta get you thinking, right?
Finding love: I arrived in Zihuatanejo an unencumbered female. For the first three years I was truly finding my way, learning the culture, obsessing about whether my savings would be sufficient for my lifestyle, reveling in the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do whenever I wanted to do it. And then came the day when a friend said she’d met a Canadian named Nick she knew would be perfect for me. Yeah, right. I resisted. She persisted. I finally agreed to meet this fellow on the beach in a group setting. That way I could suss him out without a blind date at age 48. Smart, si?
I got there and saw a handsome man matching Nick’s description sitting solo. I’d come this far, so I walked up and introduced myself. By the time the rest of the group arrived—profusely apologizing for a last-minute Friday meeting at the school where they taught English as a second language—Nick and I were deep in conversation. Within 10 days, we became a couple. Happily, we’re still a couple. None of this would have happened had I not been in Zihuatanejo. I thank my lucky stars every day that I left my job in Wisconsin and found true love here.
Now let’s go back to the beginning of my story. I said winter had become a big problem. In January 1988, my best friend from college and I took an impromptu trip to Ixtapa, Guerrero. We needed a break from the cold, and this package deal was incredibly cheap. We didn’t have the faintest clue what—or where! —Ixtapa was when our travel agent suggested this spot on Mexico’s southern Pacific coast, but it was warm and safe, we were told.
The plane landed on the outskirts of Zihuatanejo, a scant four miles from Ixtapa, at that time the newest jewel in tourism agency FONATUR’s development crown. We disembarked by walking down a metal staircase, enveloped by soothing tropical air. No claustrophobic jetways back then. There was a large, elevated, open-air platform nearby where people awaiting friends hooted and hollered while sipping margaritas. If you turned your head, the ocean beckoned. I was enthralled, totally and completely enthralled. Ixtapa resembled a little Miami—sparkly at night with a great beach and top-notch accommodations, but Zihuatanejo to me was the “real” Mexico, a sleepy little fishing village, a throwback to life a couple generations ago.
After that marvelous week in paradise, I returned in November with another friend to stay in Zihua (as the locals call it). When it was time to go home, I was truly, utterly hooked. The friendly locals, the dependable bathing suit temperatures, the cheap and tasty food, the tropical breezes flitting under cerulean skies … everything suited me to a T, particularly when teamed up with the more sedate pace of life and the lower price tags.
My goal became engineering a three-year sabbatical as soon as reasonably possible. I bought a timeshare in Ixtapa in 1989 and returned twice a year to make sure I really wanted to do what I thought I wanted to do. By 1992, the die was cast. I’m a planner by nature and put the wheels in motion to start my sabbatical in 1995.
My boss didn’t believe I was serious, but I eventually convinced him. The turning point came when I got summoned for jury duty starting in June 1995. “You can’t do that if you’re leaving the next month,” he said. “OK, I’ll quit earlier,” I replied. Negotiations ensued. End result: I became the jury foreperson, worked till July 27, 1995, and said my goodbyes to co-workers during a gala event at my favorite after-work haunt. Many well-wishers were envious of my plans, which somehow bolstered my confidence.
I must admit that during the period from 1992-1994, my cautious financial self obsessively wondered if my savings would be sufficient to support me. I had banked every raise for the past several years … but still. Then another possibility presented itself: Isla Margarita, an island off the northern coast of Venezuela. I visited and loved the ambiance there too. On the down side, it was definitely more expensive to get there. The chance of friends and family visiting was less likely, but the cost of living was unbelievably low. What to do?
I constructed two collages—one for Zihua and one for Isla Margarita—and mounted them on opposite sides of a doorway in my favorite “at home” spot in Madison, the four-season room I’d built in 1993 thinking it might convince me to stay in the U.S. I looked at both collages daily seeking guidance.
Then the bottom fell out of Mexico’s economy during my last “surveillance” trip to Zihua in December 1994. Three zeros were lopped off the peso exchange rate. Suddenly moving here was equally as do-able as relocating to Venezuela. The decision about where to start the next chapter of my life was pretty much made for me.
