Surprises Around The Corner

"I hope that you walk around the corner and you get very surprised." -Miranda Richardson

^ Innocent victim.

Strolling along on our walk last Friday, my dog, Gracie, and I came around a corner and stopped dead in our tracks, stunned with surprise. 

Well, technically, as she was off leash as usual, Gracie rounded the corner a few steps before me, and came to a standstill all on her own.

Oh, must be an unfamiliar dog up ahead, I figured as I made the corner behind her. I looked up ahead and then I screeched on my own brakes. 

Because what was up ahead of us, maybe twenty yards away, standing at the edge of the forest, was a big ol' coyote.

And I mean big. Most coyotes I've seen around our neighborhood - and I have seen quite a few over the years - are small, slight, and somewhat scruffy looking; not much of a match for my eighty-pound lady. But this animal looked not only big, but strong and healthy.

^ Precious angel.

These thoughts flashed through my brain as I stared at the coyote and he (or she) stared right back at me. For her part, Gracie had tucked herself against my leg in a heel position, and was still as a mouse. But she was staring hard. 

We all watched each other.

For a beat.

And another beat.

Then, soundlessly, the coyote slipped into the forest. 

And we carefully continued on our walk.

Now I've been walking this same route with my dogs for 15 years now. Every darn day. And never once have I ever seen a coyote along the way. So I figured this one was a fluke.

Sure enough, on Saturday, we saw not a trace. 

^ Gentle as a lamb.

But on Sunday, we saw the coyote again. This time, Gracie and I were crossing the forest footbridge and caught sight of coyote just as he (or she) paced by the end of the footbridge, maybe ten yards away.

Much closer than the first time. 

And we went through the same motions. 

We all froze in place.

We stared at each other.

We paused a beat. And then another beat. 

Again, the coyote slipped off. But this time, he (or she) did not disappear directly into the fringes of the forest. This time, I knew very well that the beast would need to cross a large, paved turnaround area in order to get back to the cover of the trees. Still, as it moved off, low-hanging branches on the Douglas firs surrounding the footbridge blocked my view of its progress. 

And of all the surprising things that had happened during this encounter and the first one, what happened next was the most unexpected and shocking thing of all.

My dog, 

my gentle-spirited baby child, 

my soft-spoken huntress whose job in the field is only to scent and stand, 

yes, 

that sweetheart of an Irish lass did a most unexpected thing.

She took off after that coyote like a hell hound. 

In all her life, I've never seen my dog do anything remotely so predatory.

But girl was on fire. And I was horrified.

^ I would never. 

I froze in place.

I stared after her.

I paused a beat. And then another beat.

Then I snapped into gear. I ran to the end of the footbridge and stepped out from the trees so I could see what was happening. By now, the coyote was across the turnaround and closing in on the brush along the forest perimeter; in a flash, I saw him (or her) leap into the sea of blackberry vines and disappear.

Running maybe five feet behind, my red-headed riot maker did not hesitate to plunge right in after.

I had visions of them both landing in a nest of newborn coyote pups, surrounded by several other adult coyotes highly motivated to defend their offspring. 

Dear lord. 

Although I'd been calling my dog ever since her fire-breathing blastoff from my side, she was not responding to me. Very out of character for my normally obedient girl, but clearly she was operating outside the bounds of sanity. 

Still, I kept calling.

And a few seconds later, whether finally ready to obey me or just feeling satisfied with her efforts, my well-chuffed dog popped out of the underbrush, wagging her tail with happy abandon, apparently cleansed of her demonic possession, and trotted straight across the pavement to my side. 

* * * * *

It's true that coyotes are naturally scared of humans. They find us unpredictable and confusing, and try to avoid us at all costs. In the rare event that a coyote might approach a human, it's advisable to wave your arms and make noise. They'll back right off.

But coyotes and dogs are a little different. Coyotes generally view little dogs as a tasty snack (yikes). And while coyotes in the wild are still rather wary of big dogs and not likely to hurt them, if they're habituated to living near humans, coyotes may be ready to take on a dog in order to defend territory or a nest of pups.

