Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

The shuttle arrived at our hotel in Antigua at 7:45 AM. We were the first pick up. Our second stop was nearby and we collected a friendly, very clean-cut, young backpacker. He told us he was Italian, from a city near Venice. When we pulled up in front of the third stop we saw a sign on the wall that told us it was a Lutheran Retreat Center. “Great,” Alex said, “We’re going to be riding for two hours with a bunch of religious fanatics.”

“It’s ok,” said the Italian with a smile, “I’m a Jehovah Witness.”

Alex and I donned earpieces and listened to music from his Ipod the rest of the ride.

Getting to Lake Atitlan from Antigua was not pretty; not at first. The road took us through impoverished towns, even by Mexican standards. However, about an hour through the two hour drive, the road vistas opened up to farm land and sweeping valleys, revitalizing our senses. Descending into the quaint little lakeside town of Panajachel, we were assaulted by Guatemalan children wanting to carry our luggage to the boats. Volcanoes provide the backdrop to the lake, and breathtaking views.

I believe that water, clean water, consistently elevates the beauty of a place; whether it be the ocean, a river, stream or waterfall, or a lake. There is something special about being on or near the water. Lake Atitlan must be one of the most beautiful places on the planet.

And I’m certainly not the first to think this. The information in our hotel room at Villa Sumaya, says, “Lake Atitlan is known by the Guatemalans to be the center of the universe, where God seeds of mankind evolved.”

Villa Sumaya probably deserves a blog entry all on its own. Accessible only by boat, it is an oasis that serves as a yoga retreat and spiritual healing center. It boasts lush gardens, stunning views, winding paths that spill into secluded meditation or lounging areas, all set on the edge of the lake.

On the night of the full moon Alex performed a Maya fire ceremony. It was just the two of us. When the fire was nearly complete, Alex had me lay on the grass with my eyes closed while he walked me through a visualization exercise. When we’d finished I opened my eyes. Sitting around the fire was the hotel owner Wendy, and her two daughters, Celine, age 8, and Chloe, age 6. They had placed red roses around the fire. I had no idea that they had arrived, so quietly, so respectful.

These beautiful girls, French-American by dissent, were born and raised in Guatemala and speak four languages, including the local native dialect. They are fascinating children who have been brought up in an environment of spirituality, healing and creativity. They evidence a kind of wisdom in their expressions that far exceeds their years.

We spent our few days lounging in hammocks and lounge chairs, reading, getting massages and visiting with the other guests. A thoroughly delightful retreat that I would recommend to everyone. The food was less than great but we believe that the chef was on vacation during the first part of our visit. Things seemed to pick up when he appeared on the scene near the end of our stay.

We shared a shuttle back to Antigua, with a delightful mother-daughter couple we met at the resort. They were Australians and the daughter had just completed an exchange program at U.C. Berkeley. Small world.

It is nice to be led, instead of leading. Alex is a seasoned traveler. He has wanted to share Guatemala with me for some time. He handled all the travel arrangements and every time I began to think, “We should arrange . . .” he had already taken care of everything.

Puerto Escondido

In a word, HOT. I don’t know how people function in this heat. If it is like this in January, how must it be during the summer?

We wanted to get away from the cold and we did. Ticket prices had dropped to half what they were during the holidays and so with only three day planning, Alex and I booked the trip. The January forecast from the Power Path School of Shamanism (http://thepowerpath.com/) recommended that we break our routines so we interpreted this to be an act of spontaneity encouraged by the universe.

On the recommendation of a friend we chose to stay at the Casamar Apartments (http://www.casamarmexico.com/) on Zicatela beach. A two bedroom apartment (complete with kitchen) overlooking the pool, cost us $545 for the week.

Casamar is a relatively new family run operation; 12 apartments and the family residence surround a pool and gardens in a kind of “Melrose Place” atmosphere. Laine, the daughter of the owners, manages the complex.

Laine’s older sister was visiting from Boston with her new baby. Probably suspecting that Alex and I were a couple (which we are not, he's straight), she told us that her “partner” had just returned to the states with their two-year-old son. It was clear that her “partner” was a woman. The same question came to both Alex and me but it remained unasked. We didn’t feel that “Where did you get the sperm?” was a polite question to ask of someone we’d just met.

Our favorite members of the family were Casey and Rosita; two beautiful golden retrievers who share a passion for playing fetch, especially if it means jumping into the swimming pool.

I began an activity that I hope to make routine. I had read in a book that if one wants to lose weight (among a list of other things) one should walk an hour every day. I therefore set out to walk Zicatela beach the morning after we arrived.

Did I mention that it was hot?

Puerto Escondido is an international surfing destination, home of the “Mexican Pipeline.” If Calvin Klein is looking for new underwear models, he would be well advised to look in Puerto Escondido. “Think about it,” my friend Karl said back home, “They have to swim like a mile out to catch the best waves and they do that all day.” For someone who is not very happy with the condition of his aging body, my morning walks were an immensely humbling experience.

