Why We Left an Anthology of American Women Expats

by Janet Blaser

  My subconscious had also been influenced by International Living Magazine. I began subscribing back in the early ‘80s, way before the internet, and I still have the hard copies that used to come in the mail every month. For decades I’d savored the stories of others who traveled to foreign lands, seeking adventure or an alternative lifestyle, and who found their Paradise in the process.

  I approached my husband Dan with my idea and surprisingly, he was open to it. We decided to spend our next vacation in Mexico, renting a car and sleeping in a tent to explore the possibilities. We ruled out the Gulf Coast due to humidity, mosquitos, hurricanes and the heat, even though the Yucatán had the best direct flights for us from Boston and amazing beaches. We also determined that we needed to be within two hours of an international airport for access back to the U.S. for our work.

  We settled on the west coast, on the Pacific Ocean within striking distance of Puerto Vallarta, a well-known and highly praised expat vacation and retirement destination. Dan and I were instantly drawn to Sayulita, a little surfing village an hour north of Puerto Vallarta, with its quaint cafés and the eclectic English library offering Spanish classes. The problem was that everyone was attracted to Sayulita, and there was nothing in our price range, which at that time was under $100,000 USD. We drove north to our two-hour self-imposed distance limit from the airport in P.V., exploring towns like Lo de Marcos and Guayabitos, but didn’t find the same welcoming vibe we had in Sayulita.

  So we headed south. Midway between Puerto Vallarta and Manzanillo, we found the wonderful community of Chamela, a short jaunt to the exclusive, high-end Costa Careyes, where we would have settled if we’d been able to find a house in our price range. Feeling distraught, we studied the map and decided to explore a peninsula just south of Puerto Vallarta where there were no roads, in the hope that other sun-seekers had not yet arrived and driven prices up.

  Lost on a horrible dirt road, we began to see small, hand-painted signs for Hotel Mayto. I remember saying sarcastically to my husband, “My ass there’s a hotel out here in the middle of nowhere!” I spoke a little Spanish, and we stopped and asked a local if the road was passable. He asked if our car was a rental. We replied that it was, and he said it was fine, go ahead. Reluctantly we navigated the deep, loose sand and occasional boulder-size rocks in the road for more than an hour.

  The road finally ended at the most beautiful beach we’d ever seen. Dan and I got out of the car, pinching ourselves as we looked in both directions at the beautiful landscape around us. It was an absolutely pristine beach, with not a soul on it, wide and curving with a mountain range backdrop like something from a movie set. We couldn’t believe it.

  The Hotel Mayto was indeed in business, offering a fresh seafood lunch under a palapa roof overlooking the ocean and pool. While enjoying our meal, I overheard a couple discussing real estate in English and decided to stop and ask a few questions as Dan went to settle our check. At that moment, an older man arrived to pick up a take-out order and asked Dan if we were looking for property. Dan replied that yes, we were, and he immediately invited us to see his land that was just behind the hotel, about 300 yards from the ocean. The landowner, who introduced himself as Esteban, had ironically been away for four months in a tiny village near Sayulita and had just returned that day; having no food in his fridge he’d come to the hotel to pick up something to eat at the exact moment we were settling up to leave. Had any one of us not been hungry at that instant our collective fates would have been very different. Touring the property with Esteban we were intrigued, but it was way more land than we needed and the house was a real dump. I was also concerned about the remote location and lack of community, meaning people who looked like me and spoke English. We left with the promise that we would think it over and get back to him.

  After our visit we drove to the nearby fishing village of Tehuamixtle to find a room for the night. As we drove down to the waterfront, a very handsome band of mariachis in pink ruffled shirts came out from a nearby restaurant, surrounded our car and began to serenade me. Although I’m not one who’s normally open to signs from the universe, I had to admit that perhaps this was indeed “Paradise Found” after all.

  We awoke before dawn and quickly headed over to meet Esteban, leaving behind a couple who’d just arrived at the hotel the night before to look at possibly buying the same ranch. We kept him out all day and saw every inch of the 100 acres, returning to find a note on the door from the other couple who’d come to see the land and who were sorry to have missed him. There were actually two parcels, and Esteban gave us the choice of which we preferred to purchase; his plan was to live on the other. At that time, the smaller 40-acre piece with the house was $200,000 USD and the larger parcel without a building was $150,000 USD. Although the parcel we chose was double what we intended to spend and 160 times bigger than we wanted, we made a deal for $175,000. Our agreement gave us nine months to close, which in the U.S. would have been more than enough time.

  We were soon to learn that purchasing land in Ejido ownership (an archaic system of communal land holdings common in Mexico) and having it privatized was a daunting task, in addition to the insanity of trying to rush the Mexican government. Ultimately the purchase was to become a three-year lesson in patience and emotional roller coaster rides before we finally acquired full ownership. There were several times during the process when the deal nearly fell through for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was Esteban’s heart attack, a higher offer from a famous Mexican opera singer and the mounting mordidas—“little bites”—that various public officials required in order to keep the paperwork moving forward.