And dogs who have eye-to-eye contact with the same coyote more than once are inclined to take action against them. Especially dogs with strong hunting instincts. 

So here's the upshot. 

Gracie stays on her leash.

For the next month or two, we will avoid this particular patch of forest.

^ I was here sleeping the whole time.

And while we never can be sure what surprises we might find around the corner when we're out walking, my hell hound and I will not be staring down any more coyotes.  

Spring Break 2.0

^ Margy, Jeri, Mary and Lindsay. Yours truly is behind the camera. 

Spring Break 1979

That was the first time I ever took a warm weather winter vacation. A carload of my dorm girlies and I trekked from Michigan to Fort Myers, Florida, to spend a week in the sun at one of the girl's parents' new condo. 

We did not fully grasp ahead of time the fact that said condo was in a retirement community. But that's a story for another day.

My point here is that that junior year trip to Florida was not only my first snow-to-sunshine getaway, but until last month, it was also my last. 

Uh huh. Yes. You heard that right.

For more years than I care to count, I have never taken another mid-winter escape vacation.

Not one.

Now don't feel too sorry for me. I've enjoyed a zillion fabulous vacations.

But I hadn't indulged in another cold-to-warm weather trip until my eldest said to me last summer, "I'm going to be so sad when pool season is over. I might need to go somewhere warm next winter to get a fix."

And I, knowing to strike when the iron was finally hot, said, "Yes. I'm in."

Which is how we came to find ourselves in sunny Palm Springs, California, last month with crystal clear expectations as to how we were to spend our long weekend:

Go to pool.

Read. 

Swim and splash about.

Eat.

Check, check, check. And check.

We had a glorious stay under the blissfully blue desert sky, and I've got the pics to prove it. Who knows, I may not wait another forty-six years to go back. 

^ The Saguaro Hotel is a delicious treat of rainbow flavored exteriors. This would be the citrus section.

^ Morning light reveals the San Jacintos in all their glory. 

^ Baby flowers match the purple walls. Freaking adorable.

^ I'm going to be honest. The interiors of the hotel are ho-hum at best. The pool area and surrounding courtyard are where the Saguaro packs its punch, and boy, does it ever. 

^ Fish tacos are my jam. These were delicious.

^At first, my eye was tricked into seeing these as some of those orange plastic construction fences. But they were actually cool steel barriers that created cozy little spaces here and there in the massive courtyard, and set off the landscaping. Love. 

^ I'm not one for drinking alcohol in the sunshine, but if you offer me a complimentary margarita, I will say yes. 

^ Looking up.

^ By the time the pizza arrived, I forgot all about taking photos. 

^ My idea of cute al fresco dining. 

^ The Holy Grail.

^ The room aesthetics did not tick a whole lot of boxes for me. But the colors in this happy corner blew my mind..

^ The weather was blessedly cool. Mid 70s. Any warmer and my chilly PNW bones might have melted.

^ When it comes to vacation hamburgers, I say go big or go home. Eventually, I did both.

^ Waiting for our ride to the airport gave me a moment of alone time with the bougainvillea. 

^ Goodbye, Palm Springs! See you in 2071. :)

A Change Of Heart

 

^ One of the medics and the nurse. My new friend is already inside the truck. I hope she is warm.

It's Valentine's Day.

I'm driving home from a few early errands and my mind excitedly turns over the trimmings of the day.

Hand-drawn cards.

Foil-wrapped chocolates.

Heart-shaped meatloaf.

I've laid careful plans and I'm prepared to celebrate in fine style. I'm a big believer that Valentine's Day is all about expressing love to friends and family, and my heart buzzes with a happy excitement for the festivities to come. 

As I turn from the highway onto a residential street, I see several cars ahead of me swerving to avoid something in the road.  My reverie shatters.

What's this? It's a woman.

An older woman. Well, older than me.

In a second, I assess the situation. She's clearly been walking down the sidewalk along the highway, pulling a nylon covered shopping cart but here, where the sidewalk gives way to a dirt path along the residential road, several sections of rough and tumble pavement make for some serious tripping hazards, and this poor woman has apparently taken a header.

