We first visited Valladolid in 2014. Time sure does fly. This week I wanted a little getaway and made the four hour drive. Valladolid is in the heart of the Yucatán and was the center of Mayan resistance during the mid 1800’s. These wirey small people fought off the federal government, Spanish, US and pirates with machetes. I gotta give them props.
I love Villadolid’s zocalo (town square), regal cathedral and stately convent. There is a busy mercado, several cenotes (natural pools) and world class pyramids of Ek Balam and Chichen Itza.
Franciscan Convent of San Bernardino, a favorite place for locals.1545 San Servacio Cathedral
Having been to Valladolid several times, I wasn’t there to join the throngs of tourists but to wander the streets, eat good food and sketch.
Maybe the best veggie burger ever! #yerbabuenaFrench toast, vegan tacos, capuchino and waffles. All yummy.While waiting for my breakfast.
I also visited the Casa de Los Venados, House of the Deer. The private 18,000 square foot home/museum of the US art collectors and philanthropists John and Dorianne Venator. This was my third visit. There aren’t sufficient words to describe the gift that the Venators have given to Mexico and the world. There are over 3,000 folk art pieces owned by private citizens.
My first attempt at a slide show!
After three days I was ready to come home to Bacalar. As we head into the holidays, take time to appreciate the beauty that surrounds and the people you love. I appreciate the comments left by readers. Thank you for hanging with me and sharing this bumpy ride called life.
Last week we celebrated the Hindu festival of Diwali around a communal table with people we had just met. I tell myself and whoever will listen that I want more people in my life ie friends. Most of the legacy people that we met in Bacalar when we arrived ten years ago, have aged out, sold their homes and moved on. The community that we thought we were moving into, disintegrated like crumbling Mayan pyramids.
Mayan mask.
I sat at dinner last Saturday between two men. They each sat with their body turned away from me talking to the person on the opposite side. This behavior is something that I’m used to. I find that I am invisible to most men. As an old woman (71), men rarely give me the time of day. As a lesbian too, I do not flirt or dress to please. I’ve given up that game a long time ago.
My attempt at a costume for Diwali.
And then something surprising happened. Terry, to my left, began to engage with me. The man HE had been talking to was flirting with the women at the other end of the table. That left me. We talked, Mayan Train, health, family and diet. He did some mansplaining about things that I was quite knowledgeable about, so I listened.
Jey our chef extraordinaire. Me second on the right.
The evening was enjoyable, although I learned something about myself. I really don’t do well in crowds, even small ones. I disengage or talk to one person at a time. In the past, I’ve made the decision to get to know someone by really going after them, a brunch date or an invitation to our house. And like anything else, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. I’m about 25% success rate.
Covid allowed me to be a hermit and my friendship muscles have atrophied. I have a gym acquaintance who owns a restaurant in Bacalar and who is willing to host a monthly expat gathering. I’m going to get the word out on social media. We will start in the new year. For me the personal stretch of those underutilized friendship muscles will be to show up and engage. And just maybe I will find a new friend.
Austin, Texas USA is the home of the largest urban bat colony in the world. I’m not sure how anyone knows. Maybe the count wings and divide by two?
I have witnessed this phenomenon many times and it is truly spectacular.
When I lived in Austin in the 1970’s the free-tailed bats that migrated from Mexico in the spring to have their babies, were thought to be pests. Then someone said, “we could make money!” and they became a tourist attraction and the subject of festivals, swag and even a hockey team.
Yes, there’s a hockey team in Austin, Texas.
Bats eat three times their weight a night in mosquitoes and agricultural pests. They are also great pollinators and an essential part of the ecosystem. My dad loved bats and I was raised with a healthy respect. My mother on the other hand was over the top terrified of them .
Austin now loves all things batty.
While living in Austin we put up a bat house to invite occupancy. I never saw signs of any tenants. However, here in Bacalar, we have residents in the palapa directly outside our front door. You’d think I’d be thrilled. Mmmm not so much.
Evidence of our uninvited guests.
The bats forage at night and sleep all day. They also poop down the side of our house and on the pathway below. I tried some clever discouragement but they laughed in my face.
Wind chimes and things glittery. No deterrent.Out little upside down tenant.
I don’t want them to leave, just live somewhere else. They seem quite intent on staying however and I think we’re going to have to make peace with it. Kind of like the rest of life don’t you think?
Privilege afforded by gender identity, skin color, age, nationality, income, religion and a host of other things is often very hard to identify, at least for the recipient of said benefits. When society gives us an advantage that others do not have it can be quite invisible to us.
