Isla Mujeres, one last time

No stone unturned, no corner untouched. You can do that on an island where in the morning you’re able to hike to the southern tip and back, and in the afternoon, turn around and head to the northern tip, then home again come nighttime.

What’s fascinating is how different these two tips are from each other and how even more different is the middle (where we are staying).

The south has the craggy coast and a handful of tourist draws: a pully that'll swing you over the water, a small lighthouse, and a few hotels and bars looking out over the bay toward a distant skyline of Cancun beach hotels (less than ten miles away, as the gull flies).

The north has the ferry port. It goes without saying that the north has 95% of the tourist shops, the souvenir stands, the beach bars, the time-shares.

The island is said to do everything on a small scale and so nothing overwhelms you – not even the north end. And in any event, the ferries take the bulk of visitors back to the mainland come nighttime. The pace is slow, the island is quiet. Cats and children. Lots of both. So perfect for Ed (who loves being in the presence of cats) and me (who loves being in the presence of kids).









Tuesday afternoon. Our protracted café moment ends when I feel the first gust of late afternoon wind on my shoulders. If we’re going to make it to the North Beach, we should go now.

Of course, the closer we get to the water’s edge, the gustier it becomes.

The North Beach, reputed to be the loveliest city beach on earth (and it is quite lovely), is deserted.





But we like it that way. I button my cardigan and we forge ahead – from one end to the next and back again, until the sun begins to play with low lying clouds, losing any real warmth value for the remainder of the day.




The water here is clear and the waves less threatening, but neither of us has a great urge to swim (actually, I don’t even take off my shoes – the sand is too cool). We watch one or two hearty types splash around and then we head back to the hub of the town, where the boats come in and the vendors congregate.




As the afternoon sun nears the Cancun horizon, we settle in at our café (twice in one day!), this time with a plate of guacamole and a wonderfully zesty mojito for me.


With the sun completely gone now, we considered our options. Eat in town? We look in on one spot, then another. We’d be eating with the likes of us, gringos.

We decide to hike back to the belly of the island.

It’s a long walk in the dark. At one point we stop and peer out at the water that suddenly comes close to our path...



... but mostly we pay attention to the road. The sidewalk is an adventure trip – it’s there, it’s not there. Sometimes well tended, sometimes crumbling. The variety that is the island can be found right there at your feet.

The brisk pace keeps me warm, even as the locals complain bitterly about the “cold spell” (it dips down to near sixty at night). As we approach our mid-island village (Colonia La Gloria), we hear a honk of a golf cart. Miguel is there, driving by. He offers us a ride for the few blocks back to the apartment, but we're not ready to retire there yet. We ask, instead, for the name of his favorite Tacqueria.

Tacqueria Medina – up on the other main road.

Sure, we passed it many times on our walks to town. We turn around and retrace our steps just a little.

The Tacqueria is small and the choices appear to be two: beef taco or pork taco. I order two spicy and delicious pork tacos (the pork meat roasted right behind the counter), Ed stays with the vegetarian option (a basic quesadilla). We watch a large family pack in platefuls of tacos and I think I maybe could add a few more myself. But, the bill is paid and we're ready to go. Next time.





The night is star studded and beautiful. I’m thinking of the places we didn’t try yet – the grilled fish on the beach, the other bakery...


Next time, next time. In the morning, I look out and watch the children march into school (our apartment looks out on an elementary school). They're bundled. It's a chilling 74 F outside.





We need to get going as well.

We hike in glorious sunshine, past the colors of the island: past the carts that sell breads and tortillas, past mothers buying, children eating, purple houses, blue houses, past beaches with boats – all the way into town...













...for one last visit to our favorite café, for that great coffee, and eggs with beans and salsa, wrapped into a warm tortilla.





We catch the ferry back, over the Caribeean blues...





...to the mainland, where we pick up a car (is this really the smallest one you have? Yes...) and head out. Not far: to Puerto Morelos – a fishing village just south of Cancun. "Low key" -- as the books say, and as Ed remembers it.

This time we are staying right on the beach and I know that Ed is groaning inside because the place (home for the next two nights), though subdued, still has too many comforts: a pool, chairs in the sand, tended grounds – too much, too much, especially after the belly of Isla Mujeres.





Me, I find it calming. A change of pace before we take the road away from the sea. A chance to take some work to the beach and look up only occasionally, to watch how the pelicans are doing out there on the aqua waters of the sea.

Isla Mujeres, day two

There came a moment when I thought we would not leave the café. Notes of music coming through somewhere, the breezes blowing through the open spaces, the comfortable chairs, good coffee... why go?

