Many Stories to Tell

It has taken me eight days to decompress, at least to get into the tropical flow enough to start writing again. I needed the therapy of 88-degree heat in the first week of November, some of the freshest seafood I have ever eaten, multiple naps at all times of day, a Día de los Muertos parade and of course several liters of tequila. I mean, híjole, it’s not every month where you pack up your entire house, put things in storage, and attempt to clear up dozens of last-minute logistics before boarding a 6 A.M. flight and starting a new life, or at the very least a completely new chapter. Moving sucks in the best of circumstances, and when you’ve done nothing but accumulate material possessions for a decade, as I had, it sucks even more. I think we should all be required to purge our crap and clear out our dwellings every five years or so. Seriously–why do we hold on to so much? After undergoing a serious downsizing, we still have a nearly full 10’x25′ storage unit awaiting us when we return some day.

I do not miss the stuff, and that includes the house. I especially don’t miss the rain, the cold temperatures, or the American lifestyle. Seriously, I have known for years I would make an excellent expat. It’s not where you’re born, after all, it’s where you belong.

It would take me many posts and many, many pages to fully chronicle this shift, and I will cover it at length in this blog, but for those of you who do not know me, here are the basic facts: I’m a 46-year-old dude who was born in the United States in Galveston, Texas. Special, huh? Not really. I grew up in Albuquerque and have spoken Spanish as well as English for God knows how many years (it’s a lot.) I am now spending six months in Mexico with my girlfriend, checking out different parts of the country and starting a new chapter of life, one in which the frigid winters of the U.S. can remain where they belong, in the distant past, a fleeting memory.

The game for me did not change with the 2016 election. Far from it–in 1989 I traveled to Spain for a high school cultural exchange program and experienced first-hand a civilization that possesses a vibrant zeal for life, and values family, friends, community, and spending time with loved ones over American-style economic productivity. The game changed then. While I returned to the U.S. and finished high school, then attended college, graduated, worked, attended law school, graduated, worked some more, you know, doing something I didn’t especially enjoy and in the end hated, you know, what people just suck it up and do, blah blah blah, etc., etc., etc., in truth I never left the three-hour lunches and brilliant sunshine of Spain. In Mexico, while traveling several years later, I found a similar zeal for life, and one that sits a lot closer to Gringolandia. It’s even more relaxed than Spain, so it was an easy choice for part-time relocation. I’m one of these half-Mexican “GringoMex” Hispanic/Latino/Chicano/Pick Your Ethnic Identifier dudes, after all–you know, of the heritage. Thank God.

So now we are here in Mazatlán, a city I know well and love. It’s a raucous port that’s always ready to party, has great food, and  a beautiful historic center. Here are a couple of photos:

Okay, that summary felt long-winded to me, but I think it illustrates the complexity of it all. Any time somebody changes countries there are many stories to tell, and each one warrants a post or two or three. Let’s be honest, after all, this part-time move may just be a part-time move but in terms of its overall impact on the trajectory of life, it is a full-time shift. I know in my heart I will never go back to living in the United States year-round again. It is over, completely. It has been for a long, long time.