The privilege that became evident to me this week that I am without is ingredients. Many delicious plant-based recipes show up on my Instagram feed but when I look closer, I can’t get the ingredients! No vegan butter, cornstarch, molasses and a slew of other things. Yes, yes, I realize that I can fiddle and probably come up with a passable facsimile, but more and more, I roll my eyes and just give up.
The options are staggering.
I think the thing that annoys me the most is the blasé attitude of the internet chef espousing the simplicity of the recipe, as if we all had Whole Foods next store.
When we lived in Austin, there was a large high-end grocery store an easy walk away. I could be making any recipe and hop on over for a missing ingredient. No food desert in my neighborhood.
The medley of apples alone at Central Market in Austin blew my mind.
Here in the Mexican wilds we are getting a larger variety of options than were available in years gone by. What you can’t find in the supermercado can often be ordered online. I have a friend who has the right attitude, IMHO, “If you can’t find it, you don’t need it.” I think that having a simpler life is really the privilege we might all aspire to.
Lisa drove this week to Cancun to pick up her aunt from the airport. As many folks do, she stopped at the large La Gas station exiting Tulum on her return to Bacalar. This particular gas station is always busy with long lines and many trucks. There isn’t another gas station for many kilometers.
Stock photo.
Lisa pulled the car in and when the tank was full, handed the attendant two 500 peso bills plus 100, about $56US. In Mexico one is not allowed to pump their own gas. I actually quite like not having to get out of the car. Her change would have been 80 pesos.
The attendant returned and claimed that Lisa only gave him one 500 peso bill. Hahaha he didn’t know it but he was trying to scam the WRONG person. Lisa immediately told him that she in fact gave him the correct amount. She called him a mentiroso liar and demanded loudly to speak with his boss.
I can only imagine the ruckus since I wasn’t along. Lisa’s Spanish pronunciation may have been a bit off, but her confidence was certain and I’m sure he knew exactly what she was saying. He quickly returned with her correct change and even had the temerity to ask for his propina tip.
It is customary to tip the attendant if they go all out, washing the windshield and checking the tire pressure. Lisa only laughed at his cajones and skeedadled.
Lisa and me in Teotihuacan 2017
I’m not saying that you won’t get scammed in your own country, but unfamiliar foreign currency and insufficient language skills can leave you vulnerable when traveling. Scammers beware however when hurricane Lisa comes to town haha.
This week, I began listening to a podcast while prepping food for dinner. Let’s Not Be Kidding is by gay comedian Gavin Crawford. It is the story of his relationship with his mother and what it was like for him and his family as she swirled into the dreaded disease of dementia caused by Alzheimer’s. My mother also died of dementia with no specific cause named.
Bernice 1922-2008
I wasn’t living near my mother and didn’t experience daily her spiral into dementia. I was residing in Texas with teenagers and a partner. She was in a nursing home 1100 miles (1770 km) away. She died February 20, 2008 almost sixteen years ago.
My mom loved to dance. Can you tell it was the 90’s?
Listening to the podcast brought back memories that I have conveniently locked away. Rarely do I think about what it was like for her. Before we realized that my mother had the beginnings of dementia, she was in an horrific car accident that killed her husband. I jumped on a plane to be with her. As I exited the elevator on her hospital floor, I heard her voice echoing down the hall, cracking jokes and sounding quite flirtatious with the doctor and priest. She was in a body cast from chin to thigh. I had expected to find her at death’s door. Her response wasn’t from pain drugs either. Gavin talks in the podcast about his mother’s uncharacteristic flirtatiousness which perfectly described my mom in her final years. I was surprised to find that her behavior was likely due to her illness! I thought she was just odd.
Me, Mom and my daughter.
One time I came to see her in the care facility where she lived after the accident. She didn’t know I was coming as I wanted to surprise her. She was sitting in the common area enjoying an entertainment program. I slipped into the seat beside her and put my arm around her. She pulled back and looked at me in confusion. She didn’t know who I was. At first I thought that she was kidding, which was so like her. Later when she remembered me, she was horrified that she didn’t know, “my own daughter”. I pretty much dismissed her emotions and reassured her, blind that her behavior was a symptom of her mental decline.
All my life I telephoned my mother every Sunday. It was just what we children of a certain era did. In the final years it never failed that Mom would ask me, “how’s my friend?” She meant my wife Lisa but could never remember her name. Everyone loves Lisa, my kids, my siblings, everyone. I often wish I had her like-ability. But my mother never asked me how I was.
The last picture with my brothers.
Lisa and I were holding her hands when she died. Her last word on this planet was my name. I was such a tangle of anger, grief, resentment and confusion at the time. We had a challenging relationship. I wanted it to be more loving but didn’t know how to change things. I tried. I wish I’d tried harder.
