So perhaps Mexico and I are having one of our famous disagreements about perception. What is “good” to my nose may smell like a garbage strike to the olfactory consensus of my neighbors. It is possible that others, who encounter me out in public, find  my Prada perfume, with notes of amber and patchouli stinks like a coronated goat in a rabbit fur coat. Certainly my signature scent is too heavy for hundred degree days. I should fine something lighter, a Jo Malone lime basil and mandarin cologne might complement the humid floral wafts of a Sunday in Centro. But that is yet another item I cannot find, and so I will forget it again for now. Baby powder, we can all agree is, is dry fresh and clean like linen. But every so-called babyfreshscented Dove or Nivea or Secret has an underbelly of cloying unclean sweetness that I do not enjoy. That which they call a rose should not smell like sweat.

For a while I switched to man scents like Old Spice, for which I have a secret, tacky inclination, something Freudian, to be sure. But Malcolm confessed, and fairly, that he would prefer I don’t smell like a dude. So I gave up my boyfriend stick (dirty) and returned to lady land (what, the 90’s are totally back!). I swabbed on some unholy white and went on about my day only to spend the rest of the afternoon paranoid I was being stalked by a  Justin Bieber fan club after chorus practice in the Park and Rec building. I don’t need that distraction. So I reverted to the Olde Wayes. But crystals and stones and Toms of Maine just don’t cut it in Yucatan, unless you want to attract a Euro crowd, and I don’t need any berets today. I shave my legs and don’t trade bootlegs and I need aluminum now. It’s not even noon yet and 91 in Merida. I’m sweating just thinking about the descent into Centro, swerving around cyclists and staving off hobby horse vendors.

The master of the memory sense has this to say on scent, “Perfume is a disguise. Since the middle ages, we have worn masks of fruit and flowers in order to conceal from ourselves the meaty essence of our humanity. ” In my early twenties I reveled in the sexo-biological rhetoric of Tom Robbins. I fancied myself a Sissy Hankshaw or Priscilla the Genius Waitress, but with shorter thumbs and fewer beets. These days I would rather not be gamy. I don’t care to attract drifters who wait in their campers to read your Tarot Cards and seduce you overnight in Nags Head. But I don’t think I should have to smell like a tween streetwalker either. Is there not a single product in Mexico that doesn’t smack of substitute teacher carpool, footballers wives, or Vickie’s Misterie, the lingerie store in the old strip mall next to the new multi-level mall with the Target and the Abercrombie the Buffalo Wild Wings?  I, your intrepid reporter am off on a fool’s errand, to find a decent deodorant and live to not tell about it.

Once I was a contestant at a Coney Island Sideshow by the Seashore, embroiled in a game called This or That! It was either the cruel existential dilemma or all the shots of tequila I had at Puzzles a few minutes prior that caused so much confusion; I misjudged the weight of a boob by forty pounds, give or take; I lost the game swiftly and was banished from the stage without so much as a Rice-A-Roni parting gift. So much for fame and glory. Years have passed and I am still trying to come to terms with choosing between and being satisfied. The world is vast and myriad opportunities are missed every day. I just have to hope that in a parallel universe I am acting in an Indonesian passion play or sifting through the remnants of a South American empire. So that one’s brain does not implode from sheer possibility, I suppose, we often pare down our options to a binary conclusion. Which is how I’ve spent this morning wondering how my life would be different if we’d chosen Merida over the beach.

Merida is layered, culturous and varied. Where we are now life is almost embarrassingly simple, still against the tumult of the constantly crashing ocean. Though the drive is no more than thirty minutes there is an invisible barrier that makes easy visits uncomfortable, if not impossible. Sometimes all the pleasure derived from a day at the market, at the movies, doing something lazy and lovely and interesting can be stripped as you battle out of town through traffic up the hazy highway and ramble over topes and stone strewn sand back into sleepy Chelem. It sucks and I don’t do it often. Life there is remote and distant from life here. There, to my envious eye, looks like Mexico, while here often feels like a forgotten stretch of cement, plastic and sand. We are outside of all cultures and countries, in a world of our own device. Had we done any of it differently…I can’t say with certainty that it would have impacted the outcome at all. I think so, but maybe not: perhaps all those sliding doors lead to the same predestined result. But I don’t think so.

I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy when I see evidence of dinner parties and impromptu salsa classes, and hear anecdotes of friendly shop keepers and cafe culture in that tropical Europe just south of here. There is a whole teeming society behind garden walls, populated with mirthful multicultural groups creating a new language from old lives and other customs. Had we lived there longer we may have been to more events, learned and laughed with interesting characters passing through on their way to LA or Cartagena. People mean to pause in Merida, to catch their breath and end up losing decades as time slowly unravels from the wheel. That might have been a nice way to pass the past four years. I sometimes fear I am missing everything and have to remind myself that what I am doing is valid and real. This is my life, for better or worse. I chose This. Not That. And this is stuff I will miss when I’m back on the other side. Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.

