La Navidena: Christmas in Mexico City

First Sunday in Advent
November 28, 2010

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Ev'rywhere you go; Take a look in the five-and-ten, glistening once again
With candy canes and silver lanes aglow.

On this first Sunday of Advent in Mexico City it is beginning to look a lot Christmas.

In the days preceding the weekend, I began to notice street stalls being set up all over town. These stalls would be set up for a month than taken down.

All sorts of wonderful things were for sale:

Fresh Frasier Firs flown down from Canada or harvested here in the highlands above Mexico City;

Strings of garish-colored Christmas lights, almost all made in Mexico;

Beautiful hand painted Christmas ornaments that I just have to have buy can’t yet figure out how to carry home without breaking them;

Handmade Nativity Stables in all sizes, along with sheets of freshly harvested moss or newly dried hay to lay on their floors;

Wonderful multi-colored garlands made from palm branches.

A huge assortment of clay nativity figures: The Holy Family, of course, as well as shepherds and the Wise Men, but also animals, shrubbery, and means of transport.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
Ev'rywhere you go;
There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well,
The sturdy kind that doesn't mind the snow.

On Saturday morning, here in my neighborhood of Coyocán, thirty minutes south of the center, stalls had been set up surrounding the park in the center of town. Walking through the park, in shorts on a sunny 70 degree day, I was jolted back to the North Country as I inhaled the fragrant pine scent of fir trees. People were buying all sorts of things, including trees which would be bundled up, loaded on to the top of a car, and transported home. All day Sunday the streets were full of cars bearing fresh trees that would be set up and decorated later that day.

That night, walking to Sumesa, my neighborhood grocery store, I could see trees lit up in people’s living rooms.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas;
Soon the bells will start,
And the thing that will make them ring is the carol that you sing
Right within your heart.

It was a splendid first weekend of Advent, although I was told that the official start of Christmas won’t be until after our Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, December 12th. That has certainly not curtailed shoppers and retailers from getting an early start.

I’m excited to watch Christmas unfold even more.

Second Sunday In Advent
December 5, 2010

There doesn't seem to be any limit to what Mexico City will do the observe Christmas. It was a great weekend.

Friday night I went to a concert in the southern part of the city with a later dinner at a nearby mall. Now, this mall is soooooooooooooo big that there are two cineplexes and two food courts in it. It must take up ten football fields. Perhaps it's my lack of experience with urbans shopping malls, but it was decorated like no mall I've ever seen--a huge, fifty foot Christmas tree in the center, long lines of families waiting to have their pictures taken with Santa. It was great!

The sun is shining.
The grass is green.
There’s never been such a day in Mexico City
But it’s early December and I’m longing to be up north.

I’m dreaming of a white….

Wait, uh? White? Snow? Cold? Uh, let’s back up a bit…..

NO WAY!

Christmas in Mexico City means brilliantly blue, cloudless days in the mid 70’s with nights that drop into the 40’s.

Christmas in Mexico City means the city is decked out in millions of Christmas lights, giant Christmas trees in green parks, poinsietta trees in full bloom in people's gardens and piped Christmas music in malls and supermarkets.

Christmas in Mexico City mean shopping in shorts, buying fresh flowers from street vendors and browsing through the thousands of Puestos de Navidad—Christmas stalls.

I love it!

Consider this weekend, the second Sunday in Advent.

Sunday afternoon I wandered into the Zocalo, Mexico City’s enormous public square. I knew I’d be in for a surprise.

But what a surprise! The Zocalo had been transformed into a Christmas/Winter wonderland. There were two skating rinks, a toboggan slide, a snow field where kids could make snowballs and throw them at each other, another snowfield where kids could ride little snowmobiles on a snow track, a place where people could make muñecas de nieve--snow dolls—a.k.a. snowmen. But best…a snow museum where, once inside, it was 5 degree above zero—Fahrenheit.

Oh, I was just like a kid. I couldn’t absorb it all. I’d do the loop, and then do it again. A white Christmas in Mexico City. I’d stop, take lots of photos, move on, and take more photos. There were huge bleachers where bystanders could watch those skating. It was just magic.

So much magic that I had to take a break. The Zocalo is also located near heaps and heaps and heaps of stores selling all sorts of stuff. Because it was a Sunday, there were heaps and heaps and heaps of people on the street. The controlled chaos was astonishing. Heaps of stores were selling all sorts of Christmas decorations—artificial trees in all colors: red, pink, blue, green, purple, white, silver, and gold. Even black. And wreaths of the most garish kind made of leaves painted the same colors as the trees. And ornaments, tinsel, garlands, lights. It was wondrous.

On the streets, vendors were hawking everything imaginable. I bought a scarf for 25 pesos--$2.00—and handed the man a 200 peso note.

“You rich, man,” he said in English. No, not really. How’s business?

It’s a bad year. Bad economy. No people buying.

He struggled to find the change to break my note.

More shopping, a long dinner. I had to kill time so I could get back to the Zocalo at night. I’d seen heaps and heaps and heaps of lights on the public buildings surrounding the square. And oh, I wasn't disappointed. Huge piñatas, poinsettias, candles—even a gigantic lit up manger scene. Here in Mexico it’s totally politically correct to say MERRY CHRISTMAS—Feliz Navidad--without fear of offending someone. Indeed, Feliz Navidad can be loosely translate as “Happy is the Day when the Lord was born.”

All the venues were busy. Families were skating, making snowmen; kids were riding snowmobiles and throwing snowballs at each other; others were sledding down the makeshift snow slide. And the line going into the Snow Museum—long. Just to experience -15 C.

I hated to go home, but it was late and Mexico City gets rather cold at night and I wasn’t dressed properly.

I knew I’d be back.

Third Sunday in Advent
December 12, 2010

Azaleas! Azaleas in December. Azaleas are just now coming into flower.

But this is not about azaleas, although it’s been amazing to watch the different varieties send off their blooms.

