Myth #1: Malcolm and Jillian hate Mexico, are snotty little shits, and are leaving forever.
As much as we may complain, we still find a lot to love about living here, and will continue returning to the area seasonally, whether in a new, smaller house of our own, or in a rental in the beach or in the big city. And, of course, if our house hasn’t sold, we’ll continue to use it on visits back. After nearly four years of living here, after turning our house from a crackershack on the beach into a fully-functional, contemporary home, we just need to see what is next, whether it’s a farmhouse in Maine, or a hotel in Spain.* We never meant to live here, or anywhere for that matter, forever. That’s a very long time, and it’s a great big world out there. That being said, however, we are kind of snotty.

That reminds me, and this is totally an aside, but do you think people are pulling back from us slightly because we’re leaving? Is it like being a patient with a terminal illness, and no one wants to invest too much in you anymore? Or is it a perceived rejection of the dreams of others? I dunno, just spitballing here.

Myth #2: Yolisto will be shut down/given away/abandoned/sold to Russians.
Though still not entirely embraced by expats living in Merida, for reasons that remain unclear to me, I am incredibly proud of the site we have built and the community that powers it. I think that we have also built a resource that will continue to hopefully be bigger than the people behind it. When Merida Insider closed its doors, I was baffled that it could just be taken offline. At a certain point, you have a responsibility to the people that count on your site for information, communication, or whatever other needs you have set out to fill, and I take that responsibility very seriously.

Obviously, there will be some changes, but I think they will benefit the site. Being slightly separate will allow me to focus less on the personalities involved in the site, and more on what I should be doing, which is moderating disputes, answering questions, and developing features. You can expect that I will fade into the background a little bit, but the site will hopefully become stronger as a result.

Myth #3: Malcolm and Jillian are leaving in March, and DroppedIn will go back on hiatus.
Nah. Right now, our plan is to load up the truck, and drive north on or around June 18th, taking our time, and arriving in Washington D.C. in time for the fourth of July. Frigin’ patriotic, right? It’s my favorite holiday, and I think having it there will be one helluva “welcome back.” This is tentative and prone to change, but it’s where we’ve landed for right now.

Though we may get involved in other projects, I have a feeling that we’ll continue to blather on here on DroppedIn. When we shut it down the first time, it was with the idea that since the Mexico chapter was closed, the site was closed, too. Now, we’re less sure that’s what it’s about. For some reason, writing here has always been easiest for us; has always felt more intimate and more honest. I think we’ll keep updating it, even as things change yet again, and I hope that anyone that wants to follow along as we continue to develop this life of ours, will stick around for the ride.

*We do not currently have plans to open a hotel in Spain.

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.

Our other purpose is strictly gastronomic. We crave great seafood, snacks and sandwiches we can’t get here such as the awesome turkey sandwich at La Cueva del Chango, and Italian, the esteemed cuisine in Continental Playa. We also always once go out to dinner. Like your parents used to, wearing lipstick and fancy shoes, driven by an ardent desire for well-crafted cocktails and a good steak. We’re always searching for that elusive fantastic meal and most often are slightly disappointed. Not so on Friday night, when a little internet research combined with our powers of discernment and deduction took us straight to Wicky’s, where we dined and were definitely happy.

Not all but many, dare I say most restaurants in Playa have ambiance, a quality that is lacking here in Merida. When you arrive at Wicky’s you are graciously greeted and swept into the dining room by an automatic door, a very cute hostess and a well-choreographed swarm of waiters. The dining room is darkened, the bar handsome and stocked and a piano player is tickling the ivories lightly – it’s just what you expect from a classic steak house/supper club/sophisticated surf and turfy beachfront scene. I immediately ordered a martini with Ketel One and Malcolm had a scotch old enough to order its own scotch. Perfect. We perused the menu and knew we had chosen well. A fine dining experience had begun.

The shrimp were plump and flavorful. Malcolm started with Shrimp a la Playa, stuffed with cheese and jalapeno and wrapped in bacon. The dish could have been a disaster, overwrought and overcooked, but it wasn’t. Not quite elegant, but so delicious I wanted to crawl under the cover of bacon and dream of Oaxaca for one thousand years. I can’t say no to an iceberg wedge when I’m having steak, and oh yes, did I have steak. The salad was crisp and simple, reminiscent of another time. Which is sort of Wicky’s gimmick. An anachronism wrapped in a riddle. It exists somewhere between the late 50’s, early 80’s and a vaguely Utopian Future. At this point I must mention the magician.

