The Gulf of Mexico, yesterday a turquoise mirror, is feathered with whitecaps this morning. I’m shimmying ungracefully into a clammy, slightly smelly wetsuit. It’s too tall for me, giving me a neoprene spare tire. I tromp awkwardly down to the dock, where a motorboat bucks violently in the choppy water. I climb aboard and am forcibly seated as it speeds off. Apparently, we’re in a hurry because the wind’s picking up.
At an isolated buoy in the middle of watery nowhere, we do the falling backwards off the boat thing. It’s all very spy movie, but instead of combing the unstable horizon for bad-guy speedboats, I’m wondering: what the hell was I thinking?
On a lark, my friend Kris and I splurged on a package vacation to an all-inclusive resort near Cancun. A touristic paradise where the ocean is so smooth and blue that it looks fake, like the painted sea in an architectural model.
After one too many free margaritas, Kris convinced me to take the beginner’s SCUBA course offered by the resort. Certified years before, she’s a dive fanatic. “You’ll never forget it.” She promised as she sipped, raising her eyebrows meaningfully over the salty rim.
She’s right. I won’t forget it. Mostly because, as much as I adore the sea, I only trust it as far as I can touch. I am terrified of deep water. And yet, here I am, far from shore, breathing canned oxygen, struggling to get my mask on. When I get it on, the experience is even more disturbing. The water line sloshes up and down in front of my eyes, and yet I am breathing air. It just feels wrong. We are humans, not fish; we don’t belong here.
Scuba Doo School
At least I was trained—yesterday, for four entire hours. Now, as one of five heads bobbing in the big (deep) blue, I wish I had taken dive class more seriously. My classmate Joe and I were strangers on vacation, at school in a resort. After a couple of hours of lecture, we dressed up as divers and played in the pool. We made Darth Vader jokes, did the elbow shark fin thing. Ha ha.
We did learn some fun stuff, like regulating your vertical position with your breath: inhale, float up, exhale, sink. How to do the squid: let your flippers do all the work while your arms trail unnaturally beside you. And, of course, we learned the diving thumbs up.
Carlos, our handsome young dive instructor, spent an inordinate amount of time on the thumbs up. Over and over, we “practiced” this—the signature gesture of drunk frat boys and the Fonz. Repeatedly, Carlos interrupted our pool scuba play to ask the silent thumbs up question (Are you OK?), to which the silent answer was: thumbs up (Yes).
Of course, I’m OK, I thought. We’re in a pool and the water’s four feet deep. But Carlos doggedly insisted, earning increasingly goofy, exaggerated thumbs up.
Out here by the bobbing buoy, there’s Joe and me, Carlos, and two cocky, impatient guys—actual, certified divers—who came up from Cozumel, where diving was cancelled due to high winds. While Joe’s looking wan, the divers appear a bit too avid, as if they plan to rob us once we’re underwater.
Carlos checks our tubes, gives last minute advice. Again, with the thumbs up? I obediently lift my opposables out of the water. I’m OK, already! The diver guys are so supremely OK, they’re jumping out of their second skins.
But Joe, he doesn’t look so OK. He’s not upping his thumbs. The instructor shouts over the wind in broken English: “Make up jor mind, Yoe, or we’ll all get seasick bobbing around here.”
The power of suggestion.
As I watch Joe vomit, I think, absurdly, Oh, the current will carry it away. Then I’m treading water in a cloud of shredded chicken and cheese and tortilla bits. My next thought: He had the chilaquiles for breakfast. Carlos lets out a piercing whistle and the boat roars over to pick Joe up. Decision made.
Wow. I am literally swimming in vomit. But before the thought has time to turn my delicate stomach, I catch the pro divers’ faces. Grinning and leaning towards me, they’re just waiting for me to freak out. That does it. I tighten a mental belt I didn’t know I had and give them an aggressive thumbs up. They lean back. Carlos asks again. Six skyward thumbs.