I’d heard that the last “affordable” beach front property in Mexico can be found in Puerto Escondido. This may be true, more so three years ago, but other than surfing and lying on the beach, there is not a great deal to do here. Not yet.

However, Scott, the owner of the restaurant Seis Palmas (not to be missed for fine dining) broke it down this way; “We have an international airport but no international flights, the ex-governor of the state is building a white elephant of a resort in the center of town, a local developer recently opened a cement factory including a fleet of new cement trucks, and an enormous discount supermarket is under construction as we speak. What does a town of 60,000 inhabitants need with all this? What do they know that we don’t?”

Scott didn’t appear to think much of the surfing community. “Surfers don’t have any money. They just surf and eat pizza.” But then he pointed to a group of million dollar homes on a cliff overlooking a pristine bay. “That one belongs to an Englishman, that to a Spaniard, that one an Italian, that one an American and over there, a Canadian. This place is attracting an international community.”

One evening Alex and I were sitting on our veranda when Alex said, “Holly Shit! That is the biggest scorpion I’ve ever seen!” There on the banister, headed toward the palapa terrace above, was a sizable dark scorpion. A few minutes later a huge toad appeared near the entrance to our terrace. When I approached him, he hopped up the steps after the scorpion. A few minutes later, a mouse ran past us, toward the stairs. “There must be a meeting up there tonight,” I said. “I wonder what they’re talking about. This could be the title to a children’s story; The Mouse, the Toad and the Scorpion.”

Have I said that it was really hot?

Our routine became one of eating, reading and sleeping. I would get up and take my morning walk. By the time I returned Alex was usually awake. Then we’d order breakfast, eat, read, take long naps, play with the dogs and swim a little, shower and go to dinner. More often than not, dinner was at a wonderful new restaurant called Guadua (http://www.guadua.com.mx/), just down the beach from our apartment. Diego and his business partners have put together an amazing menu in a beautiful, slightly Asian setting. (Watch out for the drink prices though. Ouch!) After dinner we’d sit on our terrace and solve the world’s problems.

While Puerto Escondido may be a good investment opportunity, it didn’t sing to me. I need a little more infrastructure, a little more cultural diversity, a little more interesting architecture, a larger variety of activities and a little less heat.

The search continues.

Christmas in Tennessee

I knew that I had to get out of town. I wasn’t about to spend Christmas alone, playing martyr in front of the tree.

Visiting people is difficult when one doesn’t work. The people that you visit only have evenings and weekends to spend with you unless they take time off of work (or school). Plus many people have family plans around the holidays and a moping recently divorced person does not exactly scream “Holiday Spirit”.

I needed to be someplace where I could be myself, grieve if I needed and laugh if I were able. I needed the embrace of real friends, people who accept me whatever my mood, people who would understand my suffering but within which they would not allow me to wallow. I ran to Annette and Glenn in Tennessee.

Annette and Glenn retired early as well. With them I was able to talk about what it means to be retired, to find purpose, enjoyment and happiness without the trappings of employment.

(I should mention that with a huge house in Murfreesboro, a loft in Nashville, a four-bedroom houseboat on the lake, ski boats, a fleet of high-end cars, etc., they’ve got the enjoyment issue pretty nailed down.)

The day I arrived, Annette and I were so excited to see each other that we could hardly finish a sentence before moving onto the next subject.

The next day visitors from England arrived; Jeremy, his wife Christina (originally from Ecuador) and their six-month-old Josephine. Christina was so excited to be able to speak Spanish that she walked in the door and blew my head off. I quickly explained that she needed to speak slower and forgive my lack of vocabulary. And Josephine, the baby, I wanted to put her in my flight bag and bring her back with me. So cute and, as in so many Latin families, completely comfortable being passed from person to person, good natured, hardly a tear shed the entire visit. Jeremy has that quick British wit that makes one wonder why half the population is not stand-up comics. Their visit was thoroughly enjoyable. The night before they left, Jeremy told me that he didn’t really know any gay people and that I’d totally changed his impression. That he now feels that he has a “gay mate” and wants to take me to the pub in the village where he lives. He and Christina kept telling me that I have to visit and stay with them in their new house.

Annette and Glenn's daughter Stephanie, with baby Josephine

We played golf, dined in restaurants, cooked together, played guitars and sang, played games and just generally hung out. It was the perfect blend of activity and relaxation.

I returned to Mexico not healed but healthier, and well on the road to recovery. Our conversations helped me pull my head out of the Mexican sand and realize that the opportunities are virtually limitless and that this period in my life is not but a transition out of something stifling and into something exciting.

For their sage advice, their wisdom, their fresh perspective, their friendship and love, I thank Annette and Glenn from the bottom of my heart. They have booked their flights to visit me in April and I couldn’t be more excited.

After being back in San Miguel for a little over a week, I’m feeling the familiar pull of depression again. Aside from fear of running into Rod (and what that might bring up emotionally) part of it is probably the cold. We’ve had a mild winter thus far but now the nights are dropping below freezing. Days are beautiful but the house holds the night chill.

