Each one of us in class had traveled to Isla Mujeres for an extended stay (one week to six months or more). Meg encouraged us to meditate during yoga practice that day on where we find home for ourselves.
Did we view the house and hometown from which we traveled our home?
Were we able to see our temporary home of the island as home for the duration of our stay?
Did we always interpret home as a place?
Or could we consent to the intangible concept of home as the truth that resides within us?
In her gentle way way of merging meditation into yoga practice (which by the way makes her the best yoga instructor I’ve ever had), Meg invited us to contemplate what our truth was and how it could be the home we carry with us, regardless of where we find ourselves in the world.
The question resonated with me, because of the title of my blog.
As would happen, unfortunately my thoughts ran wild with how I would use this experience in my blog, only to find I lost a sense of being present during yoga practice and failed to meditate on the question.
So now I reflect on the still lingering question, where is home for you? Here is my belated, stream-of-consciousness exploration.
I recall at age fifteen while traveling in Europe one night I told fellow travelers I was tired and ready to go home. All of them, older than me, tried to console and convince me that we could not go home yet with ten days to go. I laughed. I wasn’t homesick, wanting to go back to the States; I wanted to go back to the hotel and go to bed.
My truth is that I’m at home most everywhere I go. Oh yes, I can fear the unknown. I can be physically uncomfortable; therefore I’m not likely to choose a mountain bike tour or a high-ropes course.
I like my creature comforts. A soft but supportive bed, and drinkable water are must-haves for me; while delicious food is a plus.
One year in anticipation of staying in a empty college dorm room while attending a writing workshop, I brought a brightly colored quilt for my bed, a photo of husband and daughter, and a candle to enhance the lonely feel of the space. Beauty in the broadest sense is important to my well-being.
My conclusion or truth:
I usually find comfort and beauty wherever I go and make myself at home. I attempt to create beauty and comfort, if they don’t exist. That’s one of the reason I attend yoga classes while at home and away.
For me “Naked and Afraid,” a reality show, is not my idea of a fun adventure. A journey might include some discomfort; but certainly not hazardous and life-threatening elements. That’s why I seek out travel that is both comforting and comfortable, and is beautiful–for example the ocean, sand, surf, sun, and shade combination at Isla Mujeres, Mexico.
What is your truth about finding home? Is it a place in space or a place inside? How do you go about seeking, and finding or creating it?
Raul and Patricia’ hometown, Lima, Peru, houses 11 million people—an urban environment by anyone’s definition. They and their three children have lived in multiple locations and cultures in the United States, Puerto Rico and Peru. For the Raul and Patricia it is a return home. The entire family returns as fluent bi-lingual, global citizens.
A surprise when I arrive—Lima is a desert location, recording an average of 1 and 1/2 inch of rain a year. It is not apparent, until we drive out of the built-environment (city) and into the natural-environment (mountainous countryside), what the desert actually looks like. It appears as moonscape, barren of any vegetation, except where someone had planted a green living thing and watered it.
Our trip to visit them is a challenge for me, less so for Lynn. We have avoided urban areas as a deliberate choice to miss out on traffic, smog and big-city stress. We have each studied Spanish, but unfortunately have not mastered it. On the other hand, we have put ourselves in the world again and again to explore and meet others. We choose to do that again by visiting Raul and Patricia’s family, whom we met in Iowa years ago, now in Peru.
We celebrate our arrival with a Pisco Sour, Peru’s national cocktail. But Lynn cannot decide between it and a glass of wine. He has his own challenges.
A refresher on the Hero’s Journey: Joseph Campbell introduced the world to The Hero’s Journey. He discovered similarities of what happened in stories, fables, and fairy tales after years of study. He called these similar steps The Hero’s Journey. There are many ways to explain this layered epic journey; one way is to outline five stages, as Joseph Dispenza had done in The Way of the Traveler: Making Every Trip a Journey to Self-Discovery (2002):
the call to journey;
preparation for the journey;
the path and encounter;
the return;
and finally reflection in telling the tale to others at home.
HERO is meant, not as a male model; but an inclusive, universal archetype.