There are deep navy clouds just off shore, but Ed is unruffled. Rain clouds? Over the Caribbean, they can sometimes sit for hours. We may never see the rain from that system. He should know -- he's sailed these seas often enough.

Still, our landlady is waiting (though I Skype her of our café delay) and we have our packs at our feet. Time to go.

The island is narrow (maybe quarter of a mile at the thick points) and long (maybe six miles). You can’t believe that a house, any house would be hard to find. I am given instructions: Leave the village, continue past the old airstrip, eventually, maybe after two miles you’ll come to Oscar’s Restaurant. Bear left then, one block, past something that looks like a church. Ours is the house with the hedge.

Okay. We set out. It’s colorful and completely beguiling at every step.









(At the Tortilleria Mama Lolita:)




(look closer:)












But we think we have walked for significantly more than two miles. No Oscar’s.
Where’s Oscar’s? -- we ask. It’s not well known. Maybe that way...
We walk some more. We don’t find Oscar’s, but we see a guy with a tin container waving at us.





He’s the fellow from the bus, with the delicious thin wafers.

And still no Oscar’s.

A golf cart pulls over (they’re not only for tourists). A man speaks to us in Spanish. Apartamento...He’s Miguel, our landlord (he and Sue rent out these terrific places).

I suppose it’s easy for locals to find us, even as it’s hard for us to locate them.

Miguel and Sue have just finished adding a lovely little studio to their handful of rooms. Perfectly placed, away from any tourist bustle (but you need to love to walk, as we do, or just go for the rental of the ubiquitous golf cart), we are happy as anything in our large, airy room on the top floor of this building: (At $35 per night, it is lovely in price as well.)




Miguel and Sue tell us where to eat, where to find the local market, where to pick up a taco if we have a craving, or a grilled fish, or roast chicken.

They drive us to their favorite bakery, we pick up some sweet rolls for the morning (there’s some fresh orange juice for you in the fridge – Sue tells us)...



...and now we are finally "at home."

We know we should wait to eat. We know that the village square comes alive late in the evening. People watching should be wonderful.

But I also know that if we linger, Ed will sleep and I’ll dig into the sweet rolls. I’m hungry – Sue said La Bruja Restaurant, just up the street, is open all day long. Let’s go now.

By 7, we’re sitting by the curb, eating grilled seafood and drinking Mexican beer and life feels so very good.




Next door, a family gathers around a sweet bread cart that has pulled up to the curb. The woman buys the kids sweet rolls and they grin with pleasure. Looking on, I try not to think about how long it will be before Madison sees any food cart outdoors.





This morning, the skies slowly lose their threatening clouds. We are only on the island until tomorrow. I am anxious to set out.

Mercado. Let’s start there.





We do. Juice – more of that wonderful juice, Ed says. (Ed can chug a quart down in no time.) The market is small, but it has a few fruit stands, plenty of meat vendors and, of course, a tortilla maker.

But no coffee. I find that Coca cola trumps coffee here as the drink of choice – mornings included.

We go back to La Bruja, where the kind people serve up a wonderful coffee with toast on the side.




Fortified, we hike to the southern most tip of the island, and, as they say, the eastern most tip of Mexico.

Let me say this about how beautiful it is here, in the center of the island: I am, at every corner, surprised with a splash (sometimes more like a burst) of color.









Well, yes, and coca cola adds...



(at our corner grocery store)


...and flowers...









...and people eating in secret corners at unusual (for me) times.





...and children telling you thank you when you take their photo.





...and water and sky – ostensibly both sharing the color “blue,” but letting you know that there are as many blues as there are people on this planet.





And let me not forget to say this: Isla Mujeres, at least where we are, is quiet (except for the morning rooster and the evening dogs) and uncommonly friendly.


In the afternoon, we hike back to the main town on the north end (just over an hour for us). We find our local waiter at our first café. He brings us eggs and beans and tortillas and a fruit milk for Ed and coffee for me and again we find it very very hard to leave.

Isla Mujeres

There is something wonderfully uplifting when, after a long flight, you first notice specks of the land that will be your home for a little while.





The Yucatan coastline is shielded from the warm heavens by a misty cloud cover. It's dreamy and beautiful, with bands of aqua colors touching the strip of sand.

We take our packs and head for the bus. Or, the first bus. The easy one to Cancun. From there, we look for the local to the town of Puerto Juarez - the point from where the ferry leaves. Many inquiries later, we are in a rickety van, first solo, then with a local fellow, taking his tin of... something to... somewhere.
What do you have there? – this from Ed.
We’re told the name, but neither of us remembers it. It's sweet, right?
Si, dulce comida.
Can we buy one?
Sure.
He carefully removes a packet with a large wafer.