We’re good to go.
Going Down?
Slowly, we begin to sink into the deeps, thanks to our weighted belts. After ten or so feet, my wetsuit gets way too tight. Something cold and slimy creeps into my stomach: fear. I try to deny it, as I’ve been taught by countless motivational posters and protein bar ads.
Fear is for cowards, not for me.
Back in scuba class, Carlos had said a random, weird thing: “You may feel like you want to take your mask off.” I had rolled my eyes. Now, as I glance at the quicksilver surface further and further above me, something in my head snaps. Ice water floods my chest, flattening my lungs. My heart swells until it’s about to explode. I can’t breathe!
Of course, I’ve felt fear before. Rattlesnake. Car crash. Burglar in my house. But all that, I realize, was nothin’! This is the biggest, most all-encompassing terror I’ve never imagined, coupled with a single, irresistible, implacable urge—an absolute imperative: to rip off my mask, in order to stay alive, twenty feet under the surface of the vast, inhospitable ocean.
It made perfect sense at the time.
We’ve stopped descending, and Carlos is doing underwater charades. He looks at me. Freezes. My eyes must be giant, fish-like, panicked orbs. In an instant, he’s beside me, staring into my mask, asking the thumb question: You OK?
Huh? I think. (I’m usually quite talktave. Only panic makes me monosyllabic.)
You OK? He wiggles his thumbs, like maybe I can’t see them.
I will be, just as soon as I get my mask off so I can breathe. Now, where are my arms?
Are you OK? His thumbs are now an inch from my mask.
Ok? Am I? That’s a good question. Let’s see…
Carlos’ eyebrows have popped over his mask. His thumbs are now yelling: ARE. YOU. OK?
Am I OK? I look at the divers as if they can answer the question for me. In tandem, they roll their eyes with a complete and utter lack of compassion. With that, a plug is pulled, the freezing liquid in my chest starts to drain, and the urge to unmask myself passes. Rationality bubbles in: Guess what! I’ve been breathing this whole time. Go figure. Next thought: Jerks!
Somehow, their mockery breaks my paranoid terror trance and some semblance of logic returns. (Well, as logical as one can feel, breathing underwater, several yards below the surface of the ocean.) I give Carlos a belated thumbs up.
His eyes scrunch in a smile, and we set off into a dream.
Breathing Underwater
Squidlike, we glide effortlessly in and out of undersea canyons, past graceful turtles and prehistoric-looking king crabs, through kaleidoscopic clouds of darting, shimmering fishes, flying through a forbidden fantasy universe of coral castles and technicolor sea creatures. For a little magical while, I am free as a fish. Free of gravity, buoyed simply by the air in my lungs, hovering in supreme, exquisite, silent beauty.
And, I get it.
I get now why the divers so resembled junkies looking for a fix. And why Kris talked me into doing this. (I even forgive her.)
Later, as we speed back to the resort, the big, strapping diver men are shivering like mad, but I’m not cold. Quite the opposite. I’m tingling all over—radiating heat, energy, and conquered fear.
Funny thing, fear: like vomiting, it’s not voluntary; like breathing underwater, it’s not always rational; and, like snarky diver dudes, it’s not always the enemy. Sometimes fear is there to keep us from harm. And sometimes it’s an invitation to truly live. As the boat races over the bumpy sea, I sit right up front on the bow, facing into the wind, grinning like a maniac.
I am so very, extremely OK.—Part of our Adventures series…enjoy!
Join in! What was your peak fear experience and how did you overcome it?
At 5:54 am on the second Saturday in June, I am catapulted out of sleep by a brass band playing under my window. Several trumpets, a trombone, a giant bass drum and an actual tuba for the requisite oom pah pahs. Oh, yes, can’t forget the cymbals. A dozen pair, by the sound of it.
