Chance Encounters, Near Misses

"Would you mind trading places?" the man standing across the aisle asked me. "You've got the seat next to my wife."

We were in Cancún boarding a Florida-bound flight a few weeks ago. My ticket said "9-C" and his "9-D." We traded places so he could be next to his wife and a friend, who were seated in the center and window seats next to my assigned aisle seat. He was a tall foreigner, probably American, traveling with his Mexican wife and several others, including his daughter, son-in-law and mother-in-law. There were seven in the group, sprinkled in our row and the row in front of us. They talked back and forth, so it was impossible not to overhear that they were headed north to join a cruise in Fort Lauderdale.

I thought no more about them until ten days later when I boarded my return flight from Fort Lauderdale to Cancún. I again was in aisle seat 9-C, and to my surprise as I approached the row, the same man was standing in 9-D, as he had been on the previous flight. The whole group was headed home, in the same seats they'd had on the flight north. The man was looking expectantly down the aisle for the person assigned to 9-C so he could arrange a swap and sit by his wife, just as he'd done before.

This time I beat him to the punch. "Would you like to trade places?" I asked. "I believe I've got the seat next to your wife."

He immediately recognized me. After we chuckled and speculated for a few moments about what the odds must be against this sort of thing happening, we talked a bit about their cruise. When the plane was airborne, I had some time to think.

I realized that what had just occurred really is not terribly odd. These types of coincidences are actually common. It's just that much of the time when people with connections briefly pass by each other, we do not recognize the situation and never know what has happened. What was most odd in this case was, I think, that we recognized each other.

Exemplifying the point, during that same Florida visit I spent time with my cousin Greg, whom until a few months ago I had never met, nor even known existed. Due to a family misunderstanding in the 1950's, his mother, my mom's older sister, lost touch with the family in Baltimore and was never heard from again. Detective work on the part of another cousin, aided by Facebook, brought long-lost cousins together in Florida for the very first time earlier this year.

We discovered that my sister, who moved to Florida three years ago, lives only a fifteen minutes' drive away from Greg and his family. She has shopped routinely at the supermarket nearest her house, where incredibly, our cousin works as a manager. They may have seen each other many times, with no inkling that they were related. And we learned that our two families also had lived only a two-hour drive apart for four years in the early 1970's, complete oblivious to each others' existence.

Even stranger was the fact that my mother and Greg's dad, who is the brother-in-law Mom never knew about, had lived simultaneously at the same nursing home for awhile earlier this year. They had probably seen each other passing in the halls or possibly said hello to each other without knowing the true story. And for that matter, sadly, when visiting his father there Greg may have seen my mother, his aunt, (who since has passed away) without knowing who she was.

And I've seen this sort of thing before. My first college room mate in Alaska graduated from the same Florida high school as I, and had lived seven or eight blocks from our home. We'd never crossed paths only because he was five years older and had left the area soon after graduating.

A couple of years later, I ran into a girl in Fairbanks whom I'd met and talked to once several years before, as we jostled in a jeep along rural roads in Colombia, where we went to do volunteer work.

Once on a beach in Portugal I conversed with a guy who was laying on the sand near me. We discovered to our great surprise that we both had been born in Ketchikan, Alaska. It turned out that I'd known his brother at the University of Alaska and we had common friends. Years later, although we had not kept in touch during the interim, we bumped into each other in a coffee shop in Juneau, Alaska, and picked up where we'd left off in Portugal years before.

Later I quit a photojournalism job in Anchorage and went south for a few months. Returning home aboard the Alaska State Ferry Columbia, the first night out I sat down in the ship's bar next to a guy who I was astounded to learn was moving north to fill the very position I'd left.

These are only a few of the many instances in which I have experienced chance meetings in circumstances that easily might not have occurred. I've run into friends in the oddest far-off places. I've also bumped into the same strangers time and again in different parts of the world. On numerous occasions I've met others who have close connections with my family, friends or places I know very well. Were I an extrovert, I am sure I'd have even more of these stories to tell.