I jokingly pointed to the swarthy fellow with a leather bound book, whom we assumed was the sommelier, and said, “Look, they have a magician!” And suddenly what we thought was the wine list was in flames and he swiftly appeared at our table. He introduced himself in a charmingly accented English, performed card tricks and clever sleight of hand that amused even our jaded L.A. dining companions and then, like a shadow, he was gone. He did not expect any type of compensation, other than delight and awe and his presence cemented our respect for how well this restaurant combined substance and illusion. I will henceforth return to the story of the food.

There were steaks all around and each of them was beautiful. We ordered asparagus and mushrooms for the table which were served almost imperceptibly over your right shoulder. The vegetables complemented the aged Angus beef, which went well with the wine, which was Penfolds. I had the 8 oz filet and Malcolm the rib eye which was so damn tasty we asked for a doggie bag, which accompanied us to every bar we stopped at on our vodka-soaked crawl back to the condo and then with us in the truck across the peninsula on Sunday so that it could become a glorious steak sandwich last night. If I am being honest with you dear readers, and you know I almost never am, I felt the steak was just a touch better at the Ruth’s Chris in Cancun, but this is the sort of problem we are so fortunate to detect. I ate every juicy morsel and then I wept a little.

The service is lovely there. The attention to detail was impressive to us, and probably seamless to an American tourist. Our friends were well pleased and so were we. We walked out into the chilly night stuffed but feeling light and transformed. We did not have room for dessert, but when we return I am without a doubt ordering my favorite – bananas foster with Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream. Actually, there are many interesting options for postprandial enjoyment. Don’t run but walk like a lady to Wicky’s when you are next in Playa del Carmen, order a very clean martini and bask in the glow a superb dinner. This is a truly outstanding restaurant in perhaps the coolest little vacation spot in all of sunny Mexico.

Wicky’s is located at 10th and the beach. Prices are reasonable.

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

Because of this, we’ve become pretty snooty. Our real lives are filled with enough frustrating details, and we won’t accept that in an expensive hotel room. That unwillingness to accept quirkiness has limited us to the “big three” in Merida: The Hyatt, the Fiesta Americana, and the Intercontinental. They’re all around $100-150 a night, depending on the time of year, and their sterility can be a blessing after you’ve, say, been sweeping crabs out of the kitchen or watching your house get hit by ocean foam.

Unfortunately, the Hyatt is bland, the staff at the Fiesta aren’t very good, and the Intercontinental lately doesn’t seem able to keep floors one and two from smelling like the inside of a septic tank. And, of course, $150 a night (post-tax and everything) is nothing to sneeze at. We had been looking for a new place to lay our heads in Merida, and we found it in the Hotel Ibis.

We were convinced to try the Hotel Ibis after reviewing their website, where we learned that the chain actually has 800 location worldwide. Their price also can’t be beat: our room cost 500 pesos, or around 38 bucks. After not having running water at the house for 48 hours, we decided to try it, figuring that even if it were awful and we didn’t stay the night, a hot shower would still be worth at least that much.

The hotel, located on the road that leads from behind the Fiesta Americana to the Monumento a la Bandera glorieta (the “Fakey Ruin” glorieta), has all the sheen of new construction still on it. The sleek, 120-room hotel boasts ample, secure parking, manicured lawns, and is close to all amenities. The lobby, which features a restaurant and breakfast buffet, looks like a Cafe Metro: there is that modern vibe that is created when you use cheap furniture with clean lines. The restaurant features pastas, pizza, and a 68 peso breakfast buffet.

The staff at the counter was courteous, and speaks English. Check-in was a breeze, and we were on our way to our room in no time.

The first thing you notice about the rooms is that they are absolutely tiny, with room, it seems for only a bed. But then, you realize that the room isn’t lacking in a single amenity, due to some very carefully though-out design. There is a closet, a desk, a cushioned bench, a television, two nightstands, and tons of lighting, not freestanding as in a normal room, but built into the room itself. The smallness of the room isn’t an issue, because the design is so smart, that you are never missing anything. The bathrooms are a little roomier, but still very spare and modern. Everything is spotlessly clean.

The overall feeling of the room is that you are staying in one of IKEA’s in-store fake bedrooms. Everything is beech-colored laminated pressboard, and very smooth. We also felt like it would be the way bedrooms would be on an airplane, if such a thing existed, or on a ship. The bed was comfortable, and there was no noise from the street.