This is about Nacimientos, Our Lady of Guadalupe, and La Casa de los Amigos. Que fin de semana! What a weekend!

Away in a Manger

No crib for a bed

The litle Lord Jesus

Lay down his sweet head.

A local acquaintance, who’s lived in the United States, and who knows American culture, commented to me this week that the difference between Christmas in the US and Christmas in Mexico boils down to Santa Claus vs. Jesus. “In America,” he said, “it’s all about Santa Claus, whereas in Mexico it’s all about the baby. After seeing hundreds of nativity sets—nacimientos—in every possible location, I’d have to agree.

Nacimientos are everywhere—in offices, under trees in hotel lobbies, in the barber shop, in grocery stores, on the front lawns of government buildings, at bus stations, in restaurants, in huge lighted displays on the main avenues of the Mexico City and at the uty free shops at airport just to name a few places. No one is offended; indeed, if they were present I’m sure there would be absolute furor. What I don’t see much of are images of Santa and the more secular side of Christmas, although they are present

The stars in the bright sky
Looked down where He lay
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay

Friday night I decided to walk from La Casa to Chapultepec, Mexico City’s Central Park. It’s a long walk, primarily along Paseo de la Reforma, the city’s principal street—its Fifth Avenue—and a walk made more enjoyable with a long break at Starbucks, sitting outside in the late afternoon sunshine, people watching and drinking a calorie-laden Caramel Frappucino smothered in a topping of whipped cream—the only “coffee” I’ll drink.

I took my time with the coffee, waiting for night to fall when I knew Christmas lights would be turned on along the street. The city had strung up thousands of blue lights on each side of the Avenida and had punctuated the walk with Christmas trees, and huge hanging lighted displays of poinsettias and piñatas. I also knew the city had established a competition among the different delegaciones, or governing neighborhoods, of the city. In all, there were 50, large and hand crafted, nacimientos—all with a different design theme. Some were made only of recycled materials and others were made only from fabric, papier maché or cardboard. My favorite was a nativity designed solely from twisted wire, and my favorite theme was a nacimiento with the principal characters as aliens. If there are other inhabited worlds, it explained, Jesus would most surely have come to them, too.

The cattle are lowing
The poor Baby wakes
But little Lord Jesus
No crying He makes

Reforma required another visit Saturday afternoon, but I was really saving my energy for that night’s all-nighter at the Basilica of Guadalupe. I wanted to be part of the millions of devotees who would be present on December 12th—the feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe. This was so overwhelming, so utterly remarkable, so bigger-than-life that it bears a separate blog, so you must read the next posting.

Suffice to say that no one in our group got home before 4:00 a.m., so Sunday morning was a wash.

But Sunday night, mi última noche en México, my last night in the city, La Casa was hosting an early Christmas party with a one hour carol-sing, Villancicos, followed by food and drink. How wonderful to be part of this community at this level. Over 100 people came—mostly Mexicans, Quakers and friends of the La Casa. We sang carols I’d never heard, some familiar, but in Spanish and other, familiar and in English. I cried more than once--thinking back to other Christmases. I cried with happiness to be so blessed as to have found this small, yet warm and loving, little corner of Mexico City; and I cried knowing how different this Christmas would be from all others. But, I firmly believe, we are exactly where we are supposed to be, and my participation in the community has been no accident.

I lingered over food and Ponche, a hot-mulled Christmas drink specific to Mexico, that’s made from the fruit of the Jamaica flower and tamarind and aromatic spinces. In the end I said goodbye to my new-found friends, left La Casa and walked over to the newly renovated Monument to the Revolution. I indulged in a caffeine-free Diet Coke and reminisced about the past seven weeks: the cruise, all those magnificent ports of call, a week in the sun on the Maya Riviera and a magical month in Mexico City. I soaked up my last few minutes in the city, watched a half-moon rise over this beautiful structure and silently whispered goodbye to México and this city that, over multiple visits, I have come to love. I’d decided to come home early.

My time in Mexico had come to an end.

Christmas is, after all, best spent with the ones we love.

Thanksgiving at La Casa de los Amigos

Thanksgiving, 2010
Mexico City

There are only three times in my life I've not been home for Thansgiving.

The first time was in 1977. I was in New York City for the annual National Conference of English Teachers. I had a friend at that time, Marc Strauch, who was studying in Plattsburgh and he'd invited me to his family's home for the holiday. Home was a two bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village where he'd grown up. It wasn't a big apartment and it would have been difficult to prepare a big dinner, so his mother ordered out the turkey. At 2:00 that afternoon, after all his large Jewish family had gathered, the turkey was delivered from a neighborhood deli. That was a first for me!

The next time I was away was in 1998. I was in Nepal, at the end of a three day tour to Chitwan National Park. Thanksgiving morning I took a boat ride on a river that brought to an elephant breeding reserve. That afternoon I caught a bus back to Khatmandu, tracked down some Americans I'd met on a trek earlier in the month, and the small group of us shared dinner. Certainly not turkey, and Thanksgivng was hardly mentioned. Perhaps I was the only one who remembered the holiday.

And today I found myself in Mexico City, sharing the day with the city's only Quaker community, a large group of young American ex pats and an assorted number of others.

It was a bittersweet sort of day, as was to be expected. I was happy to be part of a larger community, and to share the day with them, but there were moments of sadness.
I left my apartment in Coyoacán. Each day I listen to my favorite radio station from Montpelier (via my computer and a wireless connection in the apartment) and was fully aware that it was Thanksgiving. But once I began the walk to the Metro, on a lovely 70 degree, sunny day, it was just another day for Mexicans. They day had no significance for them.