  Every opportunity between the winter of 2005 and 2009 we came to the ranch. We dreamed of it when we weren’t there. On one of our visits we had our pick-up truck camper that Dan had driven down perched on our hill overlooking the most beautiful beach in Mexico, and I thought “Living in this 40-year-old camper, at one with nature, I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” It was an epiphany when I realized that we wouldn’t need much money for rice, beans and an occasional tank of gas, which was quite contrary to my financial planning background where we were taught to believe every American needs at least $3 million in savings in order to stop working. (Every million yielding roughly $40,000 USD annually.)

  This may be true if you plan on maintaining a high-consumption lifestyle north of the border, but not in Mexico.

  Upon returning to Maine, Dan and I spent hours, days and weeks creating spreadsheets and running numbers to see if it was possible to bail out of our high-stress corporate lives, sell everything and head to the ranch. It seemed crazy, and our colleagues, friends and family assured us that it was. Both of us in our late 40s had no right to reject the status quo beliefs that you worked until you earned today’s version of the gold watch, nose to the grindstone, until receiving the first Social Security check at age 66-and-a-half. At times it felt like not making it to 66 was a real possibility—if death didn’t take me out, a disabling illness was going to.

  The stock market crash of 2008 and the resignation of my assistant motivated me to finally jump off the corporate hamster wheel once and for all. My life had become one of quiet desperation, wash-rinse-repeat, and I was living for our trips back to Mexico. The only time I felt I was really alive was on our little patch of Paradise there.

  Finally, in 2009, having acquired full legal title to the land, we made the decision to sell our businesses and chase our dream. Dan sold his architectural photography firm to his employees, and I sold my financial planning practice to an outside firm who filed bankruptcy within the first year. (Without fulfilling their financial obligation to me, but that’s another story.)

  The lesson we learned is that you can run numbers from here to eternity, but what counts is what you have liquid in the bank, how much debt you’re carrying and what income you’re able to generate. The sale of both of our companies in 2009 allowed us to pay off all the
debts we incurred leveraging our home and my office to buy the Mexico properties (we ultimately purchased both parcels). We decided to keep our home in Maine to generate rental income once it was debt-free, as we were both many years from collecting Social Security. We also wanted a hedge, a place to return to with our tails between our legs in the event that moving to Mexico turned out to be a huge mistake.

  Originally our plan was to create a campground at what we now called Rancho Sol y Mar to cover maintenance expenses and provide income to the local community through employment at the ranch and potential tours. We loved the folks we’d met camping around Mexico and thought it would be a great and easy project. Having created successful businesses in the U.S., though, was not a guarantee we could duplicate it in Mexico, and we didn’t. The roads to Mayto were so poor that no one in a larger RV could make it to our lovely campground, and the few stragglers we received were in vans or tents for brief stays at $10 a night.

  Next we thought perhaps not focusing on RVs and instead creating a guest house was the way to go, to at least generate enough income to keep the jungle from taking over. We hosted dozens of volunteers who helped us create the compressed earth block guest house, which sleeps 16 in four rooms. We also began to focus on sustainability at that time, using natural building materials, solar energy and composting toilets. Dan and I had both been motivated by Lester Brown’s book, “Plan B,” which outlines and explains with solid data the challenges we’re facing on the planet through the destruction of rainforests, burning of fossil fuels and mismanagement of water resources. In 2014 we hosted a Cob Building Retreat (building with clay, sand and straw) which provided the basic structure for our new home on the hill, and a Permaculture Workshop in 2016 which taught us how to be better stewards of the land. We carefully subdivided the acreage, providing each of our five children with ocean-view lots of their own. Our daughter Hillary has built a home on her lot at the ranch and visits whenever she can.

  We get by on the rents from our house in Maine, early withdrawals from my retirement account and the Social Security check that I just began receiving. In addition, Dan’s mother passed away two years ago, leaving a small inheritance which we invested in a condo in Puerto Vallarta to generate more income through rentals. The cost of living is very reasonable while we stay in Mexico; it’s the trips up north and my travel that have been expensive.

  The move to Mayto was initially very challenging on all fronts. We had no phone service and no internet for nearly 10 of the 13 years since our purchase. We had to drive two hours each way to access email and make important calls, an additional reason why we had to sell our businesses since it was impossible to service clients without adequate technology. I also found myself feeling lonely without English-speaking folks with similar interests in my small village.

  Daily life at the ranch includes milking the goats, making cheese or yogurt, caring for the chickens and ducks and tending the garden. We have a steady stream of visitors and friends at our guest house now and are finally able to stay connected with family via internet. Having the condo in Puerto Vallarta has added another dimension that includes a wonderful group of friends that I see whenever the condo isn’t rented. The money I’m able to save not buying impulse or luxury items like nice clothes, expensive groceries and eating out has allowed me to travel around Mexico and also attend workshops here and in the United States to learn about everything from cheese-making and salsa dancing to yoga, meditation and studying Spanish. My life is fuller and richer today than any I could have imagined living a conventional retiree’s lifestyle in the United States.