Archetype = a classic prototype
I have previously covered: Step 1: The Call and Step 2: The Preparation. Now, I introduce Step 3: The Path and Encounter through our trip to Lima, Peru.
Our path took us from the airport to their home, to the university where Raul works, to their Regatta Club, to a full-service grocery store and local open market, to their church, and to the sights of the city and their favorite haunts (restaurants, bistros, and bars).
Our purpose for this trip was not so much to play tourist, but to become a part of the family for ten days and experience their life as much as possible in ten days. They allowed us to share their life, specifically asking us to come when their youngest would celebrate her first communion. Wow, what an invitation to a significant part of their life!
~~~~~
Each of the three kids included us in their life in different ways. I’ll share our encounters with the two adult children Daniela, 25 and Ian, 20 at the time.
Daniela, the young professional working a day job, while creating her own business with a friend and earning a second bachelor’s degree in Business. She and her friend invite us to the garment market district, where they seek manufacturers of production for their beachwear line. They need fabric to make sample designs for a market fair. This includes a pattern designer, a seamstress, and the product finisher. They prefer to find all steps of manufacturing within one family, so they do not have to move their sample product from one manufacturer to the next.
With travel instruction from Daniela to look “local,” I tag along without purse, keys, money, except for a phone to take photos. Lynn and I need some soles (Peru’s currency) and ask Daniela if she can take us to a bank to get money exchanged. “Sure, we will do that on our way to the market district.”
We arrived in the market district and are looking for parking, when Daniela stops in the middle of a street. A man runs over to her car and she turns to us and says, “Where are your dollars?” Lynn pulls out a fifty dollar bill. She hands it to the man through her window. He exchanges the money, hands her the soles, then she gives them to Lynn. Both stunned, Lynn and I don’t even know how to ask, “What just happened?”
Daniela (far left) and her friend, Claudia negotiates with one of the manufacturers.
We learned from Daniela her take on the Peruvian economy. “The way we are going to grow the economy is not like most countries by building big companies; but we are a country of entrepreneurs, people starting small businesses online, out of their homes or cars. We are the future of Peru.”
On most days Daniela spends time with us before work over our mutual love of coffee and after work at a bistro or pub with a drink and/or supper. Once upon a time with our own daughter, we established “porch talks” when we discussed the mundane and the mandated parts of her life growing up. We found ourselves on the patio at their apartment discussing life, economics, politics, culture, work and college. Our “porch talks” became special time with each member of the family.
Ian, a typical college sophomore student, feels a bit insecure about college, his major, and even whether Peru is the place for him. You see, he is more an American than all the rest of the family, due to circumstances and perhaps his personality. Because Lynn and I have just recently retired from working with college students, we had several conversations about college course work, departmental requirements, peers and fitting in.
Ian is studying architecture at a local university and feels his creativity is stymied by academic professors (like many other students perhaps). He feels like an outsider in a new university with his peers, left out of cliques and circles. We discussed who he is and what he wants to do.
Lynn discusses the cultures Ian has lived in and why he thinks he is more American. Ian thinks out loud, “I’ve lived more of my life in the United States than in Peru. My first language is English, not Spanish. I’m part of this family, but everyone else feels more Peruvian than I do. And I feel excluded by classmates at college.”
Lynn asks, “Does you want to be included?”
“No.”
“Then why let it bother you?”
Ian’s brow furrows. “I’ll have to think about that.” He is the kind to think hard and long about it. He is a soulful kind of person.
I visit with him about being a global citizen, like I did with my students previous.
“Because you have seen and experienced things that most Americans have not, this will make you an asset to employers and architectural design companies in the U.S.”
“Like what kind of things do you mean?” he asked.
“I have noticed several elements of design since arriving in Peru that I’ve never seen. And I’ve experienced things I never have before.”
“Like what?” Ian wants to know.
The toothbrush holder in the girls bathroom. (photo at bottom)
Daniela’s exchange of our $50 for 158 soles (their currency) from a man on the street from her car.
An appetizer of french fries with 2 sunny-side-up eggs and prosciutto
Another, mashed potatoes shaped into tiny square with tuna salad on top.