Once at La Casa, the house was a flurry of activity. Folks were working in small groups, cleaning green beans, making salads, peeling potatoes. I was one of two paveros—turkey roasters. One of the turkeys had been baked the night before. Before I left La Casa on Wednesday, I’d prepared the second turkey and put in the fridge. At 9:00 a.m. Thursday morning I called La Casa to tell them to put it in the oven. When I arrived I was greeted to the familiar aroma of Thanksgiving—turkey roasting in the oven. Once again it was Thanksgiving.

La Casa hosted dinner for 50: the volunteers, Mexican employees of La Casa and their families, assorted house guests who came from Canada, The Phillipines, England, Finland, Greece, Honduras, Singapore and, of course, the USA. I’d invited my good friend, Gerardo, who’d been so generous with his support during the decline and death of my mother. He came dressed up for a holiday meal, and was overwhelmed with his first experience with this uniquely American holiday.

It was truly an international Thanksgiving and for a number of them it was their first experience with the holiday.
I could not help think back a year when Thanksgiving 2009 was the last holiday my mother was fully engaged in. Together, we made the traditional fruit salad. She was blind, but could cut the dates and cherries, feeling her way through the process. Cousin Lisa was there with two of her sons, as well as Ed, Rita and Steve. It was a joyous day. The day after Thanksgiving we went to Santa’s Workshop—a grey, late November day complete with snow flurries. It was wonderful.
There are two dishes that have graced the Ladue holiday table for years. The oldest is fruit salad.

Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas my mother’s grade school friend, Elaine Cranston, her daughter, Diane, who was three years older than I, and Elaine’s mother, Mrs. Dumas, would spend the day with us. Elaine had been widowed early in her marriage, and for as long I could remember, the three generations lived together.

My mother was happiest when the house was full for the holidays. She’d often complain later in her life about all the work that she had to do, but I know she loved it.

Each holiday Elaine would come to the house bearing a wicker basket full of fresh fruit. Apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, dates, walnuts, maraschino cherries, sugar, vanilla and heavy cream. While my mother prepared dinner, Elaine would sit at the kitchen table, peeling and cutting the fruit and later whipping the cream. She’d never do this the day before, or even the morning of the holiday.

“Garbage,” she’d say. “It’s garbage if you prepare it in advance.”
My mother would pull out a special cut glass bowl that she’d gotten for her wedding and the fresh fruit salad would be placed in it.
There was never left over fruit salad, and Elaine’s recipe has weathered the years and is served for either Thanksgiving or Christmas. Her memory lives on these many years and there’s never a holiday that passes when the fruit salad is present that we don’t speak lovingly of Elaine, Diane and Mrs. Dumas.

But now it is I who will speak lovingly of them—all of them gone now. And so, to honor their memory, I made Elaine’s fruit salad. This year I bought the fruit from the fruit truck that sets itself up on the corner near La Casa. The fruit was super-fresh from the lowlands of Mexico. At 2:00 pm I started peeling the fruit, adding the apples, bananas and whipped cream at the very end. Three times I cried, but caught myself. They weren’t tears of sadness but, rather, tears of knowing that things as they once were had changed.

I was grateful for this day, for this opportunity to share Thanksgiving with a diverse group of people.

I was grateful for years and years of happy holiday memories and vowed to continue the tradition. My mother loved the holidays and no mother could have created better Thanksgivings and Christmases then Rita Ladue. Thanks Mom!

By 7:00 pm I was tired and stuffed. The menu had been as diverse as the participants—each person bringing something traditional to their holiday. Of course, I had to sample everything. But I was tired and I knew I had a long commute from the center of the city to Coyoacán. Once on the streets and Metro it was not longer Thanksgiving, but I knew otherwise.

Forty minutes later, after walking home from the Metro, I arrived at my apartment, turned on the Christmas lights I’d strung up earlier in the week, poured myself a glass of wine, sat back and gave great thanks for a wonderful day.

Mexico's Bicentennial: Viva la Revolucion! Viva el Centerario

Mexico City
November 20, 2010
Viva la Revolucion! Viva el Centenario!

A 100 years ago today Mexico commenced its revolution, freeing itself, over a period of ten years, from the horrible mismanagement of its previous 100 years.

This has been quite the year for Mexico. While it certainly gets enough worldwide attention solely for its problems with the cartels, the really great things that make this country my adopted home hardly make the news. Things like the bicentennial of its independence in September and now, today, its celebration of the centennial of the Mexican Revolution.

In September, the city was buzzzing in preparation for its 200th birthday. This was not the case this month. This was certainly the lesser of the two events, but, as is typical with things done in this fantastic city, it was done in a "bigger than life" sort of way.

For ten nights the city has hosted a pagaent in the Zocalo. Pagaent is a small world for the extravaganza. I arrived at 8:45 expecting some sort of sound and light show, but was hosted to a 90 minute spectacle complete with a cast of 200 people and 3D lighting miracles projected on the Cathedral and National Palace. I was in awe! The pagaent told the story of Mexico from Pre-Hispanic times right to the 21st century. Dancers from the Ballet Folklorico de Mexico sang, danced and brought the audience, in the thousands, through 3000 years of history. And what they didn't/couldn't do, the 3D lighting projectiolns on the 900 foot Palacio Nacional and Cathedral did.

It was a full twenty minutes into the show that I began to realize there were two things going on: the light show, which I'd been following ardently, and the pagaent. Because I got there late, I couldn't worm my way closer. Just as well. I was content to watch the light projections. When the pagaent talked of the great Mayan and Aztec civililizations, great serpents were projected on the buildings. When trains connected Mexico in the late 19th century with the rest of the Americas, trains were projected. A 3D replication of the 1985 earthquake that killed thousands in this city showed the damage done do the two edifices in this giant square.

I'll go back on Monday. This time I'll get there early to watch the spectacle on stage.