It’s crispy thin and delicious – much like the wafers I would sometimes buy in the mountains of Poland. Mountains of Poland, coast of the Yucatan.

Someone on the outside is shouting into the van that we should get off. Ah – the ferry landing. Thanks for paying attention. We’re too busy munching thin wafers of crunchy sweetness.

At the ferry landing, we are taken aside by a time-share promoter. If you come to our place, right on the best beach of the island, we’ll give you a golf cart for the day (the mode of tourist movement), a free breakfast, two t-shirts and a lovely beach bag.

Ed hesitates.
No, Ed, no.
But I’m curious about time shares.
This is Ed – forever curious, but only that. I push him toward the boat.

We board the ferry. The ride is lovely – a little cool for me, but oh my, is that a relevant statement! It’s not near zero here, it’s in the seventies.


And now we are on the island -- the Isla Mujeres. We sit down at a café and time stops.








The island hasn’t changed, Ed remarks. I remember, in years past when...

I listen as I watch a guy carry heavy crates of beer into the café. Hard work.





And for me, at this moment in time, no work at all.

In a few minutes we’ll look for our room somewhere in mid-island. In a few minutes. Or longer.

I look up: Ed is in shorts already. I drink my coffee, he sips a platano licuado (basically bananas and milk). The sun comes out for just a minute. Or two.

traveling

Welcome to Apple Vacations! We hope you’re enjoying your Fun Jet Cancun adventure!

How is it that Ed and I found ourselves packed into a jet full of fun-loving, sun-seeking, underdressed in a sweetly optimistic way Wisconsinites, bound for an Apple Vacation? Air Tran canceled our early morning (or was it night?) flight to Atlanta (connecting to Cancun), which is sad... but they booked us on one of their charter tour jets that flies directly to Cancun. Which is terrific! It’s truly dumb luck to have a cancellation work in your favor – we’ll be in Cancun hours ahead of schedule.

I don’t normally post in the mornings, but as usual, when I am away from home, I flip my schedule and write before my traveling companion wakes. And when there is WiFi.

The plane has WiFi.

Actually, I am not certain where my traveling companion is at the moment – somewhere in the front of the plane I presume (I am in the back), but I’m sure he is sleeping. We left Madison when the night was in the early stages of development.

No photo for you yet. The ground below is flat and uninteresting – I’m guessing it’s the Florida panhandle. No photos of the passengers either. Fun loving types that they are, they also appear groggy and disheveled from a disrupted night.

I think I’ll take off my sweater. I want to fit in. Happy Cancun vacationing, fellow travelers! Shake off the northern airs and rub in the sunscreen! We are on our way!

done. off we go!

So how many times have you been to the Yucatan? – I ask Ed, whose travels in the past appeared to have favored anything south and preferably reachable by a sailboat.

Oh, maybe four. There was a fifth, but I hardly remember that one. I flew in. Weird to fly to the Yucatan, when a sailboat or a motorbike can easily get you there.

Well, we’re flying in this time. I have plenty of reasons to avoid sailing or motorbiking to the eastern tip of Mexico this winter. Besides, we’re flying Air Tran – the airline of choice for the frugally inclined. Ed should not mind.

My own visits to Mexico date back to a distant past. (Border crossings from Arizona do not really count.) I vividly remember the presence of parents as we bused from Mexico City to Taxco and then on to the western coast. I ate wildly, came home with a parasite and never traveled with my parents again. The memories are that good.

Still, I’ve wanted to go back, preferably with a companion who speaks Spanish (I, unfortunately, do not; and no, it’s not so close to Italian that one can pretend). Ed assures me that he can ask pretty much any question, so long as we can get by without understanding the answer.

We’re set to go. In the middle of the night we’ll be driving to the nearest Air Tran hub and then, in a roundabout way, we’ll fly south, to the Yucatan Peninsula.

We have some tight connections and no promise of WiFi when we get to our first night’s destination – Isla Mujeres. Wish us luck.

six years later

This is post number 4608. Blogger tells me this. That number doesn’t particularly stand out. It’s not cute, not even rounded. The more significant to me, is the number six: today marks the sixth anniversary of daily blogging here, on Ocean.

Oh, I’ve become less fussy about counting. I’ve skipped maybe a half dozen days in these six years, mostly because I just could not arrange the circumstances in a way that would permit writing and/or posting. But you know this about Ocean: if you click here each day, you'll find, pretty much always, a new post.


Numbers. Let me throw down a handful for you to consider:

Today, even in the middle of this very sunny day, the thermometer never passed five degrees Fahrenheit.

