14/ Counting Down the Days
“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.”
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
If the first half of our year in Oaxaca was an uphill slog toward feeling settled and (marginally) comfortable, the second half has been more like a downhill run. Not that it has been effortless—it still takes a lot of work to get by in a foreign country—but time is moving faster and faster as we approach the end of our year here, and suddenly it seems that there will not be enough of it. Is there ever?
In March and April it started to become obvious that we had reached a tipping point of sorts, in which the interpersonal connections we had slowly built over the months were evolving into hubs that led outward to other people, blossoming into an expanded network of interlaced relationships. I now routinely run into people I know—whether at a café, a cultural event or just walking around the Centro. Our acquaintances here all know that we’re leaving soon, and everyone asks when we’re coming back (it is inconceivable to people here that we wouldn’t). To this question I usually answer, “Yes, of course, but we don’t know when, or for how long.” This is a mostly true statement.*
It is uncertain how much of this web of connections will unravel once we are no longer here to maintain it, or how long the unraveling will take. Undoubtedly there will be special friends with whom we immediately pick up where we left off at our last encounter. Others—the casual, “Hola amigo, ¿qué tal?” acquaintanceships—will be harder to maintain, perhaps best left to fade into our memories of a distant time and place. “Remember that guy with the big hat who was always at the coffee shop? What was his name—Enrique? Eduardo?”
Recently, at the taco stand where I have been buying lunch for almost a year, one of the taqueras initiated an actual conversation with me for the first time (that is, beyond the typical What’ll it be?). “Do you live here?” she inquired politely, of course knowing the answer. “For a year,” I said, “with one month to go.” “How sad!” she lamented. “When will you be coming back?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “But when I do, I’ll be back here for a taco.”
Each day brings with it an ever-more-pressing question: How to pass the remaining time in the best possible way: More excursions? Favorite restaurants? Time with friends?
For one thing, I’ve decided to renew my Spanish lessons, knowing full well that upon our return to the States this hard-earned knowledge will once again begin to fade into the background (see Spanish, Anyone?). It doesn’t matter—it concentrates my attention on present circumstances and reassures me that it wasn’t all a waste of time.
I have been playing a lot of guitar over the last six months with The Geckoz, the rock band that I first encountered at a party back in November (see Gut Check). We’ve been rehearsing once a week and playing gigs a couple of times a month, on average. It’s been hugely fun and a wonderful experience getting to know them and their families, as well as performing for local audiences in venues all over the city.
In anticipation of my impending departure, my bandmates have been booking gigs at a breathtaking pace, in order that we may play together as much as possible right up to the end. They joke about arranging to have me kidnapped, and I laugh heartily—while casting a wary eye toward the nearest door.
(* The son of one of my bandmates is getting married here in November, and the honor of my presence has been requested to perform with them at the wedding. I am currently planning to attend, guitar in hand.)
As if that weren’t enough, I’ve also decided to play a gig just before we leave with an American chanteuse whom we recently met, a concert at a local restaurant that will feature songs by some of my favorite writers in a quieter, more minimal setting. With this additional project, my plate is suddenly full.
I could easily remain in Oaxaca indefinitely, and although it would mean making changes to our lifestyle here, they would all be for the better: finding a more comfortable, homelike residence, making deeper commitments to local organizations of interest to me, doubling down on Spanish, and so much more. I would like to stay—love to stay—but I cannot: for our year is up, and a deal is a deal. Like a child being told it is time to leave a beloved aunt and uncle, I cling frantically to their arms, unwilling to be dragged back to my proper home.
By contrast, Martha is ready to go: ready to return to dear friends and more comfortable surroundings. And in at least one sense, so am I: more than ready to vacate our apartment, in which the ever-present irritants (barking dogs, leaky plumbing, endless repairs, scant privacy) have been steadily becoming less and less tolerable. Together we spend more of our time talking about the things we want and need to do back home: people to see, maintenance to oversee, doctors to consult, restaurants to visit—to the point that about half of our daily conscious thoughts are spent far away from here in the near-term future. Of course this is all necessary and useful: our transition to life in Oaxaca began months before we left Seattle, and the same process is now happening in reverse.
When we came to Mexico we put our Seattle life in a box—figuratively, in the sense of shutting down the activities and routines we had built up over nearly 30 years; and also literally, in the form of a large storage unit in downtown Seattle in which are entombed 4,000 cubic feet of belongings. Returning to Seattle means reopening boxes, both real and conceptual, even though I have now largely forgotten the contents. Not only am I no longer certain about what these boxes contain, but also about how much of this stuff I actually need in my life anymore.
But even in the course of a single year, one accretes still more belongings. Looking around our Oaxaca apartment, we are wondering how we’ll get the things we have purchased since arriving (a couple of rugs, woven bedspreads, pictures, etc.) back to Seattle, maxed out as we are with just our two suitcases apiece. Some things that we purchased (kitchen items, sheets, towels, etc.) we’ll look to give away to needy locals or desperate immigrants; others (like the Sony TV) we’ll try to sell for top dollar to the next incoming squad of gringos. For the rest, we’ll purchase—yep, you guessed it—another box to ship it all home in.
Because our house in Queen Anne is rented out until August, it will be at least that long before we are settled again. And yet we are seriously considering extending the lease to stay footloose a while longer, to pursue more travel and to research possible alternative living locales. Apparently, the wanderlust hasn’t been totally slaked, and uncertainties abound. I seem to prefer it that way.
I am constantly reminded these days of all the things we never quite got around to doing here: journeys to the Sierra Mixteca, the waterfalls of the Mazateca, and the unique culture of the Istmo—not to mention visits to other Mexican cities like Guadalajara and Cuernavaca.
Whenever we sip beer and munch peanuts at our favorite café in the Zocalo, watching the vendors hawk their scarves and spoons, trinkets and tablecloths, I know that few such moments remain to us. A jet climbs in the sky overhead, and I am reminded that I will soon be on one just like it, winging my way home and watching the rugged Mexican landscape roll past into the distance.
Each time I play music with the band, their children and grandchildren running wild underfoot; each special dish at a favorite restaurant; each stroll around the expansive Parque El Llano: I am a camera, taking it all in, knowing how much I will miss these small, precious details—for there will be none quite like them back in Seattle.
I am aware that for many of the young people with whom I have struck up friendships through intercambios or English coaching sessions, I will be, in the end, another foreigner who came and went. Not only am I unlikely to see them again anytime soon, but in some cases we probably won’t even keep in touch, as they sprint forward excitedly into adulthood and I coast toward retirement in a land they may never be allowed to see. I can only hope that our encounters, delightful as they were, will find some hazy resting place among their recollections of youth.
But for now, I am trying to remain rigidly focused on the moment, playing out my hand and not missing a trick. There are still intercambios to share, strolls to be taken, music to be made and memories to be forged. Soon enough, those memories will be all I have left.