Today, I got up early and made my way into the city to get a good seat for the parade that would start at the Zocalo and end, 90 minutes later, at the Monument to the Revolution. I was early and was able to get a seat on a curb that would afford me a good view of the parade. I knew i'd be there for awhile, so asked the woman next to me if she knew where there was a bathroom. she directed me to a restaurant. Not wanting to lose my seat, I asked her if she'd mind holding it for me. She did and it developed into a very nice afternoon. Rosa is a teacher and we had a lot to talk about--salaries, problems in the system, curriculum. Seems things aren't much different here than in the USA. She was there with her son and his friend. What a lovely, accidental, chance meeting to share the parade with this pleasant family.

All the heroes of the Revolution were in the parade.

Riding horseback, followed my a float representing his role in the Revolution, each hero had his moment in the centennial sun:

"Viva Mexico," shouted Pancho Villa . "Viva el Centenario!"

"Viva Mexico," shouted Francisco Madera. "Viva el Centenario!"

"Viva Mexico," shouted Emiliano Zapata. "Viva el Centenario!"

And each time the crowd would shout back, "Viva Mexico! Viva el Centenario."

The day ended with a whimper. This time there were no fireworks. The country had expended itself in September for its Bicentennia. Still, it was great fun and a great privilege to be part of both parts of Mexico's important year.

Viva Mexico!

Vva el Centenario!

El Caribe: In the End

Playa del Carmen, Mexico
November 10, 2010

In the end it was a great trip. I travelled 4,195.6 nautical miles from Boston to Cozumel, where I disembarked on Friday, November 5th. I bid a sad goodbye to Glenda, who travelled on another day to New Orleans where she disembarked and caught AMTRAK to Chicago and then on to Plattsburgh.

In the end we travelled from the 45th parallel to 11˚. My only disappointment was that we didn’t get to latitude 10 which would have put us in the true tropic zone. But to spend almost two weeks in the warm humidity of the subtropics while the North Country was getting its first taste of winter was a small price to pay.

In the end I’ve come to see that cruising is very much a life-style type of vacation. Of the almost 2,000 passengers, many were too frail for land-only packages. Quite a few were in wheel chairs. The cruise allowed them to travel in a way that was safe and worry free. For me, it’s still a bit frustrating to spend such little time on land, but that, too, is a small price to pay for the luxury of fine dining, great entertainment, swimming pools and gyms. It’s really all about the boat. Journey, not destination, is the goal.

In the end both of us missed our previous travel companions, Marc and Kirk, who sailed with us from Valparaiso, Chile, around Cape Horn, and on to Buenos Aires. They were the best! I, especially, missed the nightly “soak and chat” hot tub hour with Marc who, as a recovering alcoholic, helped me past the great anger I had towards my brother for refusing to help in any way with last year’s sickness and ultimate death of our mother. Thanks, Marc!

In the end all islands are not equal. Each one visited had its own, unique charms. It was fun to be on little outposts of England and the Netherlands as well as on two islands exclusively Latino. Many are poor, but all are fiercely proud of their history and how far they’ve come since gaining Independence. All of them are beautiful in their own ways.

In the end, the fortuitous meeting of Chris and Ursula brought lots of pleasure. From the time we met on St. Kitts, the four of us rented a car and driver in almost every other destination. We shared common travel interests and conversation always flowed easily. They were of fun to be with. Thanks, Chris and Ursula.

In the end I could not ask for a better travelling companion than Glenda Rowe. My…the travels adventures we’ve shared: around world in a summer, so much of Asia and, now, cruising in our retirement. Thanks, dear friend!

In the end I spent a lovely, but weirdly cold, week in Playa del Carmen, where I studied and lived for four months during the winter of 2007. I got to eat at my favorite restaurants, visit some of my teachers and enjoy the (almost) warm beaches of the Maya Riviera—a place that has changed radically since my first visit in February 1985.

In the end a new travel monster has been unleashed. As the unapologetic country checker offer that I am, I may not be content until I’ve touched based on all Caribbean islands.

In the end we’re already planning a 24 day cruise next September from Copenhagen Denmark, to St. Petersburg, Russia then back to the USA on a repositioning cruise across the Atlantic.

In the end I am aware every single day how fortunate and blessed I am! Thank you, God, for a strong body, a strong mind and the resources to allow all this to happen. And thanks, Steve, for always letting me follow my dream!

In the end, it’s really not over. I’m off to Mexico City for a month where Chapter 3 of this adventure waits to be written.

aya del Carmen--November 2010

Playa del Carmen,Mexico
November 12, 2010

The first time I visited Playa del Carmen, about forty miles south of Cancún, in Mexico’s Yucatán Peninsula was in February 19865. I have no memory of this, but according to Steve we stopped there on a day- trip out of Cancún where we were spending the week.

In 1985 Cancún wasn’t much more than a blip on the travel radar.

It had been a cold, snowy winter, and on the Friday before the last week of school before February break, I’d almost wrecked my car in a white-out on the interstate driving home from work.

I called my travel agent in Montreal who’d always got me great deals, and said, “Get us out of here. Anywhere that’s warm.”

In those days there were lots of charters flying south. A few days later he called me a school.

“I can get you to Cancun Friday night.”

“Where’s Cancún?” I said?

“Mexico.”

“Is it warm?”

“Yes.”

That was all I needed to hear.

In 1985, 50,000 people lived in what would ultimately be called the Maya Riviera. Today, more than 1.2 million people live in the Cancún corridor.

We flew out that Friday evening, arrived in the middle of the night and woke the following morning to summer in February. I was hooked.
Midweek we rented a car for the day. I remember almost everything about that day—a few ruins, visiting a water park, sharing the car with a couple of women we’d met on the flight. But I have no memory of our short visit to Playa.

Back then it wasn’t much more than a large fishing village. What put it on the tourist map was its ferry to Cozumel, which Jacques Cousteu had put on the map 20 years earlier.

There would be repeat visit to Cancún with friends during February or April break, but it would be another ten years before we’d return to Playa del Carmen.