My mother’s ashes center near the house where we grew up in New Jersey.
I guess it comes down to accepting her the way she was and that we both did the best we could. Unfortunately I think I learned from her all too well and this week I’m feeling particularly sad. My children also have difficulty feeling loved by me. And the cycle continues.
Our visit to Alaska was special in many ways. Besides the wildlife, snow topped mountains, and glaciers, there was time spent with Lisa’s Great Aunt Edna. I was a fly on the wall to witness their love and connection. It was a beautiful thing.
I only hope to age as gracefully as this dynamo.
Edna is Lisa’s great aunt, her grandmother’s youngest and only remaining sister. As Lisa was the oldest grandchild, she and her aunt share many memories that few in the family possess. Text messages passed between them every few months allowing connection as only our electronic age permits when one lives in Mexico and the other in Alaska. When Lisa declared her desire to visit her almost ninety year old aunt, I thought, “why not?” I did not expect to find the vibrant, capable and engaging woman that I did. BTW she is a big Dos Tortas fan and follower.
Did I mention that Edna was the youngest of eight sisters?
Edna and her sisters were very close. Every year they had Sister Reunion. Sometimes that meant staying in a hotel together, especially as the elders aged.
Sister reunions also included adventures.
The Sister Reunions were sacrosanct and no one was allowed entry. As the favorite granddaughter of Edith, Lisa sometimes wrangled her way in and got to know all her great aunts. Once a group of them traveled to Europe while Lisa was in the military. They toured the museums and sites, generally having the time of their lives.
During our visit, I busied myself preparing meals while Lisa and Edna culled through forty photo albums and packed up her apartment for the move to Portland, USA. Edna is leaving Alaska after sixty years for assisted living. She fell and broke her pelvis a couple of years ago. Alaskan winters are rough, dark and cold. She is ready for a change, bittersweet as it is.
I felt privileged to meet Edna and witness a reunion of a slightly different yet equally poignant kind.
DOS TORTAS
Sisters Sisters by Irving Berlin. Movie classic, White Christmas.
We left Northern California for Seattle, Washington on Monday. We were on to cooler climes and a visit with friends before heading to Vancouver Canada.
My daughter and twin granddaughters.
Unfortunately things took an unexpected detour.
Lisa got sick and ended up in the hospital. A nasty UTI (urinary tract infection) which traveled to her kidneys, has her with an IV pumping antibiotics into her arm until Tuesday. So much for Vancouver. At this point we’re grateful she’s alive and healing. She was one sick puppy.
Near my hotel is an art museum with Chihuly glass.Native artists and subject matter.Powerful images from native artists.
It’s been a crazy week. We literally opened google maps and went to the nearest hospital. We lucked out. The doctors and staff have been amazing. We are so very grateful.
Off to visit our daughter and family in Northern California. Taking a bit of a break from blogging for awhile.
Grandkids starting their first day of school. How they’ve grown!A day hanging out with my daughter. Eat, pray, get a pedicure!The town square in Healdsburg and some art museums.Only in California.Some random kids enjoying the freezing Pacific Ocean Luna and Stella enjoying time with our house sitters.
We leave Monday for Seattle, Washington. Lisa is already freezing. 😆
When I was about eighteen my older brother married Ronnie. She was a petite redhead with huge fiery curly hair. I loved her dearly. With four brothers, she was the big sister I never had.
In 1974 I returned to the US from a year abroad, studying Spanish in Mexico. I felt uncertain as to the direction my life should take. A teacher I admired had casually suggested I go to Austin and finish my education at the University of Texas. Not having a better idea, I applied, was accepted and got on a plane. Ah the spontaneity and optimism of youth.
University of Texas tower.
I tell the story in more detail as to how I ended up in Austin at Down To Our Skivvies
Austin in August 2023
I’m not sure what I expected in Texas, in August. It was hot as hell, like I swore you could fry eggs on the sidewalk. I was a fish out of water. I called home to the East Coast and talked to Ronnie. I was crying, homesick and wanting to throw in the towel. Nothing in Austin was familiar and I had no one to turn to. Instead of getting the sympathy I sought, I got a kick in the pants.
Ronnie told me to stay and figure it out! In a way she told me that I could do it. Her confidence in me gave ME confidence in me. And she was right.
There are so many forks in the road that can direct the rest of our lives. Staying in Austin was a big one for me. I found help, made friends, found housing, independence and a whole new life that lead to where I am today. I’m not sure I ever thanked Ronnie. She and my brother separated a few years later and I never saw her again. Hang on to people when you can. You never know when advice given or received can completely change someone’s life.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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