Experienced my first all “raw” meal at Punto Organico Restaurant.
Learned a new slogan, “PPP or the political power of products.”
Eaten a root vegetable, “olluco,” similar to a potato, carrot and turnip, but not.
Men with mobile washing equipment cleaning cars in parking lot at the Regatta Club
Toilets have paper by the sink, not in stalls; I must get it before going into a stall.
An hour and a half out of the city the air turns to dust—no vegetation.
In a restaurant seats have a “purse clasp” I looped my purse strap through for security (photo below)
Vertical gardens growing up the sides of apartment buildings 5+ stories high
Street signs for “telepizza” (pizza by phone) and “sofa cafe” (only sofas in cafe)
The buffet table setting with forks laid out with knives on their edge nested in the tines of forks. (photo below)
Purse on ChairToothbrush HolderKnifes sitting in fork tines
Ian’s head begins to nod, when he realizes he too sees the world in general, as well as specifically architecture, buildings and structures in different ways. All this because of opportunity to view different things in his world than many of his peers (and perhaps his professors, too).
College seems dull, not motivating at all. But he can see that his lack of fitting what the professor wants may be a lack on the part of the professor, not his.
~~~~~
Often the landscape and/or experiences of our travel offers metaphors to our inner lives. As an example, the desert territory I found in Lima. When my life feels dry and lifeless, I can remember the Peruvian ecosystem in coastal Lima and nearby mountains where citizens plant and water greenery to add life-giving lushness in the city or countryside. Meaning of metaphor: I can create my life and the things I want in it.
In another attempt to find metaphor from my travel for my own inner life, I can recall Daniela’s attempts to start a new business to add interest, motivation, and richness to her dull job. When I suggest to Ian that he use what he has experienced as a global citizen to create his own mark on the world, I can apply that advice to myself. Meaning of metaphor: I can use my unique travel experiences to understand characters in my novel to help me write them as well-rounded characters with inconsistencies and paradoxical behaviors.
As Dispenza states in The Way of the Traveler (page 83), “Travel transforms us … At the heart of that journey ‘out,’ we happen upon the deepest mysteries ‘within.” With the help of Daniela and Ian, I’m am being transformed.
~~~~~
QUESTION: What metaphors for your inner life have you encountered in your outward life of travel (whether to Timbuktu or to town meeting)?
Let me introduce the blog and my intentions for writing it.
WHY?
I am blogging publicly instead of keeping a personal journal, because I believe I have ideas, past experience and current learning to share with you and others, on topics such as 1) travel, 2) practical and spiritual matters, and 3) the writing and publishing process.
WHAT AM I BLOGGING?
I hope to write about my travel experiences, general benefits of travel for all of us and how to make it easier. As a writer and professionally an educator, I expect to draft blog posts about the craft and process of writing. I plan to share some of my own writing (published and unpublished) with you over time, as well. As a Christian and spiritual seeker in the Quaker tradition, I won’t be able to NOT write about spiritual matters, even the practical side of spiritual things.
WHAT AM I WRITING?
Blogging gives me a chance to connect to people (young and old) around these topics, which leads to the introduction of my coming-of-age, travel and spiritual memoir entitled, At Home in the World: Travel Stories of Growing Up and Growing Away, published in 2014. The book tells the story of my life and travels from age 10 to 27, guided by a mother wise beyond her own experience; journeys provided by my church or because of my association with my church, including two mission projects (one, ten weeks; the other, an academic year of college); and the final trip abroad as an act of progressive independence as a young professional woman in graduate school. Each excursion offers growth and personal insight.
I’m currently writing an historical fiction of an early 1900s unconventional horsewoman who travels with her younger brother to India to sell horses. During her journey she loses her brother, encounters two men who help her discover more about herself, chooses one who will aid in her learning to live and love without regret.
HOW COME THE TITLE OF THE WEBSITE?
As a take-off from the title of my memoir, I felt like “Finding Ourselves at Home in the World” would be inclusive and inviting. I hope that works out to be accurate. I also view my protagonist in the historical fiction as finding her way in the world.