It was Christmas week, 1995. Neither of us wanted to spend Christmas at home that year, Dad had died the Christmas before and the memory of his shutting down Christmas Eve morning and spending that evening with Hospice, and Christmas Day with priests was still raw and fresh.

We decided to imprint a new image on Christmas. We bought a package to Cozumel where our most vivid memory of Christmas is sitting on the roof of a restaurant, a guitarist playing Silent Night in Spanish. Dad was very much with us. It is, of course, impossible to run away, but we did observe the holiday in a much different way.

The day after Christmas, the anniversary of his death, we decided to take a day trip to Playa. It was sunny and warm and we spent the day on the town’s gorgeous white sandy beaches. In December of 1995, La Quinta, Playa’s Fifth Avenue, was still a dirt track. (Today, on the far north of it, condos sell for close to a million dollars and more.)

I think we spent every other day of our week in Playa that week. I returned two months later, and again for April break. It was then that I tracked down a Spanish language school and set up program for the summer.

It was in Playa that I met Alba, my first Spanish teacher. In August of 1996 I’d walk to the far edge of town, meet her in a rundown old school, and for four intensive hours a day she laid the foundation for my Spanish. Thanks Alba! You were the best! (Today, that school is gone and a new three story school has been built. Across the street is a Wal-Mart Super Store that takes up a whole city block. Across the street from that is Mega, another super store that takes up another city block.)

That was just the beginning of my ongoing relationship with Playa. In summers when I wanted to go somewhere but didn’t really want to travel, I’d head to Playa.

Sometimes I’d fly into Mexico City, draw a travel line and spend two weeks travelling to get there. A few later, rested from the school year, I’d fly home.

There would be times when I’d commute between Montreal and Playa four or five times a year.

There’d be times I’d walk off the beach on the Sunday afternoon of April break, shower, fly home on a red eye, and drive back to school from the airport in time for Monday morning class.

There’d be summers I’d live in Playa for weeks on end in the searing wet humidity of the Yucatán, in a hotel without air conditioning. A stiff breeze off the Caribbean always made it tolerable.

There’d be times I’d make friends with a group of people who’d all be gone the next time I’d visit. Such was the life in this very transient town.

There is no other place in the world that has my mark on it more than Playa del Carmen. I’ve watched it grow from a village to a city of more than 100,000 people.

I’ve spent more time there than any other place in the world, other than Plattsburgh and Northern New York. In many ways it’s home, and given the right combination of factors, could be.

It made sense then to come here to finally immerse myself in Spanish. I’d just retired and in January of 2007 I’d come here to study. Playa was as good a place as any. It would be warm and I’d be away from the north until May.

I found an apartment far from the tourist ghetto started class, and settled into a comfortable routine.

I got up, ate breakfast, and went to school until 2:00 pm. I’d spend an hour at the gym each day, then stop at a grocery store and buy something for dinner. I’d take a bus home or, if it were nice, which it almost always was, I’d skip the gym and walk the five miles back to Mission del Carmen. I’d do my homework, study, watch TV and go to bed.

I had a good life. The school wasn’t great and I found fault with a ton of things, but I soon realized it was the first time in I don’t know how long that no one wanted a piece of me. Thirty five years in the classroom and years of caring for my parents had worn me down.

For the first in my adult life I stopped. It was a totally selfish, and totally unapologetic, four months.

I never intended to stay that long. Never. But one week led to another. I took each class I could until I exhausted every possible level. It was really an academic overload, but life was too comfortable to stop. So I stayed.

I’d go to school for three weeks then take a week off. This was school, but it wasn’t real school. I’d travel on those weeks off. In February I met Steve on the west coast of Mexico for the annual roundup of friends in Zihuatanejo; in March I went to Mexico City and in April I travelled south into less travelled parts of the Yucatán.

The weather changed. Winter turned to spring. The days grew warmer and longer. By early May it had become steamy and it was clearly time to leave. Without school, I had no social life, and it really was time to return home.

I came home and, as always happened when I’d come back to the North Country, I’d go through was became known as “Playa Withdrawal.” A part of me always stayed in the Yucatán.

And so each I year I return. Now there are a few friends to visit, and I always take time to visit the teachers who influenced me the most, the ones who encouraged and stretched my abilities. I’m grateful to them for what they did, and for their ongoing friendship.

And so I found myself there in November of 2010, arriving in Playa in the most unconventional way ever. I’d arranged with our cruise line, Norwegian, to leave the ship at our last port, Cozumel. I spent a pleasant week on the beach, marveling at the continual changes in this town, eating in my favorite restaurants and visiting the few people I know there.

On my last full day in Playa I left the beach early and made my way to “The Mission--La Mission del Carmen” where I lived for 3 ½ months in winter of 2007. As I did every day that winter when I’d come home from school, I’d get off the bus, cross the street and stop at Oxxo, the neighborhood grocery store. I bought a Diet Coke and a cup of homemade arroz con leche—rice pudding. I walked down the street, stopped in front of “my apartment,” leaned against an iron fence across the street, enjoying my snacks and thinking back:
I thought of rainy, early winter evenings when the sound of soft rain would splash against the skylight in the living room. I’d always stop what I was doing and just listen to that sweet, soothing sound.

I thought of soft, warm winter nights when I’d sit in my front yard studying the night sky. Venus glittered in the Eastern horizon; Orion rode the heavens directly above me, and not to my south as he would if I were watching him from home.

I thought of the man who, in the twilight of early evening, would ride his bicycle down the streets of La Mission chanting:
Tamales. Coladas.
Tamales. Coladas.

Often, his voice would trail in then trail out. Sometimes I’d grab some pesos, step outside and buy a few tamales—rice, vegetables and meat steamed in a banana leaf. An elegant dinner.

I thought back to my ongoing battles with ants who marched across the living room floor from the front window to the back door. Each Saturday I’d wash the floor with a water and Clorox mixture and for a few days I’d be ant free. By mid week I’d have to do it all over again. Oh, my poor mother would have gone crazy.