It is not, alas, a romantic serenade. (Such a suitor would be summarily dismissed.) It’s the day before el Dia de los Locos, San Miguel’s yearly celebration of Saint Anthony of Padua and lunacy in general. This Sunday in June is reserved for crazy people. The entire town, and then some, participates.
For the hip, there are two places to be in San Miguel on Locos Sunday: in the parade or watching it. If you’re in the milling mile or so of costumed revelers and flatbed floats with blaring, competing, not always appropriate soundtracks, you dance across town all morning and into the afternoon. Of course, in your foam and felt frog/fat lady/ex-president costume, there is a risk of heat exhaustion. But you get to pelt spectators with candy, which makes it all worthwhile.
If you’re watching the parade, you may be in the crushing two-meter thick throng on each side of the road—a human wave of people that police have to keep pushing back to the sidewalk so that the show can literally go on. If you’re into efficiency, you’ll be holding an upside-down umbrella above your head as a candy catcher/shield, which can also be used as a parasol if you ever get over your pre-diabetic greed. Or, you might be one of the privileged few with balcony or rooftop seats, watching the colorful chaos from on high, with a mid-morning margarita in hand, ideally wearing a funny hat.
Uncool option number three: you could be lame, like me, happily holing up in your momentarily quiet house. (The parade is downtown now, and, blessedly, out of earshot.) Around one in the afternoon, you might suddenly laugh out loud, startling the dogs, when you imagine just how horrific traffic’s going to be for the next couple of hours. And you’re so peacefully chez you! But the Locos always get the last laugh.
If you live in Colonia San Antonio, like me, you didn’t sleep well last night, even before the musical wake up call, and you won’t again tonight. Not for a few more days, in fact.
The cuetes (gargantuan bottle rockets from hell), which first woke you a couple of hours before the band, will start again late this afternoon, continue sporadically all day and night tomorrow, and on into Monday, with a few more artillery-style early-morning crescendos. Sunday evening after the parade, there’ll be a big, loud baile at the San Antonio church, sadly only two blocks away. The music will reverberate off your pots and pans and rattle your windowpanes ‘til the early morn. Around three a.m., you’ll be up Googling industrial-strength earplugs.
And then, after two days of madness and just for good measure, and right as you’ve finally fallen asleep, most likely, there’ll be another fusillade of cuetes at dawn on Monday morning. (This one, at least, I understand—Monday morning being a concept highly worth protesting.)
But for now, outside my bedroom at 5:23 a.m. on the day before Locos day, the insanity has just begun. Rilke, my reared-in-the-U.S.A. rescue dog, is terrified of loud noises, and thus extremely ill-equipped to live in Mexico. During the cuetes a few hours ago, he was under my bed, whining operatically. Now he’s at the window, barking wildly at the band. I would bark too, if I thought they would hear me.
Once my heart resumes its customary pace, I get up and stumble across the room to close the window. I’m laughing, because it’s the only possible sane response. By the time I get there, the band has stopped playing. Gracias a Dios! As the sky begins to lighten, the musicians sip cups of hot spiked ponche offered by the neighbors as a ritualistic “thank you for waking us up” gesture. As they launch into a spirited, carnivalesque encore, I fall back into bed with a pillow over my head. At last, they oom-pah-pah off to rouse somebody else.
or How to Start a B&K (Don’t Try This at Home)
What a trip!
Once upon a time, eleven years ago, in a land sort of far away… a dusty, overheated and traumatized (Mexican roads) 12-year-old Nissan Pathfinder rattled into the yet-to-be-fully-discovered town of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
The car, more tan than red at this point, lurched to a stop next to the (then only) Pemex gas station on Ancha de San Antonio, the main drag. Muffled sound emanated through the closed windows, and the attendants in their green coveralls looked at the car sideways…is that a cat howling? Is that women arguing?
“I’ve just got to stretch my legs!” I shouted, slamming the door and stalking away. A few deep breaths in the nostalgic noise and fumes of Mexico, my childhood home, calmed me (oddly enough).