What We Liked:

• Spotlessly clean room and public areas
• Genius room design means you can be comfortable in a space so small that you can almost spread out your arms and touch the walls on either side of you
• Nice showers, with ceiling-mounted fixtures
• Free internet with no pesky access codes
• The price!

What We Disliked:

• Dopey card-key access on the parking lot gates. They don’t make the parking lot more secure, they just make it hard to get in and out of.
• The wall-mounted soap dispenser in the bathroom. But when economy is key, we’ll take smart cost-saving measures like these.

We slept soundly, and, at $38 bucks, wouldn’t hesitate to stay at the Hotel Ibis again. Look, this isn’t a place to unwind in the bathtub (there isn’t one), sip a cold drink (there’s no ice) and browse the room service menu (Hungry? Walk downstairs). There is, however, no better cost-to-value proposition anywhere in the city. What you get, for what you pay, can’t be matched.

While we wait for CFE to show up, here is a (somewhat crappy) video I shot yesterday, in the storm. Enjoy!

We live in a house on the ocean and sometimes the waves are high. And I know that I am not in danger and I know that there is nothing we can do. It has been a good lesson for me, actually. Dry land is one way but out front the menacing ocean acts out, thrashing though not caring. The tide rises and falls. It is more dramatic during certain phases of the moon. When there’s a Norte we might see high seas and winds that bend the palms. Foam from the ocean rains on the south side. Nature’s party crashes gates and disturbs the order of our planted garden. But if after yesterday we saw the sea retreat and sand restored I have some faith that it will today and tomorrows.

This is all I have so far, but I”m open to suggestions. So tell me: what’s the coolest thing you’ve done in Yucatan?

Pro
To live abroad successfully you have to be adaptable and open to new ways of thinking. Your worldview is cracked wide open, if not totally destroyed and forced into a new configuaration. It’s a symbolic death, such as one experienced by the hero. Out here is other stimuli. There are Others. You realize it is you who are the others. Your preconceieved notions need another reinvention. Your old persona fails you, you go deeper than ego and find your real Self. You eat food like feet and brains; you discover, after much experimentation, that cheeseburgers make you truly, deeply happy. The process is about change and choices. Sometimes your preferences remain your preferences, other times you realize you’d never seen a sunset until you left the old sun behind. Seeing things from a different perspective you find commonalities as well as strangenesses that inform your choices for the rest of your days. If you don’t laugh you’ll die from the acute pain of being foreign and never fully understanding, or maybe that is just what is keeping you sane. You become a more interesting person though the act of molting and this is never more concentrated and compulsory than when you are living in a country that is not your own.

Con
Living abroad doesn’t make you more interesting, though being interesting might compel you to seek new homes in foreign lands. A person who is dull is dull in Bismarck or Byzantium. If you are bland and unaffected you will come home from an adventure with nothing to add. If you are clever and curious and creative you can imagine the Amazon in your own backyard. Staying close to home you cultivate roots, you begin to embody the land on which you are standing and understand the footprints of your ancestors and elders. You may do the same thing a thousand times and yet each time it is slightly varied; you learn through repetition and the revelation of a slight alteration. In your own country you must confront opinions you find laughable, you stay and fight for what you feel in your bones is the right. You develop character. Passion becomes action, which creates change. You do not flee from fate and are never bored, because you know that boredom will chase you no matter how far you run. Living abroad you may collect trinkets from other countries, you can swell with false importance that you have occult knowledge of the world. But an interesting person is more than a catalogue of souvenirs. Because it is a quality, a power that comes from within.

I’ve grown accustomed to the stars. I take long walks and often don’t see another human soul for miles.  This beach may not be pristine, but it is mine. It is a place for rest. There are no attractions, no mini golf, no frozen custard, no pirate ship adventure show. There’s nothing to do but hang in your hammock and watch pelicans cruise waves at morning and again before sunset. This beach is Wild sanctuary most of the year. Come here to rediscover silence.

Spending winters here is going to be amazing. As much as I want to dive back in to the stimulating frenzy of civilization I know I will here the siren song of Yucatan again and soon. One of the perils of pardise when you are curious, when you are feeling high-functioning, and ready for experience is that you take for granted the innocent beauty. It can be a dull and lonely place, my heart desires more. But every moment until we leave is spent collecting touchstones and counting many blessings on shells and stars and sand.