I thought of hot, late winter days when I’d slog home from class and open the door to an oven. I’d open all the windows and doors and within a few minutes the small apartment would cool right down.
I thought about a lot of things while leaning against that fence. By the time I was ready to leave, the sky had turned lead gray and a light autumnal rain threatened. I’d been rehashing happy, for the most part, memories. A 5:00 dusk was settling over the neighborhood and people were beginning to return home from work.

I gathered up my things and left, but not before sending good thoughts to whoever lived in the house now.

But I felt a bit sad. The neighborhood had deteriorated and “my” house was dumpy. Changes. That is what Playa del Carmen has always been about. It’s not a town that’s stood still since it started being developed.

But, through it all, there were constants—the constants that brought be back time and again and will bring me back in the future:

The Caribbean—water soft and warm in indescribable shades of blues and greens.

Giant stratocumulus clouds that hug the sky like giant white mountains.

Sand, mica rich, that even on the hottest summer days, is cool to the touch.

On the way back to my hotel I stopped at Mega, the huge box-store super market in Playa. Employees were busy decorating for Christmas. Fresh evergreen trees were available, their heady pine scent anachronistic to the Yucatan.

I’d come full circle. It was time to leave Playa. It’s a great place for a week or two, but I’d worn out my time there. I had an air ticket to Mexico City the next day. There, I’d get to watch Christmas unfold for an entire month.

This time I was racing toward the holidays, not escaping from them. I also knew that Christmas in Mexico City would be like everything else that city does—it would be bigger than life.

I was psyched to move on to chapter 3 of this journey.

El Caribe: Roatan and Cozumel

Days 13/14
Roatan, Honduras / 16˚18.72 N
Cozumel, Mexico / 18˚
November 4-5, 2010

It rained. A lot. It didn’t help that my tour guide said that the day before was sunny and beautiful and that 90% of the year is that way.
Roatan. Part of the Bay Islands,it was once owned by the UK, many people still speak English. It’s a multi-cultural island with deep roots in Anglo-Europe and Africa.

I was alone on the island. Glenda had been here before and Chris and Ursula, our wonderful travel companions, had other plans. That was ok. I attached myself to a group of others off the boat for a three hour van tour if the island. It was stormy and blustery and the first half the ride slogged through deep mud puddles and the only vistas were through rain splattered windows. What few communities we did go through were poor, which is understandable as Honduras is a poor, Central American nation.

Our tour guide was an American ex-pat who'd lived onthe island for several years. He ran a one man monologue:

"If it were a nice day you could see a group of islands out there."

"This is the local brewery."

"There's good surfing here."

Total nonsense. Nothing historical, nothing that would engage the tourist.

Behind me sat Archie and Edith Bunker, direct from Queens. Out of the ten or so people in the van, he was the only one who asked any questions.

"They got AIDS here? Huh?"

"These people work?"

"Where are we? What country are we in?

"They got AIDS here?"

"These kids go to school? Probably not."

"They got here? Huh?"

"They got AIDS here? Sure they do. They don't care.

"They got a Socialist government here like we got in the United States?"

My god! I wanted to turn around and tell this stupid Tea Party Republican to shut up!

At one point, when the van stopped for photos, I actually apologized to the Australian woman sitting next to him.

"Is he for real," she asked me?

"Must be, I said. "This is what the Tea Party/Republican Party is doing to the USA."

"You're in for some real trouble," she added.

"Yes, I know."

Fortunately the "tour" was coming to an end when I saw Glenda walking on the side of the road.

"Stop," I commanded the driver, and I jumped out, leaving Archie and Edith to the others. I'd have something to share at dinner.

Glenda was chatting with a young man and his two nieces and I was just in time to take their photo. She'd scored a bottle of Coke and was proudly showing it off.

In the end it was a disappointing circle around the island. It just seemed to be about trees and rain with only a few vistas of the distant sea. Perhaps on a dry day, seen under a blazing sun, Roatan would have been a pleasure.

I boarded the boat early, did a bit of business relating to my early departure off the ship on Friday and ran into Silva, our traveling companion from the beginning who is on her 81st
cruise.

She’d fallen earlier in the day, had gashed her forehead and smarted a huge black eye. We sat with her a bit and will make every effort to be with here tomorrow in Cozumel when she gets an MRI.

This would be my last night on board—a bittersweet event. I spent time alone at the 12th floor cocktail/Diet Pepsi lounge, “The Galaxy of the Stars,” writing this blog and listening to the ship’s very fine Jazz/Big Band quintet. Later, we dined with Chris and Ursula, who will keep Glenda occupied once I leave.

Cozumel. The adventure began at 7:45 when I was “to present myself to the officials.” All my ducks were lined up: hotel reservations, ongoing flights, passport. All my worrying was for naught. It was a straightforward clearance and I cleared customs in no time at all. I had all day ahead of me to share with Glenda, but the two of us had decided the night before to accompany Silva to the hospital on Cozumel where she’d have an MRI. We were, after all, the only others from Plattsburgh, and if it had been me I’d want the same. No good deed goes to waste.

I was very impressed with NCL, and the hospital. NCL picked p the entire tab from the taxi to and from the facility, to the MRI and the consultation with the doctor. They even provided a Peruvian translator which was invaluable at the hospital.

She was fine. A bit shaken up, but with no permanent damage. Thank God!

Glenda and returned to the ship then ate way too much for lunch. I then packed up the last of my things, wheeled my bigger than life suitcase out of the stateroom and exited the ship. We hugged each other goodbye and tried not to cry.

Thirty minutes later I was on the Playa Express, crossing from Cozumel to the mainland.
Once there, I picked up my suitcase, and walked to a nearby park facing the sea; I bought a soft drink and a bag of fresh coconut and waited for the boat to depart. She was but a toy ship in the far distance of Cozumel, but I knew it was her as she pulled out of its pier and slowly headed north.

