When Lisa and I arrived in Bacalar, Mexico in 2013 it was a small, dusty pueblo with little to offer but inexpensive living and one of the most beautiful lakes in the world. We were ready for a quiet life after retiring from the US rat race.
View from here.
Of course the world changed in ways that none of us could have foreseen. Digital nomads flooded the local economy and Bacalar grew to accommodate. Restaurants and hotels sprouted up everywhere.
Our friends Sam and Juan’s hotel, The Blue Palm.
Last night we tried a new restaurant Cheuinic, to celebrate Sam’s birthday,.
Me, Lisa, Sam and Juan.Smokey cauliflower on a bed of humus. A reasonably priced menu. 200p=$10Squash tostada, my favorite.
I had read the rave reviews before we went to dinner. The food was good and the company was stellar. The trouble is, Lisa and I are no foodies. We prefer simple, uncomplicated food, no matter how pretty the presentation. We always forget too, that Mexican restaurants love to blare music. Nothing is harder than struggling to have a conversation across a large table. In the future we will pay more attention to the environment than the food. We really are getting old.
Guests are like grandchildren, they come for a visit, and then they go home. We certainly enjoy them while they’re here and then we collapse.
My brother and his new bride.
After twenty-two years, they finally tied the knot and came to Bacalar for a honeymoon.
Our friend Michelle took most of the pictures.Lots of sampling of the best of Bacalar cuisine. Mayan fusion at Nixtamal.It was a perfect day to be out on the lake.Captain Blaine, our tour guide.A good time was had by all.
There’s nothing like a Saturday morning spent exploring a little neighborhood mercado. This particular one is a favorite of ours. There are plants blooming, music that makes you want to dance and many food vendors filling the air with their enticing aromas.
From top left, my MIL, a pineapple, bougainvillea and spicy habanero peppers.
One of my favorite things to do is to strike up a conversation with locals. They are so curious about us foreigners and when they find someone who can speak Spanish, the questions come pouring out, especially about current US politics.
My favorite tropical fruit, guanábana aka soursop. Creamy and delicious.Sweet tamale with raisins.
Sampling this tamale brought happy tears to my eyes. Tamales in the tropics are made in banana leaves. These tamales were advertised as estilo de DF or made in the style of central Mexico, cooked in corn husks. They tasted exactly like the ones my Mexican mama made for me to celebrate my twenty-first birthday in 1973. It’s funny how a taste or smell can take you back.
No market day would be complete without a frenchie. This stunning brindle was a bruiser named Thor or in Spanish Tor.
An abundance of color. Papayas and limes.
My mobility is still limited but this was a great way to test my limitations, A really fun morning.
Our trip to Cape Hatteras, North Carolina in 1961 holds the fondest vacation memories for me. An eight and a half hour drive from New Jersey, I don’t know how my parents did it with five kids and my cousin Pat. The NC coast was our destination with its picturesque lighthouse, sand dunes and museum of the Wright Brothers, who got the first airplane off the ground at Kitty Hawk.
1903Keeping sand out of the tent was a full-time job.
My Dad, ever the nature lover, had us up at dawn to take a guided nature walk along the beach, peering into tide pools, collecting shells and tromping through marshlands.
Hatteras Lighthouse
One day we took a ferry to the Outer Banks. We spent the day at the State Park, swimming, building sand castles and getting sun burned. In line for the ferry back to our campsite we discovered that one of two ferries had run aground on a sandbar. We waited for hours, out of drinking water and food, expecting to have been back for dinner.
The ferry present day.
As the afternoon wore on, my mother decided to take the five kids, youngest age three to ride the ferry and walk back to the campground. Dad and brother William (8) were to stay with the car. Sounded like a plan.
Coquina shells found along the Outer Banks beach.
The trouble was, by the time the ferry docked across the bay, and our little troop off loaded, the sun had set, leaving us to navigate a gravel road, in the dark. As children are prone to do, we had left our shoes in the car. My poor mother.
Blue crabs were prolific. My mother’s favorite.
Somehow we made it. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches never tasted so good. Then my mother did something totally amazing, at least to me. She opened a can of grape juice. I’m sure we were all dehydrated but juice was a rare treat in those days. My mother’s job was to save all year and pinch pennies to make our vacation happen. She was the finance person. That night, she doled out grape juice like fine wine.
With the majority of our outings of late to the doctor, dentist and physical therapist, I needed a bit of adventure. The Free Zone is a 28.5 acre duty-free shopping area between Mexico and our neighbor Belize, about 30 minutes from our door. It is known for cheap clothing, alcohol, perfume and household goods from China, Hong Kong and godknowswhere.