She's literally lying in the street, struggling to get up.

Three or four cars ahead of me zip past her, swerving around her, pausing only so slightly in their rush to get to wherever they're going. 

I'm horrified.

By reflex, I carefully inch around this poor woman and park my car on the shoulder nearby. I rush over to her - she's still struggling to stand up or even squirm her way off the road. My first objective is to help her to safety.

I say hello.

I ask her if she'd like me to help her up.

I don't really wait for an answer. 

Drawing on the lessons I learned when helping my mother stand up, during her hard times, I step into  position, clasp her hands, and gently pull up.

Our first attempt fails and she sits back down. I realize she is more dazed that I first thought.

"Let's try again," I encourage.

And this time, as I pull and she struggles to stand, a miracle happens.

From nowhere, a younger woman wearing a rainbow-striped puffer vest and a beanie materializes out of the ether, and positions herself behind the woman, lifting her as I pull. In a heartbeat, the woman is standing.

"I'm a nurse," our new friend informs me. I cannot possibly be more delighted.

We talk, the three of us. The fallen woman is terribly confused. She has a strong eastern European accent, a small scrape on her chin, and absolutely no idea where she is or what has happened. 

Bless her heart.

The nurse speaks aside to me. "She's concussed. I'm calling 911. Can you hold her steady?" 

Yes. I can do that.

So we stand in the cutting wind, under steely skies. I listen to the nurse talk in medical acronyms and abbreviations to the medic dispatcher. I see her stealthily take the woman's pulse, peer at her pupils, and ask the woman over and over, "Did you hit your head?"

In the meantime, I hold onto the woman for dear life as she trembles, twitches, shakes like a leaf. She looks up and down the street, twisting and turning in my grasp to look around behind her, wondering over and over again, "But how did I get here?' I brush some stray bits of bark and mud from her white fleece vest and lilac ear band. I try to imagine what I could possibly say to comfort her, and do my best to stumble through.

The medics pull up. More angels. They're smiling and kind and endlessly reassuring. The poor woman is still confused, and now begins to apologize for her accent. We ascertain that Polish is her first language, and as the medics promise to call for a translator right away, I keep holding her arm and whispering encouragements to her: "Don't worry. We can understand you. Your English is just fine."

Now the medics are ready to move her to their truck for a full assessment. She's scared, especially when their gurney makes an appearance and they ask her to sit down. "No," she says. "Don't take me to the hospital." But these folks are prepared for her resistance and promise that right now, all they're going to do is take her to the truck so she can sit inside where it's warmer.

She sits down..

They belt her in and move her off. The nurse walks with them, still dispensing information and swapping medical data.

There's nothing more for me to do.

So I get in my car and drive home.

Along the way, I gradually recall my Valentine's Day plans. My pretty red hearts and chocolate candy don't seem quite so important now. Yes, I still believe in Valentine's Day as an opportunity to shower my nearest and dearest with tokens of my love. But maybe it's something much bigger than that.

Maybe this holiday is well celebrated by standing on the side of the road, shivering in the wind, holding up a confused, concussed woman and wondering what she will remember of this adventure with me. 

Probably nothing.

But I will remember her forever. 

Happy Valentine's Day.

Hello And Goodbye

"Saying goodbye doesn't mean anything. It's the time we spent together that matters, not how we left it." -Trey Parker

"I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello." -The Beatles

For the past five Saturdays, I've made a trip to the airport.

Five weeks.

In a row.

I've driven there and back.

Now it's a 74 mile round-trip journey. Forty-five minutes each way if the traffic is good. Goodness only knows what if it's not.

And - full disclosure - I have not been behind the wheel every inch of those trips. I've shared driving duties with my fourth born and my husband. But I've been there in the car, clocking the travel time, brainstorming alternative routes, and otherwise cheering on the entire enterprise. 

Some trips have been in daylight, others in the wee hours of night. 

But all of these trips - each and every one - have trafficked in the deep emotion that always surfaces during our hellos and goodbyes. 

