A MILE IN MY OWN SHOES – The Ways of Wanderlust

It’s silly I know, but one of the ways my Latin American travel/adventure trips move from crazy notion to harebrained scheme to actual occurrence is that I envision one of my favorite pairs of shoes stepping down the streets or trails of that distant place. Oh…and I’m in the shoes.

For Puebla, Mexico, it was my then-brand-new Keen ultra-lite sandals. In Buenos Aires, it was the Merrell Encore clogs. Havana saw me mostly in my Ecco Yucatan sandals. Oaxaca, in my Birchbury leather sneakers.And now, for my upcoming fall trip to Mérida, I'm thinking my new, walking-on-a-cloud Skechers Slip-ins. (Though for this trip it might make more sense to revisit those Yucatan sandals.)

       I make room for adventure in
       a future that thinks it’s already
       scripted for something else.

Why does it take footwear to lead me to such places? I suppose it’s like any other serious intention in life; to make room for adventure in a future that may not be ready for it, or thinks it’s already scripted for something else, it helps to imagine oneself there. The rest of the plan then starts falling into place around that image.

The shoes get me to that place of my imagining in a way that simply Googling the place cannot. More than just reading someone’s description or looking at photos, they seem to put me there physically. I can actually feel it, my connection with the ground.

FEEL THE YEARN
I remember reading Thomas Mann’s novella, Tonio Kröger, when I was in high school. Mann used the distant sound of the Posthorn to represent the siren song of Tonio’s wanderlust.

There’s nothing as powerful as a dream. For some, like Tonio, it’s just a hazy, unsettling yearning; for others it’s more like a prayer. I see it as simply committing my wishes to the wise ways of the Universe. And, since my Higher Power wants me to be happy, it makes space in the future for the fulfillment of those wishes and then enlists my own intentions, planning and a bit of elbow grease to make them happen.

You see, I have this hunger to keep expanding the realm of my being. To learn new things, meet new people, behold ever-more-stirring expressions of Nature’s beauty, get out of my egocentric, way-too-busy self and closer to the ideal of oneness with everything.

Nothing better satisfies that yearning than travel. (And travel, specifically to Hispanophone places, also lets me pursue my late-in-life quest to get reasonably fluent in Spanish.)

     My wanderlust exerts the same
     pull that being a homebody does,
     but in a different direction.

DIFFERENT STROKES
I realize that, for many, life’s less about opening new realms than deepening the ones they already occupy. That’s fine. I actually envy you homebodies, for your ability to happily grow where you’re planted. And for the strength of your commitments to a beloved place and the people you make sure frequent it.

I suppose I could say my wanderlust exerts the same kind of pull that being a homebody does, but in a different direction. To be honest, though, I feel a bit guilty about how selfish it is. I try to salve the guilt by recalling how many other worthy endeavors demand a choice between familiarity and exploration.

Wanderluster. Full-nester. Aren’t they really like introvert and extrovert, where one is better than the other only for certain purposes. Shouldn’t it be possible to be some of both, to balance the two?

How does one do that? As my mother used to say, when you’re torn between two valid paths, sometimes you just have to follow your nose…

…and, I would add, your shoes.

"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted."
BILL BRYSON

EL CHAVO RUCO – Reflections On Turning a Young 80 In Zihuatanejo

I’m pretty sure I cry more than most men. It doesn’t take much: sad movies, acts of heroism, glimpses of redemption and simple human kindness.

I also cry when Sally and I say goodbye in late March each year to our beloved second home, Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico, where we’ve once again spent the month.
 
It’s happened every one of the 17 years we’ve been coming here, that “last-campfire” sense that something very special and rare, in a breathtakingly beautiful place, with some very dear people, is coming to an end.

The feeling is especially poignant this year for two main reasons: first, because we’d had to abandon last year’s trip—and nearly this year’s too—due to some medical concerns. Secondly, because this time we celebrated my 80th trip around the sun with a “destination” party involving all my closest family members.

EL CHAVO RUCO
This year’s visit was special for other reasons too. Among them the good fortune that, at 80 and 78, respectively, Sally and I are still able to travel—a blessing we now know we can no longer take for granted. And to walk…a lot.

As always, we’ve plied the winding road a mile-and-a-half into town every morning—a grinding, seemingly all-uphill hike in Zihua’s tropical heat and humidity—with the sole incentive being an iced Assam tea and a nice mango smoothie at El Cafecito, a shady, breezy oasis just across from the beachside fish market.

PHOTO: Jane Simon Anneson

Some days we also brave the return hike in the afternoon. We slap a sweaty high-five at the accomplishment, only to then face the five-story stair climb from the street up to our villa.

All that exercise, together with the dent the climate puts in our appetites, has pared me down nearly to my high school playing weight. And Sally, she never played football, but let’s just say she’d still have no trouble landing a job as a runway model.

(The age-defying effects of life in Zihuatanejo were reflected in the theme and the little skateboarding crocodile character I created for my birthday bash. I call myself El Chavo Ruco, which translates roughly to the Punk Geezer.)

I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

THE LONG VIEW

Why such an affinity for this place, for its people and culture? It’s the colors, the smells and flavors, the unfailing grace of the people, and the musical, poetic texture of the language. They all touch me in ways my Germanic heritage—or for that matter most of a life in German / Scandinavian Minnesota—never could.

For lack of a better reason I sometimes tell people I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

And Nature here is just stunningly beautiful and exotic. The arresting washboard rasping of the chachalaca birds that rouses us each morning. The translucent little geckos plying our walls and ceiling for bugs at night. The hummingbirds that flit in to sip on the fuchsia bougainvillea that underlines our no-fourth-wall view.