Of course, I did not know this when I said to Ed – let’s take a break from work. [I meant my work; Ed doesn’t work (anymore) per se. On this day, he could be found fumbling with machine designs on the computer; I think machine designing to him is like book writing for me. The difference? He actually anticipates reaching a final product.]


I propose a quick hike.

In retrospect, writing now from the warm interior of my condo, I can say it was quite beautiful.









But cold.

[Though this is relative: at the shop tonight, I chatted to a customer who loves winter and hates spring. Something to do with having to plant potatoes once the earth softens up a bit...)

Numbers. Let me not neglect to mention that this is day two of a decidedly work filled week-end. One more tomorrow. And then I kiss the deep freeze good bye. I hope.

the first of three: Happy New Year!

May I begin the new year with a post asking for patience? I am (I must be!) immersed in work – both at the law school and at the shop..

By Monday, I should be done.

And if I am done, then I shall have the reward of traveling south. Away from the deep freeze (for a short while anyway).

So, here’s day one of the trilogy: I wake, I work, I walk to other work, I return home to work.




But my mind is on 2010. And today, I wish for Ocean readers, at the very least this much – a year ahead that will be even better than the one behind, however twisted or brilliant that one was for you.

New Year's Eve

The end of a calendar year. I lock up the little shop on the corner and walk home. As I prepare to spend an evening with a person who chooses not to celebrate what he would call Hallmark events (did the Romans or the Mayans worry about Hallmark?), I give some thought to why it is that I do celebrate the flip of this calendar page.

New Year’s Eve. We think we’re giving festive encouragement to the year ahead by eating well and drinking bubbly stuff the night before. Fine, but we’re doing it at the tail end of the old year. To properly herald 2010, our first meal, not our last, should be the festive one!

[I plan to scramble eggs, reheat a baguette and pour bubbly stuff into freshly squeezed o.j.]

But speaking of food, what about tonight? Well, my occasional traveling companion and I held firm: lobster meat for me, a chicken and bean burrito for him.




My concession? Defrosted lobster meat (none of this fresh stuff, flown in from Maine and cooked on my stovetop), dressed and served with corn on the cob, along with a toasted baguette. From my favorite baguette place (I reserved one – they sell out early these days).





[Note to commenter: a lobster subway, right?]

Ed’s concession? He’ll eat his burrito at the same table, at the same time, and we’ll both not needle each other about our choices in life.




And then maybe we’ll watch a movie. With a macaroon for dessert. From Dinan.





No, no partying. At least we’re in agreement there – neither of us functions well in crowded places, even if such places are at the homes of friends.

I’m guessing (and I am good at this!) that Ed’ll fall asleep well before midnight. And that his first words in 2010 will be these, spoken when I wake him to say Happy New Year: What? What?? Oh, thank you.

comfort zone

It is definitely true that my comfort zone does not overlap perfectly with the comfort zone of my occasional traveling companion. And here’s another truth: the older you get, the higher the brick wall gets around that comfort zone.

Mine and his are pretty high.

It’s lead to an interesting discussion as to what should happen this year on New Year’s Eve.

Since I don’t know when, I’ve celebrated the end of the year with a dinner that is special. In leaner years, much saving took place so as to support this meal of all meals. It was an evening for the best – the evening when I first ate at L’Etoile in Madison. We would take daughters and when midnight came, we’d almost always be licking the last bit of flavor off of a plate, totally content.

This has not been Ed’s path. New Year’s Eve? A Cousins sandwich – two for $5, preferably.


For the first time, I am not eating with daughters this New year’s Eve (they’ve flown the coop so to speak) and Ed and I are trying to find a way to solve the New Year’s Eve quandary.

Let’s get burritos from Chipotle, he tells me.
Let’s not.
Okay. You want to go out somewhere that’s not fussy?
No. I don’t mind the not fussy, but it needs to be special.
We really haven’t had Chipotle for a long time. It’s special.
Let me buy a lobster and make lobster rolls.
No.

Two stubborn people, with very high brick walls. Where will be the opening? I’ll let you know tomorrow.

In the meantime, I find myself at an unlikely place today. True, I am in the neighborhood. But you don’t usually find me wandering into Henry Vilas Park. To glance down at him, with the mustache.




I have very mixed feelings about zoos. But somehow today I have warm thoughts about animals, even if they are, unfortunately, in captivity. Maybe it’s because I am having all these musings about comfort zones. Because surely these two, nuzzling away at each other, are outside theirs.




Though I later read that Bactrian camels -- the two humpers – actually can handle snow covered terrain. And here’s another thing: most every camel on this planet is domesticated, so I have to shed my images of herds roaming deserts in the wild.