My taglines, Travel – Travel Writing – Writing, offer a quick description of what reader will find on my website and blog.
WHY DO I WRITE?
Both books reveal my interest and passion in young men and particularly young women growing up independent, strong, and resilient.
WHO SHOULD READ MY BLOG?
I believe many folk interested in travel will pursue this blog and it topics. I anticipate writers will be energized by travel writing and posts about the craft of writing and travel writing. I hope single women (college age through young 30s) will read my books to produce their own thought-provoking self-introspection. I believe young women (in their 30s and 40s) raising children will find food for thought about parenting to help their own offspring grow up ready to take their place in the world. And I suspect that many older women in their 50s, 60s and older will seek to reminisce about their own experiences of being who they are.
You don’t have to leave home to experience the world around you, if you are alert and paying attention. Often we think of seeing new creature elsewhere when we travel and that the moon looks more romantic and idyllic from another location. But I have three encounters with nature–two at home and another one, what could be your hometown–that wowed me this summer in the good old United States.
TOADS
I have had no luck in identifying a tiny reddish-brown toad that hatched just about 2 weeks ago here in south central Texas. In seven years of living here, I’ve never seen this one before. I walk the dog everyday, so I notice things like this.
By “tiny” I mean about half the size of my little fingernail when they first arrived. They appeared over night in the hundreds of thousands, I presume.
Two weeks later they are now about the length of the first joint of my little finger. They are everywhere–hopping out of the grass as I walk; lounging or leaping about in our rock garden; and sometimes smashed on the golf cart path.
Toads are helpful critters in that they eat fleas, mosquitoes, and other bugs as they grow larger. I’m fascinated by their size; their color, which matches the red rocks in the garden; and their numbers. I hope to learn more; but until then, I’ll enjoy their company.
THE MOON
Last Friday morning as Murphy (our Shih Tzu) and I started out for our walk about 6:45 a.m., the full blue moon sat on the horizon in front of me. It looked as if the tree tops were holding it up. It was platter size and golden yellow surrounded by peachy tones in the sky. I always have my cell phone with me–but not this day. I am sorry I have nothing except my description to offer you.
The day before I had heard on NPR about the July “blue moon.” Though not always blue in color, it refers to both full moons of a calendar month or the fourth moon in a season, which only happens about every 2.7 years. The last one was in 2012; the next one, likely in 2018. Read more about a blue moon to learn how it came to be called that by mistake on the NPR site above.
CICADAS
Though I was traveling out of state this year when I encountered a new critter, this could be your hometown. I was in Jackson, Tennessee visiting my Aunt Faye. When I got out of the car I heard this strange whirring noise unlike anything I’d heard before. Almost industrial, like a machine working hard to cut through tough material, but not quite.
Magicicada Periodical Cicadas (13- and 17-year cyclical locust) in 2015
When I asked about the sound, Aunt Faye explained it was a 17-year cycle cicada (not the same one I see and hear all the time whether I’m in my home state of Arkansas, in my current home in Texas or in France, which is renowned for the cicada).
We took photos of it in my mom’s hand.
I came home and looked it up, it is called the Magicicada Periodical Cicada. It is not the typically annual cicada that we hear at night in the summer, that is squarish at the head and wider, and that is greenish iridescent. This one is slender and a warm reddish-brown color. In fact the Magicicada Periodical Cicada, is heard in the spring and early summer and only in certain states. AND it whirs, instead of chirping; it fills the air with a sound that one feels as well as hears.
What about you?
Have you experienced a new critter or new nature sighting this summer in your backyard, hometown park, or friend’s farm or ranch close to home?
The tourist information officer yesterday encouraged us to take a cab to the weekly market, so after breakfast we taxied to the remote location. We found acres and acres of open-air market. We spilt up, went our separate ways and agreed to meet back in about an hour.
I strolled, wandered and realized soon that their market was like a county fair in some ways back home. People brought their homemade goods, food vendors cooked on site, vegetable growers brought in the morning harvest. One vendor had built a ninety-degree wall of red strawberries on two sides of his table about eighteen inches high—perfection in every berry. When I later decided I wanted a photo of the red cornered-wall of berries, I could not find it. It pays to be impetuous at times.
