I grew up with four brothers. We were not a “touchy feely” family and scattered to the four winds as soon as we reached adulthood. My oldest brother, almost nine years my senior, left home at seventeen to join the military. We spent very little time together after that.
My first Christmas, held by my big brother. 1952
Ken was the black sheep. He was often the brunt of family jokes. During his recent visit to Bacalar I learned quite a lot about him. I’ve always known that he was extremely intelligent. He is painfully smart, we’re talking a human walking encyclopedia smart. And I got a glimpse of how difficult that sort of brain has made his life.
Before our youngest brother was born. Circa 1956
Lisa and I took turns hanging out with him. She had far more patience. I did my best to practice being present and not letting our familial relationship get in the way.
My youngest brother’s wedding.
It was clear that Ken was very glad to be spending time with me. It felt nice to have him see my life. We showed him around our little corner of the globe, ate good food (made by us and at local eateries) and went through photos and movies. We talked family history and shared memories. It was good.
Thanksgiving 2022 Florida USA
I admit that I was nervous about him coming to visit. Not all my childhood memories of growing up with four brothers are good ones. None of us had a perfect childhood and adult sibling relationships can be complicated. He is eighty years old and I’m sorry it’s taken us this long.
Bacalar is beautiful. Our house is a work of art. For ten years we have invited friends and family and shown pictures to entice them to visit. Our motivation has been as much to share this place as it is to see people. Very few have taken us up on the invitation. Maybe one visitor per year for the last ten years. We have been the ones to do the traveling, to Texas, California and Florida.
Laguna Bacalar from our dock.
In October Lisa’s aunt came for two months. Aunt Linda stays with Alice and is no trouble. She is however another person for dinner and the shopping is non stop. The sisters are a duo, heads together, talking old times. They’re like a pair of magpies.
Sisters Linda and Alice and Lisa at the beach in Mahahual.
I dropped Linda at the airport for her return to California and picked up our friends Dan and Lisa. We had a fun-filled two weeks. We dropped them back at the airport and picked up my brother. In the middle of my brother’s visit was Lisa’s 60th birthday.
A small gathering of good friends was a delight.
We have been tour guides, chefs, chauffeurs and entertainers. Nothing makes you appreciate routine like non-stop activity.
So grateful to have my brother visit. At the Mayan Cultural Museum.
Don’t get me wrong, we have enjoyed every minute. No complaints. Next time however I think we will work on the timing. You’re all welcome to visit, just not at the same time.
The year was 2019. You remember 2019, back before the word Covid ever crossed our lips or took up real estate in our brains. Lisa and I went on an epic trip, Miami to Los Angeles through the Panama Canal. While breakfasting on the back deck of the Azamara cruise ship we met Dan and Lisa. Breakfast turned into friendship and we’ve kept in touch ever since.
Panama City off in the distance.
On the cruise, Dan and Lisa looked at pictures of Bacalar and oood and aaahd appropriately and declared that they would come visit. Given our past experience with guests, we gave each other “the look” and wink, wink and said, sure, we’d love to have you.
Staying in Playa del Carmen on our way to Bacalar.
Four years later, they’re here and I can’t believe it. We have a week of show and tell planned. There’s a boat tour of the laguna tomorrow, pyramids, the pirate fort and of course mercados and downtown. For now they’re content with sitting on the roof and taking in the view.
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.
Thanks to Bacalar local and chef extraordinaire Jey Mazumder, Lisa and I had an opportunity to celebrate the Hindu festival of Diwali and partake of an Indian feast among new friends.
A fun time was had by all.
“What is Diwali, the Festival of Lights, and how is it celebrated in India and the diaspora? Diwali is the most important festival of the year in India — and for Hindus in particular. It is celebrated across faiths by more than a billion people in the world’s most populous nation and the diaspora.” Google
Diwali is celebrated differently around the world. It usually lasts a few days and involves house cleaning, lighting candles, and the Goddess of wealth, Lakshmi. In Bacalar we celebrated by eating.
We did not win the costume contest. The vista for our evening.
It had been raining all day and we appreciated the break to feast and dodge mosquitoes. Happy Diwali to all.
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.
My mother-in-law fell this week. To a degree I blame myself. Our car had been in the shop for ten days and we were beginning to run out of fresh food. Shopping list in hand, I called my taxi friend Franklin to meet us on the highway. Alice badly wanted to go and pick up some things, but mostly she was bored and wanted to get out of the house.
Christmas a few years ago.
The short walk from our house to meet the taxi required skirting puddles due to recent intermittent showers. Our road is made from layers of sascab or decomposed limestone which is slick as snot after the rain. I was doing my best to walk along the outer dry edge and expected Alice to follow me. I should have been holding onto her. Then I heard an oomph.
Falling is so hard, literally and figuratively. I should know, I’ve done it enough. My first thought was to take her home. Once on her feet, Alice vehemently declared herself to be “OK”. I knew better, but wanted to avoid an argument. She can be quiet stubborn and vocal about getting her way.
2017 Three hotties.
At the grocery store she insisted on carrying her own heavy groceries until I put my foot down. Still she insisted that she was fine. The next day told a different story.
Last April at a friend’s wedding. The many faces of Alice.
Alice didn’t break anything but there was definitely pain, bruising and regrets, both mine and hers. The end result, was an honest and vulnerable conversation about aging. Alice admitted to something we all experience, feeling younger and more capable than she is. She will be eighty in February. While some people are running marathons at eighty, Alice is not one of them. She is rather frail, as much as she prefers to believe otherwise.
We had a very honest talk. It is so easy to believe the messages that growing old equals worthlessness and being a burden. We begin to loose control as others make decisions for us, something no one likes.
Last summer’s gym rat.
Alice and I came to an agreement. When it comes to matters of health or injury, she will trust that Lisa and I have her best interest at heart. There will be no more arguments or fussing. This is a dance we all get to do. For me it’s important not to get scared but take one day at a time, keep the lines of communication open and most importantly, come from a place of love. We’ll all get through it together.
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.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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