I am not a shopper. My current limited mobility isn’t the only thing that keeps me from walking the streets and perusing the aisles. I did however need a few things that I’ve been unable to find in Bacalar and neighboring Chetumal.
I haven’t been to the Free Zone in years, but the last time I bought a handful of gauzy cotton dresses that are great for tropical weather. They’ve all been worn out of existence and turned into rags. Time for replacements. There is also an international grocery store that carries Indian spices and many uncommon things (uncommon to this part of Mexico). I fulfilled my quest to find miso (Japanese) and black salt (Indian).
Three for $10.
I drove into the Free Zone and immediately found a parking space, which is unheard of. I found my dresses and then used a tuk tuk to get around. It beat me trying to maneuver in unfamiliar territory.
20p or $1.00 minimum
The adventure was complete with lunch at a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant and google directions back across the Mexican border. A quick once over by immigration and back on the road to Bacalar and an uneventful ride home.
I’m not sure what I ate, but it took some convincing that I didn’t want meat. The dish was very spicy.
I used to confidently declare in any medical appointment that I am here for a second opinion because MINE is the first! Like many influencers today, I had strong ideas and thought I knew it all. You can imagine that my attitude didn’t go over well.
I frequently refused antibiotics, routine dental X-rays, and assorted tests. Not this week however.
An X-ray machine the size of an old portable radio. Amazing! I used to work in radiology and the portable machines were six feet tall and weighed hundreds of pounds.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, am tired or just don’t care. My hands are in the air. I give up, I surrender, I quit.
I went to the dentist this week to get my teeth cleaned. Pretty routine right? I was told that I had multiple cavities and a molar that might need a root canal or to be extracted! WTF! I sat for an hour and got half the cavities filled. A few days later I saw an endodontist, young enough to be my granddaughter, to discover that I had an infected tooth and indeed needed a root canal, just not the tooth the dentist thought.
Root Canal
I again sat for over an hour with my nose, mouth and chin numb. The tooth that started all this may need to come out eventually but is ok for now. Sigh.
None of this makes any sense to me. I don’t drink soda or eat sweets. I have a fancy electric toothbrush that I use religiously. Is it the water? My soft bones? Hereditary? IDK but I quit.
Truthfully I no longer claim to know anything about anything. Technology is moving so quickly that it’s extremely hard to keep up. And I no longer want to.
My father was raised by the Boy Scouts. His own father bailed when he was young, and Dad found his people in a sleeping bag, around a campfire and under the stars. He taught me preparedness, first aid, and to love and respect the environment. “Always leave things cleaner than you found them”. We kids spent a lot of time picking up trash, cigarette butts and bottle caps.
Eighteen years old during the Great Depression On vacation, visiting Fort Ticonderoga in far north New York State.
Dad was a blue collar worker and as our clan grew in the 1950’s we became a family of campers. Five kids piled into our huge Chevy wagon, sometimes including a few cousins and always Fritz, the dachshund. Daddy had his own little scout troop and he loved it.
Our car was blue.
Dad’s factory closed down the first two weeks of August every year. We borrowed a huge canvass tent and my mom managed to buy a camping stove and lantern. We traveled up and down the East coast of the US from New York and Virginia to the beaches of North Carolina. Believe me, camping on the beach takes a special skill.
Cape Hatteras, North Carolina
To give my mom a break, Dad did most of the cooking. Preparing food over a campfire was a challenge my father embraced. He could bake a birthday cake by lowering a cast iron pot into hot coals. He cleverly placed a few pebbles inside to balance a pan of cake batter. The pot was called a Dutch oven, and it worked perfectly.
My brother and I at the New Jersey Shore. Same tent.
I have so many memories of the games we played while driving down the highway. They were designed to entertain without devices and to prevent the incessant barrage of, “are we there yet?” He sang in his baritone voice, songs that I later realized were from his childhood scout troop.
My dad loved parades, holidays, especially Halloween and family vacations. We always won prizes from his imaginative costumes dreamed up at the last minute from wigs, face paint and long underwear pulled from a box that was kept in the attic.
After retirement on a rafting trip with my mother.
My childhood was filled with memories that even now bring a tear to think about. He was one-of-a-kind and those simple times are long gone.
The timing of many of the cultural events that happen in Bacalar don’t work for us. I totally understand scheduling performances for the evening. We live in the tropics, and most of the time, IT’S HOT. Waiting for the sun to go down invites breezes. The trouble is, the announcement says, 7pm and nothing gets started until 9. Being the idiots we are, we still show up at 7.
Caribbean Food Festival Starts at 4? Let’s go!A unique food truck Hand woven bags.How’s this for grilling pineapple?
Besides the crowd and too much walking for me, it was good to get out, try something new, and be home before dark.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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