I spent the day cleaning. This was my first day alone in the house. This house, this beautiful, colorful house located on the coast in Mexico, was what I had longed for, for decades.  I wanted to make it feel like it was mine. I wanted to cleanse it of everything that I could that, for me, was not aesthetically pleasing. I wanted to possess it. It would become my safe haven. I, within moments of waking on my first day alone in the house, was overwhelmed with a profound sense of being really alone.

With a year’s lease,  I had plenty of time to explore the city, the beaches and the neighborhood. There was plenty of food in the house, I still needed to get completely unpacked and I needed to listen. I needed to hear what was going on in my head. There was no need to go outside at the moment.  This time,  this time in Mexico,  I was thinking,  just might be the time to still my heart and thoughts enough to know what was going on inside.

Besides, cleaning, for me, is cathartic. While I was in school,  it was also a way to procrastinate against the inevitable,  generally a paper that I needed to write or needing to study for a test. Nothing called to me so urgently as a dirty oven or toilet as an impending deadline loomed. It seemed, oddly enough, that cleaning took precedent over any scholastic endeavor. But here, at this time, I would not and could not avoid the inevitable. I was going nowhere. I know not a single soul in this country, so my only company would be my own voice.

I, probably like everyone else,  have a steady stream of mostly gibberish going on in my head. When I really listen,  I might be counting the stairs as I climb up to bed,  I might just as likely be going over and over a vision of an embarrassing encounter with a colleague where I should have said this and not that, or promising myself as I have for the last twenty years that tomorrow I will eat less sugar and exercise more, I forgot to get this or that at the store, what time does swimming start on Wednesday… it goes on and on in this way.  You get my drift. But now, I wanted to slow that stream of nonsense so that I could hear perhaps what’s rolling down under the deeper water. There has to be more.  I know there is more because sometimes I can hear it and to say the least,  it scares me.

I’ve had a colorful, interesting and very full life: I was married for twenty seven years, had children, divorced, traveled, had lovers, spent years becoming educated, had a career I loved and am now retired and living in Mexico. I’ve taken huge risks, some which were calculated and some which were not. My decision making process has always been walking through the next open door. This has mostly served me well. But has it really? This is the question that is rising to the surface.  Has it really? Maybe I wasn’t just cleaning house.   Maybe I was doing some deep cleaning of a different sort. So,  I hauled out bags full of garbage,  swept down walls, cleaned windows,  oiled furniture, cleaned out the refrigerator,  washed floors… and I stood on the balconies and looked down at my neighborhood.

I stared out at Banderas Bay. Dogs were barking, clean laundry was flapping from nearly every rooftop, Banda music was blaring and the sun was going down,  setting the sky on fire.

After a full day, I smelled like a pig. I was hot and sweating and I wasn’t near to being done. But it was time to stop and give myself a rest. I showered, ate and settled onto the couch. But what was to come,  I could not have dreamed up in a nightmare.

I had been picking on the delicious roast beef and tuna all day that Rebecca had cooked. I wasn’t hungry but as usual,  I wanted something sweet.  I was bushed and thought I’d watch a movie before going to bed.  I rummaged around in the refrigerator remembering that Rebecca and I had been snacking on some really good ginger,  salted peanuts and dark chocolate candy that a friend had made for her.  If I was in luck,  I thought,  she won’t have taken them. Low and behold,  I found in the freezer some chocolates.  Yes! There were two big chunks and I decided to eat it all.  It was perfect.  Though they weren’t the same,  they were still yummy.  I started the movie and settled back to relax for the first time all day.

Between half an hour and forty five minutes, I started to feel sleepy and really thirsty. I got up to get some water and my heart was beating a little too hard,  I felt shaky and weak all over.  I made my way upstairs thinking I should lie down.  I had to hold on to the walls. By the time I got upstairs,  I was afraid that I was having a heart attack or a stroke. I was drinking glass after glass of water but could not quench my thirst. I started to get very scared. At one point I thought I might be having a mental breakdown.