Now, I am an experienced mom of adult children. I truly respect that they have built lives of their own that involve these comings and goings. Shoot, I moved away from my family of origin so I know from experience that there's nothing personal to these distances. Sometimes, life just beckons us to follow where it leads. I get that. And I'm good with that.

But there is a visceral pain that comes from squaring your shoulders, buttoning up your tears, and sending your daughter (or niece) off on a plane to live her own life. 

Yes, she's allowed. 

Yes, she's entirely capable. 

Yes, she'll be back.

Still, it's hard. 

So it gives me 

a certain solace, 

a comfort in numbers, 

a sense of feeling seen, 

when I visit the airport to watch the other families saying hello and goodbye, to know that we all carry a certain pain in our hearts, to accept that this process is very much a part of the human condition.

At least the postmodern human condition.

So here is my gift to you. When you find yourself in the process of saying goodbye - or hello! - to your adult children, I am with you. I will meet you at the airport and join you in all the emotions of these tender moments of hello and goodbye.

Owl Friend

Photo credit to one of my neighbors who snapped a pic of this owl and shared it in a neighborhood group. It looks exactly like the owl in the story I'm about to tell.

I had a feeling I'd see you today. As I strolled along the first bit of my walk, letting whatever thoughts might fly into my head build a nest there, I thought about you. I've seen you swooping through the woods along my path several times in the past few days, always at that same spot on the footbridge behind the high school. Powerful and silent, you glide through the trees and disappear into their branches. Just thinking about you triggered an echo of the shivers I always feel when I see you; you're majestic and mysterious and just a little bit creepy. You fascinate me and freak me out.

So as I come upon that little footbridge, I am looking for you. I call out to my dog in several unnecessary ways, just to give you a lil heads up that we are approaching your domain. I come upon your Doug fir growing in the little grove on the edge of the forest, sandwiched between the walkway and the parking lot, and look up.

There you are.

You're backlit by a tall light behind you, sitting on a branch maybe ten feet up. In a flash, I make out the unmistakable silhouette of your owl noggin. Deep in the shadows though you are, I catch a glimpse of the white and brown ruffled feathers that can only mean owl, and I feel the familiar tingles begin. 

I know it's you.

But just to be sure, I take a few more steps, so that I can look back up into the tree from the other side, with the angle of the street light shining fully upon you.

I see your face.

Your eyes, shining deep and alert, are staring into mine.

And hypnotized, for a full second, maybe two, I stare into yours. 

Now the goose bumps begin to zoom across every inch of my body, head to toe and back again, round and round. Dumbstruck by your imposing magnificence, I also somehow feel as if I'm invading your sacred owl privacy, trespassing into your secret owl life, crossing a line between our two separate lives that I should not be crossing.

I quickly turn, cast my eyes downward, and walk on. 

But you better believe that not a minute has passed since then that I have not relived our encounter. I see 

your dignified profile, 

your snowy feathers, 

your glossy black eyes, 

and I overflow with the magic of our encounter.

And you better believe that tomorrow, my dear little owl friend, I will be looking for you again. 

Friends In The World

So there we were, my dog and I, trucking around the back side of the local high school, as we do every single gosh darn day, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a man on a trajectory to intercept our path.

Just kidding. We see men and other humans around and about on our walks all the time. Nothing unusual about that.

However, this gentleman, by the logos and insignia on his jacket and cap, identified as a coach on the high school football team. And because the football practice field is tucked into the back corner of the school property, we don't often cross paths with the coaching staff. In fact, I've never noticed this particular coach before.

But I noticed him on this day.

Now, my dog and I have a deal. While we are walking along the streets where actual cars drive, she stays on her fifty-foot leash (who am I kidding; it's a rope with a clip knotted at one end and a loop at the other) and marches strictly on the sidewalk. But when we are walking within the school property along various lanes, paths, and footbridges, she is allowed off leash to run her little heart out as well as search out cast-off paper trays of Asian noodles and discarded chicken patties in the bushes. 

So it was during this off-leash portion of our adventure that the man approached us. 

Actually, as he intersected our path, he was much closer to my dog than to me. 

And as he crossed directly behind my dog, his head swiveled in her direction with nary a glance toward me, and he spoke.

