The Guadalajara Reporter ....
Thumbs up!
Ode to Mexico: a Canadian’s opinion of life down south
Story by : ELLEN FENTON
Much has been made in recent years of how dangerous it is to travel to Mexico. Well, I not only travel there but this past year I spent five months living there at the condo my husband and I purchased in Puerto Vallarta in February 2003. Admittedly, I am biased towards Mexico, having lived on their Gulf Coast for two years in the mid-80s when my husband’s work took us to the state of Veracruz. We made many friends and had such wonderful experiences that life has never been the same since. I often think that in some ways it was the best thing that ever happened to me, while in others it was one of the worst.
Since then I have never been content with life in Canada. It matters not that I know we live in a beautiful, relatively safe country with a nice lifestyle and good health care. I recognize that I have a wonderful family living here, great friends and a nice house. But ever since March 7, 1986, when I once again stepped foot on Canadian soil, I have been scheming and dreaming of ways to live in Mexico again. There is something indefinable about life there. It’s not only the climate and kind people, it’s the Mexican lifestyle and ambiance that we just can’t match here.
I ask myself what are the best things about being back in Canada and all I can come up with is that it’s great to be able to put toilet paper in the bowl or to turn on the tap and take a drink of water without thinking twice about it. Is that fair to Canada? Probably not, and because I love this country, I am well aware of that. Many people will say the best thing must be the safety, but our area is no safer than Vallarta, and Toronto, in fact, has much more crime.
What then is it about life in Mexico in general and Vallarta in particular? Partially it’s the climate, of course. Life in tropical countries is generally more filled with joie de vivre and this is due in no small part to being outdoors in the sunshine with balmy breezes and flower-filled landscapes. But there is more to it than that. Perhaps in my case it’s the small things. The Mexican neighbor who, upon hearing I was ill, brought me a plate of honey-drenched papaya and insisted I eat it in front of her so she knew I got it down. Or the lady who saw the difficulty we were having getting across a flooded street and offered us a ride in her car. Maybe it’s the restaurant owner who two years ago asked if I was happy living there. When I replied yes, but I was lonely, she took me by the elbow and introduced me to her customers and staff. Or the doctor, called to our home after a day-long bout of Moctezuma’s Revenge, who arrived on our doorstep within 45 minutes of getting the call from our caretaker, gave me his cell number so I could call him if I felt worse, then called later to see how I was. Maybe it was our caretaker Jose’s wife, Ana Maria, who knitted me a red and white scarf to bring home so I wouldn’t catch a cold in the frigid Canadian weather, or the young children in the neighborhood who call out to me “Hola, Elena” each time they see me.
Vallarta’s expat community also contributes to the sense of belonging that we feel. People who at home would never think of asking a perfect stranger where they are from suddenly start initiating conversations. “Where are you folks from?” starts many a conversation on the streets, on the buses or in the restaurants of Vallarta.
Those of us who stay for any length of time find ourselves muttering about tourists, lamenting that the cruise ships are in and the sidewalks are crowded. We are proud of our grasp of Mexican ways and of Spanish, no matter how minute. We are eager to share this knowledge with the poor, deluded people who come for only a week or two, especially those who stay in the all-inclusive resorts that line the bay. We show off in little ways, stopping to ask if we can help with directions when we see tourists poring over a map, or interpreting a bit when it’s obvious there is a language barrier. We explain the vagaries of the bus routes to the confused foreigners at the bus stops and help them get on the right bus. We scoff at those tourists who take taxis everywhere, refusing to even try the buses even though their ride may include being serenaded by guitar players. We find ourselves at times trying to answer the question “but what do you do here for so long?”
The answer is really quite simple. We live. We shop, we cook, we visit friends, we dine out more than we should, we play cards, we go to dinner theater, and we perhaps volunteer at a school for underprivileged children. We employ locals to do our bidding and sometimes we get lucky – they befriend us and we get a small introduction into their lives and ways. Whatever it is that happens when the Canadian or American veil over our eyes finally lifts, we count ourselves fortunate to have found such a place and lifestyle and wonder if it’s really best to write about it because maybe, just maybe, it will have a little impact on someone and make our little corner of paradise a bit more crowded.
