Intense peace surrounds my very being as my fingers begin tapping on the keyboard of my tiny laptop. This has already been a full morning, and it is barely 8:45 am. I find myself seated on a bench near the center of the town plaza. The clock tower, about 20 yards to my left just rang “ding-dong … ding-dong … ding-dong” signifying 45 minutes after the hour. A pigeon just sauntered in front of me, proudly strutting, showing off its beautiful brown torso, white head, and white tail. The sound of birds excitedly singing and fluttering their wings literally surrounds me on all sides. Behind me and to my right, I hear the faint melody and rhythm of Latin music. The calm ocean waters are gently rippling not more than 100 yards to my right, partially visible through a gap in the large terracotta-colored gazebo where the band was playing just three short nights ago. For a brief moment, a small scuba-diving boat slips into view, and then is gone, disappearing quickly on the other side.
Minutes after I began writing, a large gray cloud drifted by overhead, and a small downpour eagerly sprinkled on my surroundings. Now, only five minutes later, the cloud has passed by and the sky has resumed its azure blue color. More dark clouds are perched on the horizon and appear to be headed my way. As the storm briefly overwhelmed the plaza, a man named Alfredo joined me under the shelter of my thick tree. We chatted briefly, exchanging greetings and answering the usual questions, “Where are you from?” “Where do you live?” Alfredo is a very sweet man with a very kind face—but of course it seems that is the way I see everyone here.
Over the last two days, the rain showers have been scattered, but quite frequent—so yesterday evening I finally conceded that it was time to purchase a “Paragua” (umbrella). As I explored near the plaza, I encountered a small shop that happened to have a small selection of them. With the shopkeeper’s help, I selected one that spoke to me. Ready to pay, I reached into my wallet, but the smallest bill I had was 200 pesos. As I pulled it out, the shopkeeper humbly apologized, indicating that she did not have change. Margi (short for Marguerita) and I introduced ourselves and talked briefly. Then, I was shocked with amazement when she handed me the umbrella and insisted that I take it with me now, telling me “You come back and pay tomorrow.” Being determined to honor her trust, I returned with change just a few minutes later, and thanked her from the bottom of my heart. I felt deeply honored that she exhibited such genuine trust in me.
My concentration is interrupted as I notice a large cruise ship gently floating by. As I strain my eyes, I see the words “Disney Magic” on the hull, and I now have absolute proof that at least one cruise line has resumed stops on the island.
For those of you who know me well, you know that I am not a sunrise type of girl. It is difficult to remember when I last actually witnessed a sunrise—it was probably in Moab about seven years ago when I spent three days with a friend, exploring the remote “White Rim Trail” in my jeep. As I lay in bed this morning—minutes after 6:00 am—a little voice inside said “Get up now, and go up on the roof.” My first reaction was to ignore the prompting and to pull a pillow over my eyes, but I then remembered my commitment to myself: “On this adventure, I will break all of the rules of sleep—I will be awake when my feelings tell me to be, and I will sleep any other time that I want to.” Immediately I forced my lazy feet out of bed, went on a quest in search of my sandals, and tiredly stumbled toward the front door. As I began closing the screen door, I realized that the ‘lock’ button was still pushed in. Two more inches and I would have been locked out of my own apartment, still in my pajamas, at 6:15 am, with no clue how to contact anyone that could get me back inside. I briefly laughed at myself as I imagined the story that would have enveloped from that experience. Then I unlocked the screen door, gently closed it behind me and ascended my favorite spiral stair case.
Only seconds passed before I was wide awake and engulfed in the magic of the moment. The eastern sky was glowing with a pale blue light. White puffy clouds dotted the horizon on all sides, but the sky above me was a pure and gentle blue. The streets below me were nearly silent. The only sounds I heard were the gentle hum of distant air conditioners, birds cheerfully announcing the arrival of a new day, and a cluster of roosters crowing repeatedly somewhere to my east. Basking in the energy of the experience, I simply sat there in complete silence. As the sun gradually emerged to give life to this new day, I absorbed the 360 degree panorama of beauty all around me. The rooftops, the architecture of the homes and businesses, the palm and banana trees, flowering shrubs, and the smells and the sounds—all of them contributed to the experience of wonder. The pastel hues of the rising sun added a final touch to a special memory that I suspect will linger for years to come.
Island Transportation
While the narrow streets are crowded with cars and trucks, a large percentage of traffic on the island consists of scooters and bicycles. Many families own just a single scooter, and use it as their family vehicle. I noticed a woman yesterday riding her scooter, with a baby strapped to her chest, and a five year old, complete with helmet, hanging on to her waist from behind. It is not at all uncommon to see adults with several children all hanging on as they zoom around the narrow city streets.
Taxi cabs are everywhere, especially near the waterfront and the markets. The cab drivers are as persistent as the shop owners. Whenever I walk by, they try to get my attention to ask if I need a ride. I reply with my smile and “no gracias.”