My temper was frayed, to say the least, after three days cooped up in a car with:
• My mother (very cranky)
• My cat (also cranky)
• My two large dogs (good sports, really)
• Blurry childhood memories
• Absurdly high hopes
• No idea whatsoever of how to make a living in Mexico.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
A few months and three days earlier, I had started packing up 15 years of life, college, work, grad school, and then more work in San Diego, California. I had decided to move back to San Miguel, where I lived as a kid. Where my mother still lives. She kindly came up to help me pack, not realizing it would take more than a month to finish dismantling and dispersing said unreasonably cluttered life.
We set off on a three-day road trip, visiting family on the way. We never drove more than eight hours a day, but it felt like 28. We stayed at whatever strange lodgings accepted pets. Or we snuck them in.
Crossing the line
When we hit the border two days later, my mother got the dogs out of the car for a stroll. The Mexican customs official came over to the open rear hatch of my car, leaned his folded arms on the tailgate, and, lifting the top blanket, surveyed the two-foot-thick mass of densely packed items that lined the back.
The top layer was only a taste of the madness that lay below. An hors d’oeuvre, if you will. Ie: a cast iron frying pan filled with rolled-up underwear. A French-English dictionary the size of a toaster oven. A box of Triscuits (regular flavor). A set of knives, forks and spoons bundled with a rubber band. The base of a cordless phone. A cheese grater with several pair of socks stuffed inside. A pair of folded flare-leg jeans (be kind — it was 2000, after all).
My “baggage” was huge, and deep. It had levels, it had strata, it had echelons, even. My mother, the self-appointed Master Packer, had convinced me that her method was the most efficient. “More stuff will fit without boxes,” she said, wedging my hair dryer next to a framed photo of my father wrapped in two sweaters. “If I just pack it very carefully.”
What resulted was a three-dimensional possession puzzle, like a huge lasagna, composed of my worldly goods — topped off with my bedding and an old dog blanket. Rilke and Buddha, my dogs, rode 3,000 miles to Mexico on top of what was left my life, basically.
As Isolde, my cat, meowled indignantly from her cage behind the driver’s seat, the customs guy dropped the top blanket and put his head down on his folded arms. I just stood there, smiling my best kiss-up-to-uniformed-third-world-authority-figures-so-as-to-be-on-my-way-soon smile. Looking up, he turned to watch my mother carrying on a loud one-way conversation with the dogs as they sniffed at a post a few yards away. Finally, he looked at me.
“You got any guns or drugs in there?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at my lasagna.
“Why, no.” I answered, grinning madly. “Of course not.”
“Bien.” He said, slapping the car as he turned to walk away. “You can go.”
The rest of the trip was pastel (cake.) And so, my mother and I made it home to San Miguel, without getting pulled over into secondary inspection (which, in unpacking and repacking, would have delayed us by at least 12 hours) or killing each other.
How to start a b&b (not)
I wasn’t trying to get rich (not going to happen), but I needed to be able to support myself in the style to which I hoped to become accustomed. So, hourly Mexican wages were not an option. I also had to have time for creative projects (whatever they might be), so a normal, full-time job was equally out of the question. After several months of dawdling around trying to find a non-toxic way to pay for a modest life here, I decided real estate had to be the thing.
Through several strange coincidences, I found a very odd little property in a great, as-yet-ungentrified, older San Miguel neighborhood not too far from the Centro. With five bedrooms, a kitchen, two baths and no living room, the house sat on a dirt rubble “road” (read: riverbed), but it had a second entrance on a nicer street. (Both streets have mercifully been repaved since.)
As often happens when I get excited about an idea, I leapt without looking (at more than one place). I bought my cute little hovel and started fixing it up immediately.
Somewhere during the 3 months that turned into a year of renovations, I had a conversation.
“What are you going to do with it when it’s done?” asked a friend as we poked around the construction site, choking on cement dust.