On a whim I looked at my teaching schedule and then looked up airfare to Puerto Escondido (where right now it is 80 degrees in the day and doesn’t drop below 70 at night). Flights are half the price given the short notice. I leave tomorrow for a week.

Alex is coming with me. We’ve been task by many people to look into real estate while we are there. Some have said that it is the last affordable beach front property in Mexico. It is supposed to be a surfer hang-out, the home of the “Mexican pipeline”. However, with only one flight per day from Mexico City, I think that it may be a little culturally remote as a place to live. Later, in the next few months, I hope to check out San Pancho and the state of Nayarit above Puerto Vallarta.

I’ve been thinking that, eventually, it might be nice to downsize and live someplace that is warm in the winter (even at night) so that I can travel in the summer. Any of these places would fit the bill. I’ve been getting flack when I mention leaving Mexico but no one seems to mind if I stay in Mexico and move to the beach. (But what about hurricanes?)

The Christmas Party

Some months ago I received a flyer in my mail box that said, “Enhance your Mexican experience. Become an English teacher.” So I did. I signed up as a volunteer teacher at the San Miguel School of English, an adult education program that has been around for over 50 years.

“Here are your books,” the President of the organization said. And that was the extent of my training. I am the youngest teacher in the group.

I have second year students and was told that my class size was to be around 30 students but I’d lose 30% of those before the end of the semester due to family or work conflicts, or just because it is too hard. I had determined that I would be such a great teacher that I’d have a much lower attrition rate. As predicted, I’m down by 30%. However, one of the other second year teachers has resigned and moved to Mazatlan so they are splitting her class between mine and one other (so I’ll be back to 30 students when the semester begins again). However, attendance is all over the board so each class tends to down by five or more.

What a strange language, English. Try explaining that, “They’re”, “There”, and “Their” are all pronounced the same but have different meanings. Or “Two”, “To” and “Too”.

I find that I get annoyed thinking, “Shit, I have to teach tonight. I’d better sit down and do my lesson plan.” But once I’m in front of the class, at the board, I get into it.

Alex decided to come observe one night, to see if it might be something he’d like to do. Before we even got into my classroom, the President had enlisted him in a month of substitute teaching for one of the teachers who was traveling. (Volunteer organizations can be ruthless.) He enjoyed the experience and helped conquer his fear of public speaking. (“Look at it this way,” I said, “All you have to do is stand up there and talk and you’re providing more than they’d get otherwise.”) For the time, he replaced me as the youngest teacher.

I was told that we could have our Christmas party in the classroom, or, some teachers offer to hold the party at their home. The students bring absolutely everything. The teacher just provides the space. Given that I live out in the “campo” I thought they’d opt for the classroom. Guess again. They had their meeting and handed out tasks. I handed out maps.

Most of the regular students, the ones with good attendance, participated. As I was told, they brought absolutely everything. The food was traditional and delicious. We had a chocolate gift exchange. After a few hours I was wondering how long they were going to stay. As if reading my mine, one of the women walked by wearing my cowboy hat and said, “We are leaving when the tequila is gone.” The bottle was half full.

People milled about the living and dinning room and walked outside to look at the stars. Martha had brought her seven-year-old daughter so I put “Finding Nemo” in the DVD player in Spanish. Martha and her daughter ended up leaving shortly after the move started but a group of the adults plopped themselves down with their tequila and watched.

I came out to the group. I hadn’t intended to but a couple of people asked me if I lived at the ranchito “solo”. In my Spanish (about the level of their English) I explained that I had recently split from my “Novio” (boyfriend). “Novia” (girlfriend) they corrected me. “No, novio,” I corrected them. There were murmurs in Spanish and a general wide opening of eyes.

They asked how long it had been and I must have started to tear over when I said only a few weeks, because everyone began comforting me, telling me that I’d be fine after time. I got hugs from everyone when they left, even the men. The acceptance of this community continues to impress me.

The Process of Healing

I often wonder if I am less efficient than others when it comes to recovering from breakups. Logically, I’m able to look at the situation and conclude that, yes, it didn’t work and it wasn’t going to work. Why then, do I subsequently spend so much time living in a fog? Probably because instead of living in what was and what is, I tend to live in what might have been. I walk through life as if my mind is swimming through jello. People talk to me, and I hear them, but it is as if their voices and my responses are passing through some sort of filter, slowing everything down. In my head I play and replay past conversations as well as future conversations that will never be had. Emotions ricochet between sorrow and sympathy, acceptance and anger, loss and betrayal, abandonment and enthusiasm.

There must be some comfort derived from having a familiar person around even if that person is annoying as hell. At some level I guess bad company was better than no company at all.

After my previous relationship I didn’t date seriously for 10 years. And that relationship only lasted 9 months where this one was nearly three years (although the entire last year pretty much sucked). How long before I’m normal again? Can someone please give me a deadline?

Time always seems to move so quickly except after a breakup. Everyone says that time will heal. Why then do the days seem longer than 24 hours, the weeks more than seven days and months take forever to end?