After my last Wisconsin work day, I spent three full months traversing the U.S. via plane, train, car, bus and bicycle, bidding hasta luego to family and friends. I rented out my home to a good friend. On October 27, 1995, I flew to Zihua with only two suitcases, a backpack, a boombox and a bicycle—leaving most of my possessions behind.
The beginning of my odyssey seemed surreal. No one was demanding my presence at a meeting. My boss wasn’t telling me I couldn’t take an extra-long lunch hour to run 12 miles around Lake Monona (I was a dedicated marathoner back then), saying I belonged in the office supervising the dozen workers who reported to me.
Winter came … and the skies were bright blue. The temperature occasionally dropped into the high 40s (causing the locals to wear fur-lined parkas they got from who-knows-where), but I was happy as a clam. I was the mistress of my destiny and loving every minute of it.
This isn’t to say there weren’t challenges. Back in 1995, life in Mexico was very different than today. My little apartment in a Third World neighborhood didn’t have a telephone, a TV, hot water, laundry facilities or air conditioning. I neither had nor wanted a car, and there was no internet. Going for a couple of weeks without either the water or the electricity crapping out was a miracle. Rainy season was challenging given that drains perpetually overflowed. I’d hear a noise at my door, and it would be a pig grunting while slowly lumbering down my dusty, potholed road.
Zihuatanejo had no major grocery stores, no stoplights, very sketchy “snail mail” service and few of the snacks I’d become addicted to in Wisconsin (think Ranch-Style Doritos, aged Cheddar cheese, Johnsonville sausage and dry white wine). Doing business was a completely different ball game given that punctuality was not prized. One spent lots of time chit-chatting before broaching the real reason for a visit. Paying bills in person was challenging (sometimes still is!), especially since cutting in line seems to be a Mexican art form.
Looking back, some of my early experiences were quite comical—like when I bundled up all my dirty laundry and schlepped it to the nearest “auto lavado.” I knew the verb “lavar” meant “to wash” and intuited that “auto” meant I could do it myself. Wrong … this was a car wash! It did give the employees something to chuckle about.
Then there was the time I took a local bus and listened while the driver told a woman she couldn’t board carrying the live chicken she was holding in her arms. So she wrung its neck and paid her fare. That was OK since now the chicken—that night’s dinner—was dead.
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After the initial rush of settling down in Mexico wore off, not being able to see my family and friends was tough at times. I depended on letters from home for news. Getting them was challenging. I’d listen for the mailman’s motorcycle and rush to the building’s courtyard. He’d throw the envelopes over a 10-foot wall. If I didn’t get there lickety-split, the resident dog would either chew them up or lift his leg and pee on them.
In the early days, I’d pen a three-page letter (no computer) four times a year and have nearly 100 copies made at a local papeleria. This task required patience because replacing ink or toner before you couldn’t read anything on the duplicates was not a priority. I’d personalize each letter using the blank side of the second sheet and walk seven miles to the airport with my stamped and bundled envelopes. I’d search out American vacationers willing to mail my correspondence when they reached the U.S. There weren’t the continual warnings back then about not accepting anything from strangers in an airport.
I walked nearly everywhere. Taxis weren’t in my budget, and I liked the exercise. I’m gregarious by nature, so this gave me numerous opportunities to chat with the locals in my pidgin Spanish. Though I’d taken a few night classes before the move, the proper Spanish I learned wasn’t cutting it here. I’d like to say I’m now totally fluent, but that would be a lie. I can certainly get by but am always grateful when the townsfolk slow their speech to accommodate my ability to comprehend. I highly recommend attempting to speak Spanish. It has reaped so many rewards for me. My experience is that one is often viewed as an “ugly American” if no effort is made to use Mexico’s native tongue.
A recurring concern was money. I had socked funds away for my three years abroad, but time and again I wondered if it would be enough. From the get-go, I logged every single peso I spent every single day. More than two decades later, I still do. At the end of every month I tally up my cash outflow and project what I’ll spend annually if current trends continue. My first year in Zihua cost me a grand total of $8,364 USD. That included shelling out $200 USD per month for U.S. health insurance, which in the past was picked up by my employer.