"Hi, Gracie! How's your walk going today?"

Wait, what? How does this man know my dog? How does he know her name? Her habits? What is the root of this breezy familiarity he offers up to her?

I paused, hesitantly smiling, waiting for his attention to shift to me, for him to explain just how it is that he has some sort of standing relationship with my dog that I know nothing about.

But this is what happens.

He gazes at my dog for a beat longer, puts his hands in his pockets, and continues on his way with an absent-minded whistle. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

And I realize that my dog has more friends in the world than I will ever know.

Eating Crow

"If you have to eat crow, eat it while it's young and tender." -Thomas Jefferson

I could have shown you a pic of the dead crow. But trust me, this little bunny is way cuter. 

 "Good dog, Gracie. Heel!"

Yesterday, as we prepared to cross the last street of our daily walk, my dog obediently sat. I looked down at her, and my blood suddenly ran cold. 

My dog had a certain look in her eye. Her body was tensed up yet perfectly still. I could feel her quivering energy. I knew without a doubt that her hunting instincts were on overdrive and she was awash with whatever chemicals surge through her brain when they kick in. As there were no rabbits in sight, I wondered what was providing her such interest. 

Then I looked closer and drew back in horror.

Gracie was holding a dried out and very dead crow in her mouth.

Well. Most of a crow. Not all of a crow.

Now, Gracie has had such moments before with squirrel carcasses. And she's responded well to my commands. So I really let her have it.

"Gracie, DROP IT!"

And to my great satisfaction, she did. The dried out crow hit the sidewalk at her feet with a gentle plop, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But then, horror of horrors, my dog immediately scooped the dead crow back up into her mouth.

And here's where the story takes a real turn. 

She began to chomp.

I watched in sickened fascination as my dog's sweet furry jaws worked up and down on the dead crow, smashing its skull and whatever else was left to crunch inside the partially-feathered and fully flattened bird.

And then I smelled it.

If I took the most disgusting smells I have ever smelled in my life - rotten eggs, rancid fish, steaming heaps of cow manure - added them all together and multiplied by 10, I might get close to what I smelled in that moment, permeating from my dog's lips.

I'm not ashamed to say that I kinda lost it. 

At this point, we were halfway across the street but I stopped dead in my tracks and shouted at her.

Ok. I screamed at her. I was past frantic and quickly headed toward berserk.

"GRACIE!!! DRRRRROP IT!!!!"

But you know what? Gracie had already dropped that foul crow once and she was apparently not about to drop it again. It was her treasure. She looked me in the eye, held fast to the dead bird, and continued chomping. 

Now I nearly lost my mind. I dragged her forward to the opposite curb, making indeterminate sounds of utter disgust. Then I grabbed my dog by her skinny red neck and shook her silly, keeping my hands as far as possible from the crow-induced drool that was now dripping off her lips. Yes, the same lips that she rests so delicately on my pillow every morning. My life was flashing before my eyes.

Finally, my dog came to her instinct-addled senses and read the panic in my ever-escalating tone of voice.

She dropped the dead crow.

In a flash, the stench still filling my nose and making my head spin, I was hauling her on a tight leash  toward home. 

The next hour was a blur. Overcome by our revolting ordeal, I deputized my husband to feed Gracie her evening meal, coax her to drink copious amounts of water, and provide her with two breath-cleansing treats. I also asked him to towel off every inch of her muzzle. I kept my distance.

By the next morning, I was back under the spell of my dog's tender gazes, willing to forgive and forget. But I wondered and worried what we might find when we set off on our walk.

Sure enough, the dead crow carcass was more or less where we left it.

And Gracie was drawn to it like a starving vagrant to a heavenly buffet. 

But I was ready for her, and quickly dragged her off onto our usual adventure.

* * * * *

Later in the walk, as we came across several bunnies grazing in a green lawn dotted with tiny daisies as the sunlight angled low through the trees, I was purely delighted to let my dog gaze as long as she wanted, her body stone still as the rabbit-hunting instincts flooded her brain. 

Because staring at rabbits sure beats eating crow.  