Bicycles, while quite common, seem to be the least used form of transportation. But even the “bicycles built for one” are often used for two or more. This morning, as I walked the six short blocks to the town plaza, I could not help but stare at a beautiful young couple sharing a bicycle ride. A twenty-something man was sitting on the seat, doing the pedaling and steering. His beautiful sweetheart was sitting side-saddle on the bar between the seat and the handlebars. I can’t imagine how such a position could have been comfortable, yet the look in their eyes enchanted me. Their eyes and faces glowed with love for one another, a love that was so pure and innocent, a love that shines in the simplicity of their life and their possessions. After witnessing this adorable couple, I feel so incredibly blessed by the simple pleasures in my own life—and so incredibly blessed to have this opportunity to experience the oneness of this fantastic morning.
What never ceases to amaze me is that all of the cars, scooters, and bicycles somehow manage to successfully share the narrow roads with each other. I feel totally safe when I ride around on my bicycle. I do have to admit, however, that if a car is approaching from the rear, I am very aware of its proximity—and am quick to move over and stop if the already narrow street is congested by parked cars.
Speaking of narrow streets, almost every street in town is “one way.” The city of San Miguel De Cozumel is arranged into streets and avenues. The “calles” or streets run perpendicular to the waterfront. The southern streets have odd numbers, starting at the town plaza with 1st Street, then 3rd Street, etc…, with each higher numbered street being one further block south of the plaza. The northern streets have even numbers, starting at the town plaza with 2nd Street, then 4th Street, etc…, with each higher numbered street being one block further north of the plaza.
The “avenidas” or avenues run parallel to the waterfront. The one closest to the ocean is 5th Avenue, then the next one over is 10th Avenue, etc… My apartment is on 4th Street between 30th and 35th Avenues, so therefore I am two blocks north of the plaza, and six blocks inland from the ocean. I love to walk on the streets between here and my home, exploring the shops and stores. I never imagined that exploring shops, stores, and markets could be an “in-the-moment” experience. I find it fascinating, and am totally consumed as I do so. I love to stop and read the signs, examine the packaging and wording on products, and try to figure out what things say. It is really helping me with the language. I am grateful, however, that the packaging on most grocery items is very similar to that in the U.S., so I have a great head start at figuring out what things might be.
I have to chuckle with a slight interruption here. A few tourists are beginning to filter into the plaza area—from the cruise ship I imagine—and one of the shopkeepers called out to someone: “K-Mart shoppers … Blue Light Special”. Grey clouds are again drifting overhead, and the heat and humidity have picked up a notch. Two men just began playing their guitars and singing Mexican songs in a small outdoor restaurant about 75 yards away. The hustle and bustle in the square is growing.
Yesterday, I discovered a real gem in my street explorations. About four blocks from my home, I found the other market in town—the one where individual vendors sell their wares—the one where many of the local residents shop. My landlord Kelly had told me about it earlier, but I had not as of yet figured out where it was located.
In a maze of indoor hallways, an entire city block is devoted to these shops. Each shop has a small, but permanent presence. A wide variety of items are available for purchase: hardware items, clothing, shoes, gifts, fruits, vegetables, tortillas, fish, beef, chicken, and juices. One of the first things I did was pay 22 pesos for a liter of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (jugo de toronga). The meat shops fascinated me the most. The shopkeepers were butchering the meat right there in their booths, in conditions that would seem completely unacceptable in the U.S.—yet for the people in this market, this is their way of life. The pungent odor near the butcher shops resurrected distinct memories of passing by such shops in Brazil some thirty years ago.
I felt adventurous, and decided to do something I would never have done even a few months ago. The market was surrounded by little mom-and-pop eating establishments, and I decided to eat lunch at one of the “less-dirty-looking” ones. I ordered one of the specials, “pollo con verduras” (chicken with greens). I really had absolutely no idea what to expect. When my large bowl was placed in front of me, I paused and stared at it before taking my first bites. I had before me a large bowl filled with an oily broth, also containing a whole chicken wing and a drumstick, and about eight large squares of cut vegetables. By external appearance, the chicken looked raw, as it still had a pale white, bumpy looking skin. I poked the chicken with my spoon, broke some away from the bone and studied it. “Yes, it seems to be cooked” I told myself. It was definitely white and not pink inside. All I could figure was that the cook simply dropped the chicken into a bowl of water and boiled it, skin and all. I picked through the meat and ate it along with the vegetables, but only consumed a portion of the bland flavorless broth. I was incredibly proud of myself as I walked away from the small restaurant. For those of you who are familiar with my lifelong picky eating habits, you will totally understand this dramatic shift in my diet. Even more amazing is that my digestive system did not even skip a beat.
Excuse the interruption again, but the same two men who were playing in the restaurant a few minutes ago just wandered by with their guitars. They parked themselves right in front of me and asked, “Would you like a song?” How could I say no? What a pleasure to have these two sweet men serenade me. Leaning back on my bench, I smiled a huge smile, gently put down my laptop, and immersed myself in the experience.
As I finish my writing for this morning, I am reminded of the 1970’s Carpenter’s song “We’ve only just begun.” I can’t believe that only five days have passed. Already, I am much more confident in communicating and getting around, and indeed, I really have only “just begun.”
© Brenda Larsen, 2009