“Good bye, dear friend,” I whispered to the darkening afternoon.

I waited until the ship was but a speck on the northern horizon which, too soon, was out of sight.

I gathered up my things, walked away from the Caribbean, my aquatic home for the past two weeks, and headed into Playa.

The second phase of this journey had just begun.

El Caribe: Curacao and Aruba

Days 9/10
Curaçao, Netherland Antilles / 12˚ 04. 93” N
Aruba, Netherland Antilles / 12˚ 31. 02’ N
October 31—November 1, 2010

Rain has dogged us for days. But it is November in the Caribbean and the dry season really hasn’t started. We’ve been in the broad ring of Hurricane Tomas and, while we haven’t had severe weather, it’s certainly not been a sun-filled trip—especially on Curaçao and Aruba.

We arrived in Curaçao on a Sunday morning to find everything closed. Everything! Lucky me! No souvenirs to buy. But, cars and their drivers were available. By now, Chris and Ursula and the two of us had joined forces and rented a car and driver for six hours. I was immediately struck by how similar Netherland Antilles architecture was to that in the Netherlands. Brightly painted houses almost doll like, with gabled roofs, dominated all over the island.

Our driver, Franklin, spoke horrible English and his Spanish wasn almost too hard to understand, but he knew that we wanted to see ponds so Chris and Ursula could bird spot, and that we wanted to see as many of the 38 beaches on the island as possible. Roger, our driver, would pull off the island ring road and bring us to postcard perfect coves with only a few people on the beach. At one, we found a vendor selling luscious cocadas, coconut based sweets handmade on the island, as well as a type of peanut brittle loaded with fresh peanuts in a brown sugar and sugar cane base. Yum!

By hour four, after traversing miles and miles of Cuaçaon roadways, I was exhausted. I fell asleep in the van and only woke when the car hit a huge puddle that splashed me awake.

We had plenty of time to spare when we got back to Willemstad, the capital, whose brightly colored houses in the harbor have landed it a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Chris and I photographed the line of buildings from every conceivable angle, then the four of us sat for a long time enjoying a chat and drink before returning to the boat.

That night, after dinner I decided to hit the casino. I’m not gambler, but am willing to lose $10.00 every now and then. Perhaps because both of my parents are gone now, this cruise has reminded me of that first one years ago.

It was our first night at sea at that Miami-Nassau cruise, and a huge storm had moved in. We were on a small boat with very few stabilizers. My mother was the first to get sick, returning to our stateroom almost immediately. My brother soon followed. In the long shadows of memories of that night, I remember that my Dad, who’d once traveled from California to Hawaii during WW II, thought this quite funny. He and I went to dinner. The sea was so rough and the ship so unstable in the waters that each table had a one inch lip around it so plates wouldn’t fly off. I had no idea what we talked about, but I do remember that as soon as the first course was consumed my dad got sick, started to gag, and rushed back to the cabin.

I was left alone. For some reason I didn’t get seasick. I finished dinner, and wandered the ship as it pitched and rolled in the night’s storm. It was great fun. Only a few passengers were milling about, and I remember chatting with a woman who was a teacher. I was 15 and had already thought of going into that profession, so the conversation stands out in memory.

What also stands out in memory is the fact that this 15 year old boy had his first experience with a casino. I had money in my pocket and started to play the slot machines in the bar. And for some other unknown reason, no one stopped me.

I stated to win. In those days you still pulled the handle and real coins rolled out of the machine. In the end, I came out ahead and had more money in my pocked that when I entered. I also had the commonsense to stop while I was ahead.

I don’t think I ever shared that story with my parents at the time. Perhaps they wouldn’t have cared. They were still sick the next morning.

Later that day, we learned that two people had died on that ship that night, having been thrown into something that killed them. Maybe it was a nautical myth, or simply a story bantered around the ship. Either way it sobered us. Several years later we learned that the ship actually sank while enroute somewhere. Perhaps we were never as safe as we thought we were. Whatever! That first cruise was my first taste of “exotic” travel. Thanks Mom and Dad!

The next day we awoke in Aruba. Unlike Curaçao, which declared their independence in 2007, Aruba was still attached to the Netherlands, which meant that I just might, if I were lucky, track down Dutch goodies I’ve only eaten in Holland.

But, while that certainly was important, first things did come first. The four of us got ourselves a very fine driver and super ambassador to Aruba, “The Happy Island.”

Mitch had the standard tour: a bit of countryside, a bit of beach. Aruba is a dry island and loaded with cactus. Our started out sunny and cloudless, but as noon approached, and our tour ended, it started to rain. We were deposited back at the boat, but there was still four hours to spare. Glenda wanted to shop; Chris and Ursula returned to the ship for lunch; I had a personal mission.

Our very long time friend, Lomme Schokker, of the Netherlands, who used to live in Plattsburgh, introduced us to Stroopwaffle--a yummy, mollases type cookie; ginger cookies in the shape of windmills; and Vla, a not quite custard, not quite yogurt, dairy concoction. All are unavailable in Plattsburgh, but periodically Lomme will send a care package for Christmas. Mitch had driven us past several large grocery stores, a goodd two miles from the center. I had plenty of time to walk there and back.,plus the walk would be seaside which would be pleasant.

The sunny, dry day had turned to a warm, gray rain. But that didn't deter me. I was on a food mission and rain would not stop me.

An hour later I came to the cooly, air-comditioned grocery store I'd seen earlier. And what a treat....there were all sorts of Dutch goodies. I filled two bags, trudged them back to the ship and relished in the idea that I'd eat Vla Stroopwaffle for the remainder of the voyage.

My journey through the grocery store brought be back to times in South America. I was seeing brands I only see there. That made perfect sense as we only miles from the Venezuelan coastline. True South America was less than two hours away.