It might be the occasional sighting of scorpion or tarantula. A humpback whale breaching just outside the bay. And, again, that view. Zihuatanejo wraps around the best-defined, most sheltered bay on Mexico’s Pacific coast, home to roiling schools of bait fish, hefty jack cravalle, squadrons of spotted eagle rays, and the occasional whale shark.

And the infinite reach of that hazy horizon; once you clear Zihuatanejo Bay there’s no landfall for 3,067 nautical miles (the Pitcairn Islands).

¡TUTÉAME!
I want to think that the way people here touch my heart is based on more than the obligatory host-to-guest deference one usually receives in a tourist town. Here it feels like true kindness and generosity. Part of that may be a response to my own willingness to honor another’s culture—including the language—but I suspect it’s more than that. The more time I spend here the more I believe it's an innate quality of being a Zihuatanejense.

By now, many locals have become easy, comfortable friends—folks we’d love to welcome as guests in our home someday. I’ve begged a few of them for years to tutearme (use the informal personal pronoun tu instead of the more polite usted mandated when addressing a guest, superior or elder). It’s one of the great triumphs of my Spanish-learning journey that some have finally relented.

Most, I hope, appreciate that not all of us have turned into monsters.

MAGA WE ARE NOT
There’s another reason this year’s trip has proven unique: Sadly, we now must apologize for being Estadounidenses (from the U.S.). For having allowed the ham-fisted regime of an ignorant, monumentally insecure, utterly indecent little man and his billionaire partners in crime to suck the air out of Democracy’s room.

We explain that this tsunami of ugliness has happened despite our votes and those of about half of our countrymen and women. Some Zankas try to be diplomatic in their responses; a few just laugh; most, I hope, appreciate that not all of us have turned into monsters.

What a contrast the imminent collapse of our own homeland’s storied big-hearted, welcoming spirit with that of a people who, despite having themselves suffered under the boots of such beasts, despite the scourge of corruption and narco-warfare, have somehow managed to preserve that amiable spirit. Mexicans here still know what’s important. Still welcome folks who don’t look like them.

HASTA PRONTO
In late afternoon the panga traffic lacing together the two ends of Zihuatanejo Bay’s string-of-pearls beaches slows and stops. Then, once the sun sets over Cerro El Almacén, night falls quickly here in the tropics.

Soon, starlight perforates the night sky’s black membrane. As we sip a nice mescal on the terrace, we can already see a hundred times more stars than we can through the veil of light pollution back home in Minneapolis.  

Knowing we’ll have to wait nearly a year to return, we soak up as much of this feeling as we can. This amazing night sky, the delicious Pacific breeze, the eternal whisper of the surf…

Zihua, our precious, fleeting tryst with paradise, Hasta pronto. See you soon.

ALMA-RIACHI – Music That Runs Deep

LUCKY SO-AND-SO
Last night I celebrated my eightieth birthday here in enchanting Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico. While several of my loved ones have visited Sally and me here, I’ve dreamt of someday bringing the whole clan down together. This was the occasion.

It took a bit of planning to get everyone transported, lodged and fed, but the real fun was creating and carrying out a theme and lining up a few key events we hoped everyone would enjoy.

The focal point of my vision was that, halfway through my birthday dinner, folks might hear faint strains of mariachi music wafting into the open-air restaurant from about a block away. I’d interrupt the conversation and say, “Do you guys hear that? Some lucky so-and-so is getting a mariachi serenade.”

The sound would get closer and closer until everyone realized they were actually coming to our restaurant. And then, Oh, my God, they’re now (all nine of them: guitars, fiddles, vihuela, vocalists and horns) lining up in front of our long table!

That vision played out perfectly.

GRITOS AND LLANTOS
I’ve heard enough mariachi—from the scores of bands duking it out musically around Garibaldi Square in Mexico City, to pick-up groups and stage performances, to a 20-piece super band arriving at 5:00 AM to wrap up an all-night graduation party—to have witnessed the passion Mexicans feel about this music.

I’ve seen men’s chests swell with the national pride and personal passion it evokes, the full-throated way they belt out lyrics they know by heart, the heartfelt gritos of defiance and llantos of ardor and pain.

IMAGE: Austin American Statesman

I now feel some of that emotion myself whenever I hear this stirring music. It’s like I’ve absorbed it through osmosis. I know the lyrics of some songs and can sing along, at least to the refrains. Mexicans love that I know who Vicente (El Rey) and Alejandro are. It all touches something deep in my spirit.

So tonight, I’m standing here, my dearest loved ones surrounding me, facing these splendid musicians—Los Torcazos. And my eyes well up with tears. I can’t hide the emotion each song kindles. Guadalajara. Por Tu Maldito Amor. Como Quien Pierde Una Estrella.

And I can’t deny wishing I could maintain the valiant, stoical façade of a proud Mexican charro. But my face gives me away.

TOO MUCH FOR ONE LIFE
So afterward I follow the band down the stairs to pay the balance of their fee (and a well-deserved tip). I shake the hand of their dashing lead singer and manager, Francisco, thank him and hand over the pesos. And I feel I must try, somehow, to explain my emotions.

Here’s a rough translation of what I say: Francisco, I decided, twenty-plus years ago, to junk the German I’d grown up with and learned in school and, as a 55-year-old, take up Spanish. Why? Because I loved the music I hear in its sounds and rhythms. The poetry I feel in its words. The way it opens doors to the people and culture of this great country—including this colorful mariachi tradition.

And because I know, deep in my bones, that I’ve been a Mexican in a previous life.

I couldn’t swear to it, but I think Francisco teared up just a little too. He turned and waved…and then they were gone. But the moment, the memory, that’s mine for the rest of this life...and just maybe into the next.