Life in Ajijic-with lots of pictures of flowers - Marge

Here we are, living in Ajijic, an ancient village filled with expats, on a high plateau next to a vast shallow lake ringed by huge emerald hills (emerald! Not hyperbole!) in the central highlands of Mexico.

There is so much color here--pea green gates and midnight blue-and-pumpkin orange walls next to a wall the color of a purple crayon, and dutch blue door frames, and pink and white stripes painted down a wall, and decorative tiles that are lavender and yellow and chocolate brown and a cream colored cupola against the azure sky; and the flowers--so vivid they are almost ultraviolet, and magentas and an orange so perfect against the green leaves surrounding it that one feels a little stab of joy, just for a second; and the brightest sunshine yellows--spilling down the walls and flourishing in gardens and in pots hanging from cast iron hooks off balcony railings.

The village is small, the streets are narrow, all one-lane, paved with rocks and rough, bread-loaf cobblestones, lined with cars parked close against the curb-mirrors turned in, with sidewalks that suddenly slope or descend--trees growing out of them, in places-their leafy branches trimmed into cylinders or squares or cloud shapes; and the tiny tiendas hardly larger than a garage, with vegetables on crates and on cloths spilling out onto the sidewalks; and chicken roasting on a grill, under a canopy, surrounded by customers on folding chairs--occupying two parking spaces; and men rolling wheelbarrows full of tiny fish over the cobblestones, calling out to the women sweeping their steps; and ice sellers dragging wheeled coolers, and trucks carrying propane gas to fill up the tanks on the roofs of all the houses - with speakers mounted on the hood playing a jingle that I hear now even in my sleep, and trucks full of huge bottles of water for drinking--squeezing down the narrow streets; and dogs trotting purposefully by or lying in the sun in doorways or growling down at us furiously from rooftops, teeth bared, ribs showing.

We live in a mostly Mexican neighborhood. All day we hear music in Spanish; into the evening; sometimes through the night. And fireworks, a few all at once in the early morning and then silence; and the bells of the church down the street. Often we see processions-people walking behind a crucifix, or sometimes behind men carrying a statue of a saint, or behind a hearse. Today, musicians came first, followed by riders on horseback, some wearing sombreros, some with a child on the saddle in front, many drinking from a can of beer as they clopped along, reins held in one hand. It was a long procession, many horses filling the street, and behind the horses a line of white cars.

This is the rainy season; with thunder every night-so loud and long that one worries, just a little, that this time it really is the apocalypse; and fireworks in the darkest part of the night as I lie awake (conjugating Spanish verbs in my head)--that sound like gunshots; and-this is the tropics-so we have encountered many new insects and reptiles and arachnids and diseases: the lizard without a tail that lived under the stove when we first arrived, that fled the house, one day--practically bouncing down the stairs in its haste to go, down the stairs and down the sidewalk and away; and the giant black spider in the shower that Eric crushed with his shoe (yes, at my request), and the big black snake coiled in the grass by the lake that Eric saw while walking the dog; and the cucarachas at night, in the kitchen and in the hall; and the gecko that shared our house for awhile; and the many, many mosquitos now that the rains have come--bringing dengue with its fevers and headaches and aching bones; and flies--in the beer and on any food left out on the counter, and banging against the screen.

We have a house cleaner who comes every Wednesday-who speaks no English; we clean too, in the morning before she comes; and we have a gardener, who tends the plants bordering the little strip of lawn where we park the car and the bamboo trees growing in the house by the fountain and the cactus on the mirador and the red flowers in back, outside our bedroom.

I am learning Spanish and learning to be retired. Neither are as easy as I had expected. Without a job to go to, I find that I have turned my goal of Spanish fluency into a job. Don't know how many hours I have spent on Spanish every week-between the many classes, the private teacher, the conversation coach and the homework I assign myself. Have just noticed this about myself and am trying to learn to relax. Am working hard at it.

We have learned a lot since we arrived here: How to get new tires, where to get the car repaired, who to call for gas delivery, where to get a cell phone fixed, where to buy organic vegetables, how to get television stations in English, how to get health care (free for seniors!), how to get Mexican cell phone service, how to get water delivered, who to tip because they receive no wages (grocery store baggers!), how to get products shipped to Mexico, how to pay bills, where to find a great, cheap exercise class (zumba, on the malecon), where to get hearing aids, where to go for half-price dinner on Tuesdays.

We have learned a lot and we have a lot to learn because building a life in a new place takes time- especially when the place is in a different country with a different language and different culture and different money and even different measuring systems-kilograms, kilometers, centigrade. Some days I feel that we are living the dream; just like all those happy people on House Hunters International and in International Living Magazine; enjoying the low cost of living, the interesting food, the many welcoming people, the new friends, the beautiful country, and great health care; getting to spend more time doing fun things with Eric, having more time for art; and all the wonderful opportunities for learning and helping and appreciating life that Mexico offers.


Sometimes, though, when my Spanish runs out and I still haven't explained my problem, or when I see the dog with long, matted fur that I still haven't rescued (waiting for a chance), or when I find myself yearning for the taste of some food  I love but haven't found in Mexico, or feel a sudden stab of longing for a family member or friend left behind, I realize that, though I wouldn't trade my life now for the life I left (I would still be working--a 60 mile commute each way!), there is, and probably always will be, some bitter with the sweet.







**** I took the pictures of flowers on this page on various walks around Ajijic recently. ****