Stew, with his remarkable recall for dates and events, casually mentioned on Sunday that November 7 would be the anniversary of the Great Border Crossing. I, the one with a far foggier grasp of birthdays and most other significant historical markers, replied: “The what?”
Indeed Wednesday was the seventh anniversary of our voyage from Chicago to Mexico in a Volkswagen Passat station wagon, which also carried two howling cats and a geriatric dog with dicey bowel control, and so much stuff that both humans and animals were pinned in place with barely a few inches to move in any direction.
It was not as dramatic as the Mormons’ trek to Utah, cowboys dodging Indian arrows or Pilgrims praying and getting seasick on the way to New Wherever, but for us it was a momentous move, one that would take nearly a couple of years to recover from but ultimately couldn’t have turned out much better.
In a pop-psychology magazine I remember reading that retirement and relocation to a different city, never mind a different country, can be among life’s most stressful experiences primarily because you’re not quite sure what you’re going to find at the other end.
Some people consider that uncertainty exhilarating. At church last Sunday we talked to a couple–neither partner in the spring-chicken age bracket–who has relocated regularly every seven years, just for the kicks of something new.
They have lived in San Miguel for eight years, one year past their “scheduled” moving date, so on the first of next month they will head for Pátzcuaro, another photogenic colonial town about three hours from here. They had talked about moving to Ecuador or Morocco, but I guess they’re slowing down.
|Señores Stew and Pooch in San Miguel
Stew and I on the other hand had lived in Chicago for thirty years. In fact, Stew had spent his entire life suffering through blizzards, ice storms and other wintry miseries in various parts of the Midwest, namely Iowa, Wisconsin, Indiana and finally Illinois. My move from Cuba at age fourteen certainly counts as a Great Crossing, but after that I’d led a relatively settled life too, ten years in New York and then Chicago.
But at around age fifty-seven, both of us had come down with an acute case of “gotta get out here” fever. Both were sick with our jobs and particularly with northern winters.
The prospect of another February in Chicago loomed as a daunting Prozac moment. February is when Chicagoans turn a shade of beige as a result of sustained lack of sunlight—or orange from too many hours in tanning salons–and the ground is covered with a grayish, big-city winter mush that barely conceals several months’ worth of dog turds.
We had visited other possible retirement cities from Vancouver to Santa Fe, and pretended to search for a destination in a rational, matrix-like way, weighing different factors, among them cost of living, gay-friendliness, climate—that, above all—and cultural life.
We’ve been asked a thousand times why we chose San Miguel as our landing place and I can’t come up with a single answer. We’d visited San Miguel only twice before and only for a few days each time. I recall being struck with the mildness of the climate, the endlessly photogenic beauty of the town, particularly at the end of the day, but really not much else.
So after all our computations and pretense of logic, we ultimately surrendered to impulse without doing much arithmetic and not unlike our friends moving to Pátzcuaro.
Our VW Passat is not a covered wagon. It has air-conditioning, satellite radio, comfortable seats and other amenities. Yet the five-day southward journey, across landscapes unbroken by any snow-topped volcanos, verdant jungles, herds of exotic fauna or archaeological sites, did evoke in us great sympathy for the original band of Mormons.
Cutting across Illinois lengthwise is boring enough to short-circuit most of your synapses. And then you hit Cairo, Ill., once a thriving city at the confluence of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers but any more the most dismal ghost town imaginable.
Past that, you’re faced with the prospect of traversing Kentucky or Tennessee, I can’t remember which. And on and on and on. We also gained an appreciation for the sheer enormity of Texas. It’s huge, gigantic, interminable, particularly coming after Oklahoma.
Finding a motel involved quite a bit of stealth because—yet something else we hadn’t thought about—although there may be a few pet-friendly motels none are quite so friendly as to welcome two howling cats and our incontinent, forty-pound mutt.
So we resorted to asking for the room farthest away from the reception area (“we want peace and quiet”) and then sneaking in the animals under the cover of darkness. We had a bought a wire crate for our Pooch which we had to assemble and take apart every night. Each night we also had to persuade the cats to eat something, check out the cat litter tray, and please not hide behind the refrigerato so we could regroup promptly first thing in the morning.
For all their fright, the cats eventually settled into a trance-like routine that involved both squeezing into a single carrier, and remaining motionless and silent for hours. For his part Pooch decided that sleeping four-fifths of the time was the best policy.
Pooch was the greatest dog until the very end, the best animal companion we’ve ever had. He died two years after we arrived in San Miguel, at seventeen years old or thereabouts.
The initial details of settling in San Miguel—finding an apartment, waiting two months for our furniture and other belongings to arrive and then discovering we should have left most of it in Chicago—were daunting. Two people who had led quite stable existences bumped into an almost complete lack of regimen, the points of reference of their lives suddenly upended.
Most distressful though, was the loss of our roots. We didn’t know anyone here. All the markers, large and small, that gave our lives rhyme and direction—our jobs, our house, our friends, the screeching Chicago el and countless others—went missing.
And after complaining endlessly about our jobs, we found that the lack of a job and in particular a daily routine, was most disorienting. Suddenly you have all the free time you had yearned for yet don’t know what to do with it.
|Our two cats recovering from their trip. Ziggy, the
orange tabby, died a few months ago.