We were as far south as we could get on this cruise. The Norwegian Spirit set its course north. We'd have one sea day before our next destination--an island off the mainland of Central America.

One last full day at sea! We had to use it well.

El Caribe: St. Kitts and Barbados

Days 6/7
St. Kitts, Lesser Antilles / 17˚.11.11’ N
Barbados, Windward Islands / 13˚.06.12’ N
October 28-29, 2010

From the moment I arrived on St. Kitts I felt enveloped in a warm quilt of affection and memory. This was "every island"--those islands that have drawn me in and made me love them in a very short period of time. I felt as if I were, alternately, on a Greek Island or on Easter Island, far out in the Pacific. I felt as if I'd been there before.

Glenda and I had gotten off the boat and were quizzing a taxi driver about bringing us around the island. From our readings, it appeared small enough to drive the perimeter road and be back to the ship with penty of time to spare.

We were negotiating a price when another couple, Chris and Ursula of the UK, asked us he we'd like to share the taxi, thus lowering the price. Within a minute our group of two had become a group of four. It was a stroke of good luck, just as it was a stroke of good luck to hire Mr. Calvin Joseph as our guide and driver.

He led us out of the small port town of Basseter, drive north along Main Road, on the Caribbean side of the island. St.Kitts was an unspoiled island, with seas of sugarcane and breadfruit trees growing in its interior.

St. Kitts is a volcanic island and a luxuriant rain forest climbing to the island's highest peak, is full of tiny green monkeys, who were ever present at every stop we made.

Poor Calvin. Chris and I, both photographers with identical equipment (Nikon D90 with and 18-200 mm lens) were constantly asking him to pull over.

How not to! We meandered through tiny villages with pastel colored houses of stone and weathered wood, past sweeping vistas of surf pounding a black volcanic shoreline, past ancient Carib petroglyphs carved into black volcaninc rock.

Undeveloped hills rose between he calm Caribbean and the windswept, adventurous Atlantic. I was reminded of forays into Easter Island's interior, itself volcanic in origin. above us, on the towering peacks of Mounts Liamulga and Verchilds, long dormant volcanoes, clouds perennially enveloped the summits in a rain forest. It was on the slopes of these cool, fertile, wet hills that the island's crops were grown.

Perhaps it was because it was low season, or perhaps becasue St. Kitts in still a bit undiscovered, the beaches were uncrowded and quiet. Perhaps it was because the island brought me back to other islands I've known all my life, islands in the Mediterranean and South Pacific, that I felt an immediate affinity to the place.

I wanted to stay, but the ship waited for no one. I simply made a huge mental note that St.Kitt's was an island to which I'd return.

That night, the four of us dined, reminiscing about the day and sharing travel stories. their only other cruise was two years ago from Valparaiso, chile, around Cape Horne, and on to Buenos Aires. Not only did Chris and I share the same camera and lens, but the same cruise experiences as well.

On Day 7, we woke to a heavy, warm tropical rain. Fortunately, though, we didn't port in Barbados until 10:00 am which gave the storm time to blow out, which it did--sort of. It did drizzle on and off, and the day was punctuated with far more clouds that sun, but it didn't dampen our collective mood.

The night before we'd made plans to spend the day together. We'd travelled well the day before and were an easy group to please. Of course, as it is in all ports of call, a taxi and driver found us first. We set on a price and headed out of town.

We slowly wound our way out of Bridgetown, the capital. Flags were at half mast and we asked Rodger, our driver, why. the island's much respected Prime Minister had died a few days earlier. Dead at 48 of Pancreatic Cancer!

I fully intend to spend all my money before I die, doing the BIG trips whie I still have my health and sanity. There are no guarantees.

Barbados is a rather large rock jutting out of the ocean, with the calm Caribbean on one side and the robust Atlantic on the other. Unlike St.Kitts, its topography was somewhat flat, with tiny villages alone and between small mountain ridges. The narrow roads we travelled brought us past large plantations that raised sweet potatoes, yams and oceans of sugarcane and past scores and scores of little churches, some no larger than an old Adirondack summer camp. We meandered past old-growth stands of mahogany forests and Royal Palms. Despite the intermittent rain, it was beautiful. and, despite the fact that we were latitudinally almost in the tropics, it wasn't unbearbaly hot. Ever present trade winds kept temperatures oderate and beat down the humidity.

Twice, we reached high spots on the island that affored gorgeous vistas of long,white sandy beaches. One was at St. Michael's church. The church overlooked the Atlantic and the cemetary had draves dating back to the 1600's. Workmen were busy preparing a grave for the newly deceased PM.

Another vista brough us high above Bathsheba, Barbados' most scenic streth of beach. Crashing Atlantic surf had eroded the shoreline, forming steep cliffs and prehistoric rock formations.

We were back in Bridgetown with time to spare. our time was too short on this little bit of England in the Caribbean, but we did the best we could, chalking up Barbados and another place to return to someday.

Both Tortola and Barbados brought back another shadowed memory of that first cruise, years ago. We'd arrive in Nassau after a very rough night at sea, and I remember my Dad renting a car to get us around the island. Maybe we had two days there, and he, being the more adventurous of my two parents, wanted to see it all.

In those days, Nassau was still a British island and I remember using shillings and crowns as the currency.

I also remember that Nassau was the first place in the work where I experienced driving on the left, steering wheel on the right. I also remember my mother's constant gasps and "Oh my gods" at every twist and turn in the road. It was probably my Dad's first driving on the left, too.

None of us had an iota of experience driving on the "wrong side of the road," but we obviously got back to the ship alive. I remember it as being fun and new. At that time, my travel taste buds were just awakening to the unusual. Fortunately, I still devour travel and often look to those early, early experiences as the genesis of my life time of travel adventure.

I also remember my Dad as being quite brave. To this day, I've never accepted the challenge of driving on the left, even though I spent months living in countries where this the norm

Despite all my travels, there are things my Dad's done tht I may never do.