“Make it a vacation rental, I guess.“
“You’d probably make more money if you made it a B&B.” He said.
And Casita de las Flores was born. (Thank you, friend.)
The Casita (technically not a B&B but a B&K — Bed and Kitchen) started out on the thinnest of shoestrings in 2002. A garage sale fridge, a garage sale stove. Mattresses on tapetes (woven straw mats) on the floor.
The very first weekend we rented was the infamous erstwhile Pamplonada, when 20 or so young people paid to not sleep at my place. (They were very busy partying all night and vomiting in the town square.) Other than a very messy avocado/guayaba fight, the Casita survived their onslaught. (PS: in September, our trees offer you all the free avocados and guayabas you can eat — NOT throw.)
This inauspicious event helped me pay for bed frames, closets, desks, and chairs. For the website, I had to go into hock. Soon after, Casita de las Flores really opened for business.
We started out charging US $20 a night for one person. Less than US $400 for a month. My very first guests stayed before construction was totally done and are now lifelong friends. (I was so happy to have them there. Such forgiving women.) Spring just had her first baby and Tina is coming to stay with me again next month.
San Miguel business school
Of course, I had no experience whatsoever in the field (other than having traveled a lot, and having often been a guest/critic at different accommodations). Business plans are much worse than Greek to me — they’re like math (shudder). My minimal market research, as there was no affordable online hospitality market then, was tooling around on the internet to see if the name was taken. (Since then, the Casita name, website text have been stolen wholesale by a place in Chile, thank you very much. Even some of the pictures! Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or so they say. Note to travelers: be sure to look up your lodgings on at least a couple of platforms/websites to make sure they’re real.)
But I’ve always felt I knew better than most how things should be done (much to others‘ chagrin), so I figured I could handle it. And I knew in my bones that San Miguel needed a comfortable, accessible place for real travelers to stay. Not some fancy shmancy US $120 a night place, but something even I could afford. A place where I would want to stay. A place where I could have both my privacy and an opportunity for social interaction (a much different interaction from what can be had in an impersonal hotel, a sterile lobby, or a sloppy bar). Those were my guiding principles. That and a love of art projects (none so huge, before the Casita).
Casita de las Flores took a while to catch on. Our first year, earnings were laughable (cryable, mostly), but I kept meeting great people and business slowly grew.
In the first months, we had a particularly difficult guest who complained about absolutely everything. The noise from doves and roosters. The sounds from the high school across the street. The occasional noise from neighbors. The lights’ sporadic flickering. The dust. The breeze. The sun. (Basically, she was complaining about Mexico.) “It’s not as nice as a Motel 6,” she said of the Casita, sniffing, as she left. (The profoundest of compliments, I’ve come to realize.)
As soon as her taxi sped (well, rolled) away, I grabbed my web guy by the collar and told him we were making some changes. I went back into my lovingly designed and written website and dressed it down. I took out all marketingspeak and made things sound less inviting. Consciously working for the frump factor, I spoke of Mexico in all its gritty glorious reality.
Since then, we’ve mostly gotten travelers (a very different breed from your average tourist). These are people who’ve been around. Who know that things are unavoidably different in other countries (that’s actually why they go there.) And who know that finding an oasis of comfort, security, charm, and relative peace in any foreign country, much less a developing nation, for under US $50 a night is not to be sneezed at. They are grateful for my efforts, and I am very grateful for them. My customers and I get along swimmingly now. Mostly. (See Lesson 2).
Build and learn
Back to the shoestring. We started out with a garage sale fridge and stove, and minimal furnishings or decor. Seven years later, we have a fancy newish fridge (time flies) a garage sale stove (still works perfectly), and quite a bit of cute stuff. (But not too much—I hate cluttered decor. The Casita is of the little-known Mexican Zen School of Design.) We make a living. More importantly, we have made tons of friends and family. Even more importantly than that, we’ve learned a lot.