Take this morning, (please). I woke up at 9, had a cup of Awake tea, browsed online for swimsuits and fancy dresses while eating a banana smeared with peanut butter, practiced Nia, went for a walk with the dogs, showered, read most of Anarchy and Old Dogs for my book club, researched Laos online, and talked on the telephone to my grandmother, all before noon. I cannot complain about how this day began. And if I were to, I would give any one of your permission to draw and quarter me, once I regained my sense of perspective. I know when I have it good.

It isn’t always so wonderful though. Since living here is very often opposite day, instead of dreading Monday with its five-day sentence of oppression and boredom ( I do have a job, you know) I loathe the approach of Friday afternoon. I know. Friday afternoon, the most delightful hours in the life of every hard-working man, woman and child. The very syllables conjure images of happy hour libations and liberation from bosses, teachers and rules. The entire weekend stretching before you, all options open, is typically cause for cartwheels and convertibles. But not for me.

For me, Fridays feel the most lonely. The notion of two whole days with nowhere to go and nothing to do can seem like staring into an abyss of sadness. The reality is that we usually end up having a fine time. We watch movies, share brunch with friends, and go grocery shopping, just like everybody else. We can take a drive through charming little pueblos or blast off for the Caribbean or simply stare out at our own incredible ocean. I could be searching for the shadow serpent on the Castillo steps or breathing in the lush green of Uxmal in about an hour.  I know I am so lucky.

It’s more a state of mind, a nostalgia for some ineffable past or the future, a tricky plot on the part of Loki, so I forget how nice my life is right here and now. This too shall pass. These things will soon enough change, and I will get back some of what I think I am missing but I should know that I will lose too. Certain luxuries, freedoms and opportunities will be swapped out for others. It’s all about balance and respite. I don’t mind Mondays but I do like lasagna. I don’t work in a cubicle or wear flair. And no, high school acquaintance I hardly remember, I will not become a fan of of your cat’s blog.

The sun was shining. Olivia and Tripod were happy to see me. I made coffee with cinnamon. I read the book I’m reading, The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton. I decided to get the mail. Unfortunately this doesn’t mean a pleasant walk to the end of the driveway where my friendly neighborhood mailman will greet me in his comically small truck and hand me a stack of square envelopes containing gift cards, magazines and well wishes from old admirers. It entails a drive that is, when done aggressively, one hour and one half long, door to door. A pain, but one I decided to endure for the greater good (new Gap tees and nightgowns, mostly). And so though annoyed I got in the truck and something strange happened. Do you want to know a secret? Something not even Malcolm knows about me? Here it is: I like to drive that big old truck. Not everywhere all the time. Certainly sometimes I pray for it to turn into a Mini Cooper in the middle of the night, but alas, it never does. On a fine sunny morning in March when I am wearing my best expat outfit (cut off True Religion jeans and a white peasant shirt) barefoot, with good tunes on and the open road ahead it feels fantastic, like exactly what I should be doing.

I don’t know what Mexico is going to mean to me later in my life, but I can tell you from my heart that on mornings such as this one, I am wholly thankful for all these blessings and happy to be exactly where and who I am.

The terrible storm that rocked us last Wednesday and knocked out power in half the house reminded us that we are fighting a losing battle. Mexico and Mother Nature conspire regularly to keep us humble. In ninth grade we learned about hubris. About men who flew too close to the sun. We were taught the names of the gods who were angered and that the lesson for humankind was…no wax wings? The moral of the story is lay low and don’t get cocky.

But we’re Americans, by gum shoe! And we believe in progress! We’re manifest destiners: adventurous of spirit and industrious of hand! We’re going to do something and do it right; nose to the grindstone, grist for the mill and other axioms of grit and profit and New England resolve. We are unwilling to be beaten by the elements and we work constantly to improve our conditions, to a point slightly beyond what the infrastructure is able to support. We’re installing 220 on the back of 110 and then we’re going to wrap some electrical tape around it all and shine a big ass spot light on it and call it Christmas in July, even when it’s March.

We’re not trying to tempt fate or usurp the glory of any pantheon of gods. We just want a nice life. We feel entitled to it. Because we’re Americans and it is the dream. And we are willing sweat and toil in the sun some. We’re not building skyscrapers in the sand, God-taunting Babel towers or Melmac-inspired architectural eyesores. It’s just a little house of awesome with all the creature comforts our hearts desire. If everyone could cooperate for a few months longer that would be terrific. In summary, I’m bored of Nortes and more grateful for electricity than I ever realized. Mexico is a fantastic place to visit,  a state of mind a respite for the weary soul. But I’m ready for a change for the less vivid  – hurry up months and fly, it’s time!

* though better than say, Libya