There was much thrashing about during the first eighteen months, including four moves, searches for counseling from both professionals and also layman expats, and for me a renewed stint of Alcoholic Anonymous meetings.
It was not a good time and to this day I’m baffled by the people who claim to have landed here, instantly fallen in love with everything San Miguel and never looking back to their previous lives. That was far from our experience.
The turnaround for us was building our house, a long-postponed dream. We had talked and planned and read books and articles and here we were finally able to turn ideas into brick-and-mortar.
Our new house, completed almost four years ago, turned out to be everything we wanted, one of those rare life experiences when expectations neatly coincide with reality.
It also firmly planted us in Mexico. As Stew keeps saying, other than a few relatives, we have no longer have physical connections with the United States and wouldn’t even know where to go if we had to move back.
That has forced us to stop looking at Mexico, Mexicans and Mexican ways of doing things through the lens of American expectations.
One day during the construction of our house Stew—a home inspector in his previous life—complained about something not being “like we do back in the States.” The architect calmly explained, “Yes, but we’re here, not there.”
We’re hardly Mexicanized. Stew’s Spanish still sounds like a weak impression of New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, whose public, mano-a-manostruggles with the language have earned him the nickname “El Bloombito.”
We watch Canadian satellite television; go shopping on the “Other Side,” namely Texas and Chicago; and eagerly await the arrival of new American movies. We just saw the latest James Bond epic–two days before it was released in the U.S.–and it was terrific, particularly Javier Bardem and Judy Dench.
Undoubtedly some aspects of daily life in Mexico remain annoying. Take for instance our dealings with a technician from Telcel, who started installing a new wireless telephone and internet system two weeks ago and still hasn’t finished. For this guy mañana is more than an ethnic stereotype: It’s a principle to live by.
Yet I haven’t found any aggravation that can’t be salved by a quick walk around the ranch, especially early in the morning or by moonlight. At this point in our lives there’s no other country or house where we’d rather live—particularly when February comes around.
13 thoughts on “Great Border Crossing Plus Seven”
Thanks for telling your move story. Although mine is very different, it's interesting to note the common threads. And I, too, can't envision returning to live again NOB. I visit to see family and friends and touch my roots occasionally, and that's about it. For me as well, home is Mexico now.
Delightful! I could so relate to the animals in the car and only having an inch to move although my drive wasn't as long as yours.I didnt'have any angst over the move. I was so damn happy to never work again – even though it was my own company – I never wanted the responsibility.I certainly have no regrets. Nothing here is as aggravating as call waiting, robo calls, solicitation calls and all the other mind-numbing things that come to mind. The weather changes – no more.We, in San Miguel are darn lucky that you're here!
No angst here over the move, because I'd been moving here incrementally, but mi fecha de internación, a date which would follow me on all documents through my naturalizacion, stands out for being that final step. And I've never looked back. My only regret is that Mexico is so close to the U.S.
al,thoroughly enjoyed this and got some great laughs! sorry about your 4 legged friends passing away. we lost our jack russell and one of our cats this year, in their new homes as we were not able to bring them to japan. we moved around so much when steve was in the navy that it just became part of our lives, so no problems adapting. but, we both work so there really is no idle time and during our time off we enjoy as much of japanese culture as possible. glad ou guys persevereda and were able to get over the difficulties.take care,teresa in nagoya
Moving to Mexico was a psychological boon for me. And I now romanticize how easy my first few months were. But if you look at my posts, you can see a certain unease in those early days — evidencing itself in me returning to The States to train y successor at work for six months. I am glad I did that because it verified that I was ready to retire and move on. I have not looked back since.
Marc: Agree. We've sometimes talked about where would we go in the States if we had to for some reason, and we come up blank. I not an America hater by any means and in fact it's fun to visit periodically, except any more I feel like a tourist rather than someone going “home.”al
Glad to be here too but let me warn you that Tel Mex is starting some sort of solicitation calls, so watch out. One thing I really don't miss are the interminable elections in the US. Can you imagine being in Ohio and having to watch some TV ad every two minutes?al
Closeness to the US is good for shopping once in a while! al
Teresita: Always jealous of people who have moved around so much, always landing on their feet! Would love to have lived in Japan or some other really exotic place, though, how are you coming along with your command of Japanese?al
C'mon Steve! You do look back at Portland! You still have a house back there that I'm convinced you will eventually turn into a B&B, with pancakes in the morning and rocking chairs on the front porch, lolal
Another great piece. It is always gratifying and somehow satisfying to learn how others landed here, how they cope, and how they view life. And yes, wasn't Bardem just fabulous in “Skyfall?” And the elections…still smiling.
Great post! It's always interesting to hear of people's moves to Mexico, particularly for those of us who are still NOB. When you moved, had you already dealt with visas, etc? And was all the stuff in the car covered by a menaje de casa?Saludos y felicidades, Kim GBoston, MAWhere we are still hoping to make such a move ourselves some day.
We got all our visa and moving papers through the Consulate of Mexico in Chicago. If I were you I'd deal directly with the consulate in Boston. Oddly enough, when we crossed the border the Mexican officials didn't ask anything about the stuff crammed in the car (probably didn't want to search through it) or the animals. The actual menaje arrived a couple of months later. Good luck. Al