No livestock, but I did run into a stately rooster strutting in a wire dog-kennel for sale.
Weekly Market
The market was part bazaar or flea market. Some stalls held new and top labeled clothes, while others housed stacks of outgrown or unneeded clothes and personal items from fancy panties and bras to purses. There were the usual Mexican “knick-knacky” items (woven blankets, pottery, and leather goods) that I have outgrown the need for, since traveling to Mexico for twenty-five years now.
I saw two policemen at different times in full uniform with AK-47s slung across their chests, hands loosely sitting on the grip with a ski mask on and eyes roaming the crowd. Serious security. One of the uniformed men looked the opposite way and I pointed my tablet’s camera at him for a picture. Before I could focus, he turned back in my direction.
I said, “May I?” He shook his head slowly, waved a finger “no” from the hand siting on the rifle, and I quietly put my tablet back in my purse, feeling naughty for having tried.
Jenn and particularly Cathy had made out like bandits with the tenacity and patience to ply the stacks of used clothes for little to nothing. Dusty and dirty items, but steals nonetheless. Cathy had already bought so many items she had to purchase a larger bag to serve as her “personal item” on the plane back to Cancún to carry all her goods.
On this expedition in San Miguel de Allende we were about to strike gold behind a gate.
Serendipitously, the autumn before our trip in February a couple, Harley and Muriel Mimura, from Dallas visited my Kerrville, Texas, Quaker Meeting. After silent worship we were visiting with them and Harley revealed that they spend February each year in San Miguel. I told them that friends and I had a trip planned in the city during February.
Muriel leaned toward me and insisted, “You’ll have to come see us and have drinks at our place when you come.”
“We would love that.”
Excitedly, I informed my fellow travelers via email later that day, who seemed equally pleased to have a personal invitation in a city we did not know.
I stayed in touch with Muriel at Christmas and again in late January. She insisted again they wanted us to come for drinks at sunset and sent a map via email from our hotel to their place, only six blocks away.
On Tuesday, our second full day in the city, we purchased flowers from the Artisan Market next door to our hotel and I had brought a daily devotional book as gifts for the Harley and Muriel. We arrived at their massive wooden door, unadorned and unremarkable, rang the bell, and waited anxiously. I was the only one who had met Harley and Muriel and I barely recalled what they looked like, now six months later.
Jenn and Tilly to the left. Leslie to the right.
Muriel and Harley guided us to the living and dining room combination. The scent of lilies greeted us from three vases the height of most table lamps; Cava (a white sparkling wine) waited to tickle our taste buds. We met the couple they rented and shared the house with each February, Chip and Leslie. Harley opened the door with Muriel’s head peaking over his shoulder to welcome us in. We walked into the dark entrance, strode up several steps into light, flooding the central patio with a three-tiered fountain filled with fresh flowers. With no ceiling overhead we were exposed to the elements of nature. We stood stunned byprofuse fresh flowers, the openness in the middle of a house, and the elegant garden and patio. A bit in awe of our circumstances, like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, we stood gaping at the interior of a house in which the exterior from the street gave no foreshadowing of what was to come.
Muriel, the impeccable hostess said, “We like to start here with a drink in hand as Harley provides a tour of the house, which will simply spiral up the house, until you get to the roof top where we will have hor d’oevers as the sun sets. Take your time, we have other friends who will join us and they have company, so we will be meeting them as well.”
Harley said, “This house is not a typical rental, but a home designed for the owners themselves. We met them several years ago and they are gone this time each year, so we with Leslie and Chip worked a deal. It’s full of Mexican antiques and is not what you will find as a long-term rental here in San Miguel.”
The ceiling soared about fifteen feet, so we were gazing up and around as Harley talked, staring at the sets of art on the walls, pottery on the shelves, memorizing the fabric patterns on the furniture, running our fingers over the wood table that was bigger than most eat-in kitchens, trying to absorb as much as possible before we left the room. I felt rude, but we were busy—all ears, eyes, nose, and fingers busy.