Mexico City: Malaysia And America In Mexico

 My friend: Would you like me to cook Malaysian food for you?

Me: Of course.

My friend: What would you like?

Me: ...

My friend: How about nasi lemak?

Me: Perfect.

And so began my third day in Mexico City. Somehow I felt like the globe had spun and I found myself not in Mexico at all but 10,333 miles away in Malaysia: wobbly, hot, and a bit unsure of which world was under my feet.

* * * * *

Sunday, June 9

Breakfast at Juwe's house.

You'll have to forgive me for the lack of photos but when I walked into my friends' airy and spacious Polanco apartment, filled with the spicy fresh smells of our delicious breakfast spread on the table, I lost my head. Forget the photos of this beautiful bounty; all I wanted to do was eat. 

Nasi lemak is the traditional breakfast of Malaysia.

Hardboiled egg

Sliced cucumber

Fried chicken

Spicy steamed coconut rice

And for those who enjoy crunchy little fish, anchovies.

Accompanied by a platter of fresh fruit and a pitcher of cool juice, this was not only a meal made in heaven but a powerful memory of my days in Malaysia. I fondly remembered many a delicious breakfast in Kuala Lumpur, but with the warm sun streaming in the windows and the mellow rhythms of my friends chattering away in Bahasa Melayu, I felt truly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I only caught one photo at the flea but it's a good one. I wish I would have bought a few of these pieces of art but at least I took a moment to admire the seller's beautiful display

La Lagunilla Flea Market

Well. To be fair, it was my idea to go to a Sunday flea. But holy moly, I was not prepared for what unfolded. 

See, I was thinking of a US flea market. Balmy weather, cooling breezes, lots of room for vendors to spread out and showcase their wares, plenty of fresh air and sunshine for all.

But - and it's my own fault that I didn't anticipate this - a Mexico City flea is a horse of a different color. 

First of all, let's talk tarps. Lots of them - white and blue - forming rooftops and hallways and sides between the stalls. And while the outdoor temperature was hovering around a reasonable 80 degrees F, the overall effect overwhelmed me. I felt surrounded by hot, stuffy air and trapped in a maze of tarps. People packed in closer and tighter as the morning moved on, and I found myself, when I wasn't looking for escape routes, pondering where exactly I had encountered a similar and equally stifling experience before.

Oh right.

The pasar malam - or night market - in Malaysia bears a remarkably similar vibe. Other than the fact that it was daylight instead of dark, I once again - for the second time in a morning - felt the strange sensation that I'd been suddenly transported to Malaysia.

* * * * *

^ I want to bake this hamburger an apple pie and then take it out to the ballgame. 

That's how delightfully American it tasted. 

Lunch at Butcher & Sons

When I find myself wandering the world, I like to eat whatever the locals eat. But every now and then, I want to try an American-inspired meal, just to see how those same locals interpret the food of my culture. It's a fun experiment.

So after my disorienting morning, when my daughter suggested burgers for lunch, I was ready. She picked a place close to our hotel, and it was a winner. Other than the spicy catsup-like options, the burger held close to a typical American classic, and as I enjoyed every bite, I felt quite at home. 

* * * * *

^ I love this beyond words. 

Afternoon In Polanco

In our neighborhood for the week, we wandered through charming side streets and around a lush green park. Restaurants abounded, most with gorgeous tropical plants providing leafy shade in front for outdoor diners. Apartments looked exactly as I'd hoped they would - modular, organic architecture adorned with yet more monsteras and schefeleras spilled from their balconies. What a dream.

On a mission to pick up a Mexican version of The Little Prince for my collection - yes, I have one in Spanish but Mexican Spanish is different that Spanish Spanish, right? - we tracked one down a neighborhood bookstore. Cafebreria El Pendulo Polanco is one of the hybrid cafe/bookstore models very much in vogue in Mexico City these days. It cutely reminds me of a now-wildly-out-of-date U.S. Barnes and Noble from the 1990s but I'm not going to ruin anyone's fun. 

^ I will be making the alambre at home. So easy. So good. 

^ My daughter and I shared this piece but honestly, I think we should have gotten two.