And then my mind awoke as if from a deep sleep. I sensed my situation in bright and living color. I am 66 years old, going on 67. I don’t know anybody.  I could die here in this house and nobody would know for days, probably. I could fall down the stairs,  I could have a heart attack or stroke. I have fucking 3rd stage osteo-arthritis in both knees and I have to climb a spiral staircase to the roof to do laundry.  I have to catch the bus to go anywhere and the streets are called cobblestone but are really large river rock to walk over.  The buses don’t kneel,  the stairs to get in are tall, narrow and uneven.  To walk means navigating the streets and climbing up curbs that are broken and of every height from toe to knee.

My predicament flew in my face. It began to dawn on me that my dream of retiring to Mexico was based on a dream of 21 years ago.  My perceptions of me in the world had changed drastically in that time.  I am still healthy and get along fine regardless of a nearly useless right arm,  aging knees and the residues of surviving cancer and chemo therapy 10 years ago.

My mind began to reel with these realizations and I woke to the fact that there is a lot to be said for being around people who know you and love you and care about you. Being near people who you care about might be one of the most important things in life and that being planted and staying where your established roots are is to be really known.

As I was contemplating all of this,  I was looking at the horizon and and at all of the big hotels built along the beach. I looked at the millions of lights and thought about the tens of thousands of workers it takes to keep this vacation paradise working, most of whom make little money.  And what about the foreign investors who exploit sand, sun and surf and make billions of dollars from the billions of tourists who come to be treated to food,  lodging,  adventure and relaxation. The culture and history of this country and any other tourist destination is usurped as show,  as entertainment. The people are reminded at every turn to, “Be nice. Our lives depend on tourism”.

And here I was.  I had plopped my big American ass right down in the middle of a Mexican neighborhood, a neighborhood where generations of families have lived.  They cannot simply choose to drive north and relocate in the United States, we don’t let them. But I can,  for less than $300.00 USD, move in next door to them and expect them to be my friends. I began to understand their looks and questions. “Why did you move here?  How long are you staying?”

I don’t have to work.  I come and go as I please. It’s an unfair,  unjust and unbalanced system. I am a part of this exploitation,  as are all ex-pats around the world,  living on foreign dollars (at least to begin with)  and benefiting in that relationship. Cheap rent, food, healthcare, etc.

Oh, my god! What had I done? Had I really thought any of this though?  Like so many of my decisions,  this decision had been a bad one, maybe the worse decision of my life and based on thin air. I walked through the next open door. Now what? The door was not so easy to open from the other side.

I have a year’s lease.  I’ve given up my house in Portland,  I’ve put all I own into storage. How do I get out of this mess I’ve made for myself? At that moment, if I had had the strength, I probably would have started packing; I wanted to leave right then. I was embarrassed by my privilege.

I tried to call Hannah thinking I should let her know that I might be dying. She couldn’t be reached, so I called Dhillon.  As they say, any port in a storm. This is never a good idea,  but I thought he should know that I was having a crises,  an episode. All he could say was, “I told you so.” But his response was based not on what I was telling him, but based on his need for my assistance. It meant nothing. And at this moment was not going to save me as I felt myself slipping into darkness.

I was shaking, I could barely walk, I couldn’t sleep. I would wake up thinking someone was talking to me or touching me and I knew without doubt that I needed to go home. This is not my culture, these are not my people, and no matter how much time I have spent here, or how well I speak their language or how many years I spent studying their history, I would always be a foreigner, a visitor.

Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep. I cleaned the house for another week, though I continued to feel shaky and weak for many days, I knew that I would do everything I could to go home. But how?

Postscript: For two days I struggled to figure out what had happened to me. After wracking my brain, I realized that it was the magic chocolate. I would not have freaked if I had been aware nor would I have eaten so much. I am accustomed to tripping hard but I would have known what was coming. Knowing this does not negate what I learned on this mystical night. I am forever changed and grateful for the revelation.