Harley gave us a quick architectural history lesson, “This house was built in the old Colonial Mexican style with the open-air courtyard in the center and the house built around it. Some houses of this style have coverings that help the residents get from one part of the house to the other. But this is the original concept, open to the elements.”
“What do you do on rainy days?”
“Use an umbrella,” he said deadpan. Then he smiled. “We keep one in every room in the place.” He went on to explain. “Most houses like this come with a staff. That took some getting used to.”
“I could use get used to that.” We each agreed.
“The first time I dropped my drawers for a shower and came out to find them gone, I was startled. They were already in the laundry. I learned to take a robe to the shower.”
“So what kind of staff do you have?”
“Two, a maid and cook. We don’t do anything while here.” He laughed, “We are spoiled by the time we get home and have to do those things for ourselves again. It takes some adjustment.”
Harley, using his cane, to steady himself showed us the first floor with what appeared to me more characteristically a French country kitchen.
Blue, yellow and white tiles covered the floors and back splashes, yellow cabinetry brightened the work space. The room was oddly shaped, like a squared-off S if you can imagine that. Though larger than kitchens in Mexico, it was smaller than kitchens in French homes.
The flowers we brought were lying in the sink in a container of water to keep them fresh. No time to arrange them. We felt like we had brought a small bouquet of dandelions to a florist store owner, because of the profusion of flowers throughout the house. We reminded ourselves, it is the thought that counts.
The first of five bedrooms had its own private bath, as would each of the following, and the two on the first floor had a fireplace. Each was differently decorated, but ready for an “Elle Décor,” “Veranda” or “Architectural Digest” photo shoot.
The four of us gawked, “ooo-ed and aah-ed,” took photos of rich antiques in rare settings and small bathrooms designed for luxury. I tried to act sophisticated about the style, color, or fixtures that combined to put a boutique-style B&B out of any competition for best-dressed rooms.
By the time we got to the second floor to compare a third and fourth bedroom, we were asking questions about artwork, age of furniture, or who gets which rooms when they are there. And of course, we each picked our favorite. I almost flopped on a bed to claim the one I wanted; but I caught myself. The bathrooms were so tiny that two of us could not stand in one together. We certainly could not take a photo and capture the essence of the room.
The stairs to the third floor narrowed. As we came out of the last room, we had to take turns going out and around the door one-by-one, then snake our way single-file to the next floor, as the hand-carved stone steps narrowed.
We learned that the highest and last bedroom would be Harley and Muriel’s. How does Harley navigate his way up and down using a cane several times a day?
Harley offered an architectural design lesson that he as an engineer found captivating.
“Look at the shapes in the brick ceiling and how they come together in this formation.” Our eyes followed his pointing finger. “That’s known as bóveda, a construction term for any arched brickwork. Not sure how they do it, but I know structurally that any archway when completed is stronger because of the tension it holds. Bold design, isn’t it?”
Boveda brick ceilingBoveda brick ceiling
From each corner of the room the brickwork domed and fit together as an undulating ceiling, as if carved instead of bricked. I’d never seen this construction before. It must have required skill and patience, because it was the only bóveda ceiling in the house.
On our way from the last bedroom door, Muriel, Leslie, and other guests were on their way to the rooftops with food and drink. We each offered to lighten the load of the others, who balanced trays, carried pitchers of sloshing liquids, while they navigated uneven steps.
Not only did the steps narrow, the rise in the steps became more shallow, and unevenness resulted from hand-hewn stone. Our reward for the climb was tasty appetizers. My two favorites were the cooked asparagus stalks swirled in bacon and the tiniest, tidiest deviled quail eggs I ever saw to go with our next glass of Cava.
Muriel cooed, “Oh, you ladies have brought the first sunset we have seen in days. Isn’t it lovely up here? Thank you for coming.”
Roof top sunset at Harley and Muriel’s place
We felt special and each of us couldn’t say fast enough some version of, “No, it is us, who should be thanking you.”