  Holly Hunter started out life living a heady existence as a jet-setter summering in Martha’s Vineyard, traveling the world, partying with politicians and celebrities. Mother of four, she also owned a financial planning firm. At age 50 she decided it was time to make a new life for herself. With husband Dan Gair she set out on a new adventure. Together they developed Rancho Sol y Mar, a sustainability education center on the Pacific Coast of Mexico. (http://www.ranchosolymar.com/RanchoSolyMar/Rancho_Sol_y_Mar.html) Embracing her new life, Holly learned the art of cheesemaking while tending her herd of goats. Find their book, “The Mexico Diaries, A Sustainable Adventure,” an account of settling in Mexico, replete with narcos, scorpions, snakes, goat wrangling and an unusual cast of characters, on Amazon.

  27. “Just. Like. That.”

  Gabriella M. Lindsay

  Mazatlán, Sinaloa

  Sometimes it takes death to realize you’re not really living.

  For years my husband and I had talked about moving to México. You see, after my mother and father expatriated to a beautiful colonial city by the sea called Mazatlán, we started visiting and fell in love with the charm, the culture and the people. It was there, right in the sands of the Pacific, that we were married, and we vowed that one day, someday, we would return to live.

  Of course, life happened. Three kids in three years, two cars, the white picket fence, the whole nine yards. We were living the “American Dream” that we’re all so desperately and vehemently sold. And we bought it. And we loved it.

  Until we didn’t.

  Both my husband and I were working more than full-time jobs. Me as an Assistant Principal, he as a Post-Doctoral Fellow at a university. We were raising three amazing children, both running entrepreneurial side-hustles, volunteering at our church and trying within all of that to have some semblance of a social life. That last part we were failing at miserably.

  Despite our careers, despite our entrepreneurial ventures, we were still struggling to make ends meet. We were coming home tired, frustrated and disheartened. What were we working so hard to achieve? What was all of this ‘stuff’ for? The house, the cars, the student loans, everything was a series of bills to pay. This was not what we envisioned for ourselves.

  We continued to dream, however. We would say, wouldn’t it be great to just let it all go … move away … start a new life? It was a beautiful dream indeed. Unfortunately, we always circled back to, “But who does this? We can’t do this! That’s not what we’re supposed to do.” So, we accepted the “go-to-school, get-a-job, work-’til-you’re-old, retire” mentality that we’re all so familiar with.

  Our dreams were not for us. They were the dreams of someone else. Someone who didn’t have loans to repay, children to raise or careers to build. No, our dreams would have to wait until another day.

  So, we continued on. Day in and day out, hustle and grind, lather, rinse, repeat.

  That is, until reality, in the form of major heartbreak, hit.

  I recall it vivid as day. It was a Wednesday afternoon in February 2016. My kiddos were down for their nap and I was just about to settle into a snack and my favorite Netflix show when my phone rang. It was a Mexican number. I started to answer but the caller hung up. Just as I was about to call back, my husband called me. I picked up immediately as the phone was there in my hand. “Gabi, um, I have some news. Um, it’s about your mom. Gabi, um, your mom died. I’m so sorry, honey. I’m leaving work, I’ll be home soon.”

  I slid to the floor. As his words sank in, the other line on my phone rang. It was my sister, confirming what my husband had just told me. She was there, at my mother’s apartment, with my dad, my brother-in-law, a friend, my mom’s upstairs neighbors, assorted medical staff and a funeral director. I could hear the chaos in the background, but I remember her clear voice, restating what my husband had just told me.

  I had just talked to my mom on Monday, told her I would call again on Wednesday evening, and here we were, Wednesday afternoon, and she was gone.

  Just. Like. That.

  The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. It included my husband returning home, cancelling the fitness class I was supposed to teach at the church that evening, buying us two red-eye plane tickets, sending the kids over to his sister’s house for a few hours, calling his mother to come on the next plane from Los Angeles, ca
lling his cousin to babysit that evening and helping me pack a carry-on bag with essentials.

  We were headed to Mazatlán to bury my mother.

  I cried on and off during the flight and embarrassingly wailed the majority of our layover in Texas. I remember watching a woman sitting across from me at the gate looking at me with sympathy in her eyes and I remember hoping that she was going on an enjoyable trip. A honeymoon, or off to a wedding or simply on a well-deserved vacation. It was the longest day of travel ever.

  We spent the next two weeks clearing my mom’s apartment, making funeral arrangements, visiting the various offices necessary in order to properly document an American Death Abroad. Visiting the funeral home was the hardest. Identifying her body, conversing with the funeral director who was trying his absolute best to understand my broken Spanish and talk to me as much as he could in English. It was a long two weeks.

  During that time, just my husband and I, we talked and I cried and we talked some more and we realized that perhaps it was indeed time. Time to start living the lives we wanted. The lives we deserved. Morbid as it seems, my mother’s passing truly put into perspective the idea that tomorrow is not promised and that the “someday” we had been talking about since our wedding (then six years earlier) may never come. We had to change that “someday” to today.