Dinner at La Casa Del Pastor

After our American-inspired lunch, we wanted some solid tacos for dinner. Recommended to us by my friend, La Casa Del Pastor is a pretty straightforward upscale taco joint. But once we were seated and scouring the menu, our waiter encouraged us to forgo the simple taco and try the alambre. Sure, why not.

What we learned is that the alambre is serving dish of taco innards, all swirled and swooshed together, ready for loading into the waiting tortillas and consumed just as one would eat a taco. Convenient, efficient, and delightfully delicious. A torrential rain poured down as we ate every bite. Licking our fingers, we felt grounded once again in our Mexican adventure. 

Trusting our new friend with our dessert option, we ordered his favorite, a guava cheesecake. Money. 

A perfect ending to a delightfully confusing Malaysia and America in Mexico kind of day. 

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

Mexico City: Together And Apart

 Winter and Spring 2024

Weeks and months flew by; with plane tickets and hotel reservations sorted, my second-born (who was traveling with me) and I turned our attention to compiling a list of must-see Mexico City sights. 

Until one day, when our itinerary plans took a sharp left turn.

THUMP.

Into my DMs landed a link to a dense and detailed document. 

"Here's my agenda for Fizza and Irah. You can join us for whatever you like, or do your own thing.

And so it was that I learned my Malaysian hosts in Mexico City would be catering to two groups in visitors - their first guests in 3.5 years - during the exact same week.

Thus began an intricate series of Google doc swaps in which our separate agendas wove in and out of each other's plans. The end result was a lovely balance of time spent together in our combined group and apart for outings with just my daughter and me. Our first full day in the city was a lovely example of just that. 

* * * * *

Saturday, June 8

Breakfast at Niddo Cafe

A sweet way to begin our day, we took our morning meal at the charming coffee shop in the ground floor of our hotel. Sitting in the leafy shade, we enjoyed overnight oats and fresh fruit with yogurt and the company of many locals and their dogs. The first of many quiet Niddo Cafe mornings my daughter and I enjoyed together this week, before blasting off into our busy day of adventures. 

* * * * * 

^ Step through the dark, cool entryway of Casa Gilardi; and find yourself surrounded in the light of the stairwell.

^ Now open the door beyond the sphere and behold. A long hallway through a blaze of yellow light, and the lure of blue calling from the far end. Let's explore. 

^ The golden glow is achieved by light pouring in from a central courtyard through a series of yellow paned windows. The effect is magical. 

^ The cerulean blue we spied from afar is a wall surrounding an indoor swimming pool. The effect is nearly an optical illusion; the water is about two feet deep and creates the shadow at the lower part of these blue and white walls, as well as the red beam that stands in the middle of the pool. There are steps down into the water at my left and no boundaries between the floor of the room and the open water. I found the effect of all this to be electrifying and a bit provocative. 

^ We continue through the pool room and out into the central courtyard. A soaring jacaranda tree sits at the center of this scene and backlit by the radiantly pink wall, provides a final, triumphant resting place for the eye. Bravo, Senor Barragan.

^ Barragan displays a passion for irregularly shaped terra cota jugs, and I am here for it. 

Casa Gilardi Tour

After much advance work online to track down two highly coveted tickets to this architectural tour, my daughter and I set off on our own for our morning adventure. 

During the mid-1900s, Luis Barragan was a Mexican architect par excellence and a world-class innovator of what it is to make a home. After he had retired, wanting nothing more than to rest and relax in the gorgeous home he had built for himself (which we will tour later in the week), his friends, the Gilardis, convinced him to make one last home for them. The family still lives there to this day - his son, who is now an archtect himself, led our tour while his mother was napping upstairs. 

The house is an eye-popping combination of bright and bold open spaces, often used for parties and public events during the Gilardis' heyday. Barragan uses color and light to make my heart race. In the quieter, more family-driven rooms of the house, the palette leans into calming tones and natural materials that reflect the more intimate use of these spaces. Interestingly , I found myself uncomfortable taking photos of the family spaces; my camera preferred the expansive energy of the public rooms instead. 