So maybe these nuzzling beasts aren’t outside their comfort zones after all. Maybe it’s just me. Struggling with middle ground.

conversations (where the goal is to clear the head)

We should take a walk today. Sun’s out. I need to get moving again. It’ll clear my head.
Okay...
Maybe we should cross country ski...
Okay... Want to cross country ski?
Too much hassle.
Do you want to hike around Blue Mounds?
Too far... I have work to do.
Okay...

(Later, revisiting the same theme, but in a slightly less contrary mood)
Let’s head out somewhere anyway...
(My occasional traveling companion waits, because it’s pointless to offer ideas, knowing they are mere targets for a “shoot ‘em down” session)
Maybe the Arboretum is a good compromise for a busy person like me. Even as I know that you’re less busy. Hardly busy at all. No, actually quite unbusy. (I did say slightly less contrary)
Okay...

We head out.




It’s bright as can be, but that clean angelic sky is deceptive: there is the bite of a deep freeze. But is everything frozen solid? I’m not sure...

Should I cross over?
Want me to?
That’s pointless. I’m lighter. I’ll take the risk.
I don’t really think there is much of a risk, but I want to sound gallant and brave.





I cross and, like for those who have crossed before me, nothing happens. Ed follows.

And now we come to a place in the forest where birds congregate.

I'm losing all good shots! They're too quick and too hidden in the thicket.
Do a manual shot.
I can’t see without my glasses!
Again, you can’t win with this one. Eventually, Ed mutters the equivalent of "huh.”

One lovely little robin, undaunted by the cold, appears intrigued by the sound of my camera (it squeaks when it tries to focus). He comes a little closer and settles on a relatively unobstructed branch.





Thank you, robin.

More birds. Big ones. Turkey birds. They huddle around a large feeding tray.




Long shadows of the afternoon. Too cold to sit down now and contemplate life. But, the head is clearer now. Work can proceed, life can go on.

Time to head back.




Hey, thank you.
Okay...

daughters

No one can make me laugh like they can.




And although I have grown used to their quick arrivals and unwelcome departures, this time, the transition is too sharp and too complete.

The tree comes down, the house is tidied and off they go. My living space is suddenly too orderly, too immaculate -- stripped of their spirit.

I look around, confused. Wasn’t it just a minute ago that the room was fragrant with pine and cluttered with bright lights and cool wit? Didn’t I just have to nudge someone to move over and make room on the couch? Why isn’t there a half finished Klarbrunn (our beloved local fizzy water) in the fridge? And why isn’t anyone putting out plates of food for us to snack on while I fix dinner?

Abruptly empty.

And cold.

Inside and out.



Lake Mendota, slowly freezing over

last night

I would count this as a tough day, posting wise. It’s not that I stayed home and had no occasion to use the camera. From early on, the camera was out and clicking.




And we did go out – my daughters and I. To lunch, to shop, to the movies – conventional mother-daughter events, no?

Sure. But it’s always a wrenching day, that last day of their winter visit. How can it be otherwise?

The air is brisk, cold now. The sun appears for a minute at a time, no more than that.





Eh. Not interested in photographing anything really. Until a daughter nudges me – see that? Buried cart?





Yes, that one feels right. Buried. With only one wheel poking through.


One last dinner of favorites (never cook new things for daughters returning home; they only want the old things, again and again), one last night together, one last night of them passing through...

And then there will be the tough days. Not yet, not until after the Christmas tree comes down. Tomorrow.

many happy returns?

I was prepared, at the shop, for a day of refunds. Of disappointed recipients who wanted anything but what they got. The miscalculated present. I was expecting those.

But I got none of it. You could posit that the returns came before my shift, or that maybe I was sleeping on the job. You’d be wrong.

In the alternative, you could suggest that we, at the shop, listened well to buyers' queries and gave good counsel in return, or that the shop product is so excellent that only a fool would want to return it.

Better. That’s better.


I was thinking today how life is so often a guessing game and how we are forced to predict outcomes with very little information.



rosé at Brasserie V

It’s the day after Christmas. What I really need is for a big clean-up truck to roll in and pick up the debris after yesterday’s celebration. One that could sweep up and put things away and one that maybe would be capable of erasing thoughts of anticipation and replace them with thoughts of reentry into the real world.


Very late in the day, I had a holiday relapse: I baked another four dozen cinnamon rolls, in case daughters, in the last day and a half of their visit here developed an insatiable yearning for the smell of yeasty dough and cinnamon breads baking.


It’s well into the next calendar day before I make it to bed.