(And the place has changed a wee bit…)
Lesson 1: 99% of people are really great (at least in our price range). Oddly enough, this business has increased my estimation of human nature, which wasn’t terribly high nine years ago. Through this very social enterprise, I have met quantities of fabulous people, many of whom are now friends and neighbors. And, thank the modern gods (demons?) of rampant anonymous criticism, the large majority of our reviews have been good ones. Though the occasional malcontent and his/her (snarky, public) bad review still hurts (see Lesson 2).
Casita de las Flores is fortunate to have many return guests who enjoy coming home to us, year after year. (I hope they like the color we just painted the kitchen, and Gayle’s room—I’m expecting some flack. People get attached.) My favorite example: a group of women (three of them named Gail, in various spellings) who met at the Casita years ago returned for a “Casita Reunion” here last October.
It was a time of much giggling.
At least once a month, be it at a party, an art opening, or at the grocery store, I run into a former guest who is now a San Miguel resident. I love this brand of deja vu, and I love knowing that my Casita was their first home in this town. Together, we’ve survived the real estate boom, world renown, the cartel hysteria, the swine flu hysteria, and even (more or less) the first-world media. They are now my men- and women-at-arms, my hairdressers and acupuncturists, my vecinos and compadres.
Lesson 2. You really CAN’T please everyone all the time. Unfortunately, that less-shiny one percent of guests — the ones who are never happy no matter how much you do, no matter how much you give — sometimes seem to outweigh the other 99%. They have made me, on more than one occasion, consider selling the business. But then the 99% moves in again and I feel better, and I keep on.
Lesson 3: Humans are (mostly) sociable animals. Sure, there’s been the occasional fight over cheese ownership (we now have a separate fridge shelf for each room) and we’ve had a few feuds. (The Casita is its own little ecosystem, after all, evolving with each group of guests.) But mostly, people have fun. They befriend one another. They end up having dinner parties and outings and trips together. Sometimes, they even become good friends and correspond with each other, and me, for years. (This whole people-getting-together thing was a huge, unexpected fringe benefit buried within the “let’s start a B&K, shall we?” pseudo-plan.) Of course, socializing is optional. If you simply “vant to be alone,” we’ve got privacy, too.
Lesson 4. It is possible to make a meaningful life outside the box. Ok, Casita de las Flores is not saving the world. (It may be saving my life, however, as I slowly recover from 9 to 5 fluorescent lights.) I’m no Mother Teresa, but, I take my role as a Vacational Therapist™ quite seriously.
Vacational Therapy™
I now know (yes, in my bones) that this “job” is not really a job, and that it’s far from just a means to an end. Ok, so Casita de las Flores makes us a living (nearly every month!), but more importantly, the Casita helps people. Not in any huge, earth-shattering ways, but in small, yet meaningful ways. Having this unusual little nook in which to be at home while not at home helps our guests to make connections—with San Miguel, with fellow travelers, and (most importantly) with themselves. (Often by allowing them to have a moment, or many, to simply be.)
After hours and hours of travel and years and years in the hectic realms of the first world, people often arrive stressed out, exhausted and extremely cranky. They blow in the door, blasting cold first-world anxiety around them, like one guest I’ll call Molly:
“My luggage…it didn’t make it on the plane!”
“My cell phone isn’t getting reception!”
“I left my wallet in the cab!”
“What do you mean there’s no TV??!!!!”
After a few days, it’s a different story
Fast forward two weeks. On a particularly technicolor-blue sky, big white puffy-cloud, birdsong and butterfly day, I wandered out to the patio with my pruning shears. There was Molly, gently swaying in the hammock, lazily trailing her fingers back and forth on the patio bricks.
“Whatcha doing, Molly?” I asked.
“Watching the laundry dry,” she replied.
I smiled, turned and tiptoed away.
Another Vacational Therapy™ success story. Life is good.