This tour - and the other tour we will take later in the week - opened my mind and heart to the passion of Mexican artists. Luis Barragan was a genius and I am so thankful I could experience his work.

* * * * *

Floating Gardens of Xochimilco

After lunch, our group met up for our afternoon adventure. The traffic was fierce, the car was hot, the baby cried miserably. We were all a bit done in. But then we bought strawberry ice creams and all was sunny again as we finally got started on our boat trip. 

Back in, oh, maybe sixth grade, when we were learning about the great civilizations of the Americas, I was intrigued to learn that the Aztecs built their capital, Tenochtitlan, on islands. As the city needed more land for food, I was even more fascinated to hear that these clever problem-solvers simply built floating islands - chinampas - to grow crops. That idea completely captured my imagination and I spent considerable time in that class imagining myself floating in and among the manmade islands.

So imagine my pure delight when I realized I could - and would! - actually visit the floating islands of my dreams. Thankfully, I did a bit of Googling beforehand to see what this modern day experience might hold for me, because it was a far cry from my Aztec fantasies. 

Big, colorful, festive boats.

Mexican folk tunes blasting from oversize speakers.

Mariachi hopping from boat to boat.

Bars, run-down restaurants, and countless dogs along the shore. 

Traffic jams along the canals. 

But I smiled as we wound our way through the hectic scene, the three children in our party contributing their own enthusiasm and merriment with a passionate game of flipping a half-full water bottle to see if they could get it to land upright. A mid-afternoon cloudburst brought another layer of unexpected chaos and a moderate amount of water around my ankles to the experience. 

All the distractions in the world could not mar this day for me. I was sailing on the waterways between the Aztecs' legendary floating islands, and never in my sixth grade imagination did I ever believe this dream would come true. 

* * * * *

Together and apart. Apart and together. 

Our first full day was a lovely mix of two different energies, and all those hours of planning were starting to pay off. 

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico

Mexico City: I've Finally Arrived

 Fall 2020

“We're moving to Mexico City!” my friends from Malaysia told me. “Will you come visit us?’

Omg, YES. I said. I'd love to!

“But when?” they asked.

I'll start working on a plan, I replied.

2021 - 2023

I did absolutely nothing to work on a plan.

January 2024

“When are you coming?” they asked. 

“Soon,” I said. “Very soon.

Well, we're moving back to Malaysia at the end of June,” they said.

And so I bought some tickets. 

* * * * *

^ Thanks to a very generous exchange rate with the Mexican peso, this lovely boutique hotel was only a moderate splurge for my US dollars. A heavenly aesthetic and a wonderful place to call my Mexico City home. 

Check out the official Casa Ofelia website for a host of glorious shots. 

^ Polanco is an upscale neighborhood of Mexico City quite literally overrun with glamorous and trendy restaurants. El Arrimon is neither trendy nor glamorous but a simple down-to-earth eatery featuring authentic Mexican seafood dishes. Love. 

^ After dinner, along with the amiable crowds, we strolled the cool streets of Polanco and happened upon El Moro, a legendary churro shop. "Stop!" my host proclaimed, "You simply must try them." And so we did. Delicious. 

For glorious money shots of these humble churros, check out the El Moro website. 

Friday, June 7

Bolt out of bed before the break of dawn.

Toss in the toothbrush and zip up the suitcase.

Dash down I-5 to the airport.

Hop a plane due south to Mexico City.

 

Emerge hours later to the deep shadowy canyon of curbside pickup.

Watch the towering palm trees toss their fronds in the sultry breeze.

Endure Friday rush hour as the half hour drive to the hotel turns into a 90 minute NASCAR fiasco.

Arrive at our hotel and sink into the dreamy vibes of Casa Ofelia.

 

Step out into the plant-filled street, and find my friend Juwe waiting for me.

Walk through the warm evening streets of Polanco.

Meet the others at El Arrimon for a seafood dinner.

Exhale.

 

I’ve finally arrived.

* * * * *

Want to read about all my adventures in Mexico City?

I've Finally Arrived

Together And Apart

Malaysia And America In Mexico