Their invited friends, Bill Harris and Howard Haynes, was a couple who actually had lived in San Miguel for eighteen years of the forty-one years they had been together. They loved their city, their life, the fresh mountain air, the artists and the arts, and especially the blended community of both Mexicans and North Americans.
Howard, a philanthropist, told us of ways he had gone about getting money from people who didn’t have a heart for others, as well as those who enjoyed giving to their community. He held a strong ethic for giving back to the place and people wherever he had lived.
His partner, Bill, a quieter man, but just as convivial, pursued his passion as a gemologist and artisan jeweler. Artist and businessman, he owned a studio in their home. Muriel explained that his studio was not a “drop-by” storefront; one must have an invitation to come to see his artistry. We were deflated that we couldn’t stop and shop the next day.
Howard and Bill brought guests visiting them from Kansas City. Bill and guest Jim roomed together in college decades ago. With Jim’s partner, Damon that made twelve of us who enjoyed each other’s company behind one of the gates of San Miguel, as new and old friendships merged.
The four of us separated and wove our way through the folks scattered on the patio. We teased and laughed, talked and philosophized. We couldn’t have found company more pleasant, more engaging.
Howard asked us before he and his guests left that evening how long we were staying; he wanted to invite us for cocktails at their house. With only one night left in our stay, he was bummed, because they had dinner plans the following night.
He stewed for a moment and said, “Oh heck, just come over about 5:30, we’ll have drinks, just drinks, no appetizers, because we have dinner plans at 7:00. Just come for the hour and a half, so you can see our place. We would love to have you. Muriel will work out the details about how to get there, won’t you, darling?”
“Of course. I’ll take care of it.” Muriel said.
“Of course. We’ll be there,” we agreed. Our second invitation into a home–behind closed gates.
After Bill and Howard and their two guests left, we returned to the living room. Muriel and Leslie set about with a map to highlight spots in town we must not miss. They suggested that we make a point to see.
“The Fabrica La Aurora Gallery is a short hike from your hotel. Not all the galleries will be open tomorrow morning. For those that are in, stop and visit with the artist, browse, and explore. There is a coffee shop in front, but a sandwich shop in the back I recommend. Go to the back corner, just keep going back and to your right and you will find it. They offer coffee, sandwiches, smoothies and the like.”
In conversation we learned that Harley had been born in an internment camp for the Japanese in Arizona. Later when those in the camps were “adopted” by families east of the Mississippi River, his family went to live with a Quaker family in Pennsylvania. He became an aerospace engineer – even worked with NASA for two years – and lived in several locations before retiring from his last job assignment in Dallas. He was widowed with two grown sons when he met Muriel.
Muriel had a story of her own. Married once for fourteen years, her husband died from cancer. Married a second time for less than a year, her spouse was killed in an accident. Now she says, “I make sure Harley gets to the doctor regularly. I feed him right, remind him to take his vitamins, encourage exercise, and give him probiotics—whatever it takes to live my life with him as long as possible.” With no children of her own, she considered herself blessed with stepchildren and scads of step-grandkids. She worked to keep up relationships over time and distance.
While I talked to Harley about Quaker topics we shared in common and his life, Muriel showed the other three women some cards of her art work. I missed getting to see them, so I found some of her art work on-line later. (Google her name, Muriel Mimura, to see her stunning artwork on-line; or go to her Facebook page, Muriel Elliott Mimura.)
On our way back to the hotel that night, the four of us each shared the nuggets of gold we had mined from our new friends. We left their place with stories to tell, memories to treasure, and another invitation to make any tourist envious.
The question resonated with me, because of the title of my blog.
ty wherever I go and make myself at home. I attempt to create beauty and comfort, if they don’t exist. That’s one of the reason I attend yoga classes while at home and away.
By “tiny” I mean about half the size of my little fingernail when they first arrived. They appeared over night in the hundreds of thousands, I presume.
Blue, yellow and white tiles covered the floors and back splashes, yellow cabinetry brightened the work space. The room was oddly shaped, like a squared-off S if you can imagine that. Though larger than kitchens in Mexico, it was smaller than kitchens in French homes.
