How strange we consider a foreign country "home."

Isla Mujeres garbage truck when it was newer.

At six in the morning, I can hear the tired engine and the loud exhaust sounds of the muffler-less municipal garbage truck. 

The crew operating the garbage truck are currently only two houses south of ours. I have to hustle to get the can out on the street before they pass by.  The guys wave and holler a greeting as the truck slowly rolls up to our curb. 

One worker tosses the full can high into the air, towards his buddy, who is perched atop the myriad of reeking plastic bags and cardboard boxes. Our can is emptied, and carefully placed back on the street right-side up with the lid affixed.  They laugh, joke with each other. One guy sings bits of a song that could be ribald, off-colour, judging by the way it makes the others giggle. 

It's good to be back on Isla.


At the Eiffel Tower in Paris

During May and June, we travelled for six weeks through Dieppe, Vimy Ridge, Dunkirk, the Loire Valley, Paris, southern France, Cinque Terre, Tuscany and Venice before returning home via London. 

We mangled several languages, speaking a combination of French, Spanish, and English with the odd word of Italian tossed in the mix for that truly continental sound. 

We ate delicious food, but missed the 'heat' - the spice of Mexican foods. Apparently, our palates have adjusted to Mexican food better than we thought. 




Spaghetti and Mussels in Italy



We drank different wines and beers, enjoying Belgian beers and French wines a bit more than German beers and Italian wines. We dealt with crowded underground transit systems, high-speed trains, city buses and commuter boats. And the crowds. 

Line-ups to see museums. Line-ups to get on the trains. Line-ups everywhere! 

The sights, the sounds, the smells - all different. New. Exciting.

Cinque Terre area of Italy

Now, sitting on our street-side balcony, we watch friends speed past on their motos or golf carts. They yell hello, welcome back, and wave as they speed past. Sue Lo, on her daily walk around the airport, stops to chat - recounting her recent adventures in Machu Picchu. 

My sister Joann dashes up the street with her laundry bag in hand, coming for a morning coffee and to do her laundry.  She has misjudged the intensity of the scudding clouds and is soaked with a warm deluge as she arrives at our house. 

Motos are often used as trucks.(M.Watt)

A motorcycle slowly putts past with two adults. The woman is clutching onto a little one, so small that one tiny foot with a yellow bootie is all that is visible. 

A young girl, standing in the footwell of a motorcycle, turns to chat with her dad as he drives her somewhere special. 

She is wearing a pink and white polka-dotted dress and a matching bow in her hair. Her happy smile is wide and loving as she looks at him. 



Parisian woman on motorcycle (K.Lock photo)



The contrast between the Isla motorcyclists and the Armani-suited motorcyclists or the beautiful fashionistas riding bicycles in Paris is startling to say the least. 



 



In the evening, we sit on the east side of the house, wine glass in hand, staring at the turquoise ocean, aware that we missed this most of all. 

The colours.  The sounds.  The smell of the water.

We will always be proudly Canadian. But Mexico is home.

Hasta pronto, Lynda & Lawrie

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