What is interesting to speculate about is how many times we come very close to these meetings, but never quite make the connection. Twenty-five years after our meeting on the Alaska State Ferry, we recently discovered, my photographer friend was on vacation in Mérida, and stayed only a few blocks from my house. We had been out of contact and he didn't know I was here. We missed that opportunity.

Over time, and particularly when we travel, we briefly pass thousands of individuals, and to a fair percentage of these we may have some sort of connection. I have to conclude that these tangents to our lives are all around us and that near-misses happen fairly often.

What this boils down to is that when these meetings occur, the coincidences really aren't coincidences. We are all part of an incredibly complex social web of friends, family, less-intimate contacts, communities and places.

The world is a small place. We really are remarkably close to everyone else.

Bumps on the Road in Oaxaca

Oaxaca -- I know it's a lousy photo, but it's the only one I managed to grab in the situation.

I went on the road a couple of weeks ago, leaving Mérida by bus and passing through Campeche, Tabasco and Chiapas. There I changed buses and went on to Oaxaca, where I spent time with my friend Victoria in Juchitán.

One day we decided to drive through Tehuantepec and up to Salina Cruz, about an hour away, for a seafood lunch. We were nearing the port when abruptly traffic on our side of the four-lane highway was stopped behind several large tanker trucks blocking both lanes of the road. At least a hundred vehicles were inextricably caught in a jam.

People from vehicles ahead began jumping out and waving at the rest to back up, and started chaotically shuttling cars, making three-point turns and driving back down our side of the divided highway, against traffic. Accustomed to the tactics of civil disobedience in the area, they didn't want to waste time and chance getting stuck in the blockade. The backed-up traffic and milling people, what we'd first thought was an accident, was in fact una manifestación, a demonstration, and everyone not involved wanted to get out of the area as quickly as possible. We maneuvered the car and followed the others, with lots of flashing of headlights and honking of horns, back against traffic flow.

We drove with the rest onto unpaved side roads in an improvised bypass around the blocked area. At one point a man had placed a log in the rutted dirt track, apparently trying to charge a toll. Choking on dust, we tail-gated a pickup as it blew right past the guy. Eventually we emerged again onto the highway, just beyond the far end of the roadblock, and continued on our way to the beach.

Suddenly a similar sight loomed ahead. Large rocks and more large trucks in the highway formed another blockade, this time with a good-sized crowd milling around. We pulled into a U-turn niche in the median and sought advice from some men standing there. "We just want to go down to the restaurants on the beach," Victoria said with a calm smile. They nodded and pointed us to a side road that took us away from the highway and down to the sand. "As long as you don't want to head down the highway," they said.

On the way home, we had similar adventures as we again passed the blocked areas. Interestingly, no police were visible at any time during the afternoon. One friend said it was probably a move on part of the government to avoid any excuse for a confrontation, given recent history in the region, but it left ordinary folks who happened to be caught in the situation in a no-man's land as far as law-enforcement was concerned. However, the whole situation seemed calm, with volunteers directing traffic, and the general public taking the situation in stride.

Even so, I decided to ignore my instincts as a one-time photojournalist, which hollered at me from within to record this event. I left the camera out of sight. No sense getting more involved than I wanted to. Taking out a camera meant running a risk that someone might think I was taking pictures that could be used by authorities to identify participants. I grabbed the shot above as we sped by one of the roadblocks, with the milling crowds safely behind. There was little point in messing with an otherwise pleasurable and interesting day. We had a very nice, long lunch and I dipped my big toe in the Pacific Ocean here in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec.

We later learned the demonstrations were organized by local fishermen who are in conflict with Pemex, the Mexican national oil company, which has a large tanker-loading operation in Salina Cruz.

There were more bumps in the road on this trip, but I'll save them for a future post on traveling by bus in Mexico.

Living Here: Waiting Around

Cancún Airport, Terminal 2

Cancún Airport -- I've been traveling a lot, and inevitably that means I spend time waiting around. I've found ways to minimize wait time, but occasionally am attracted by a bargain airfare that includes a less-convenient itinerary. I don't look forward to waiting, but I've found that such time isn't as heavy on my hands as it once was.

Take the trip I am in the midst of right now. Due to the nature of early-morning bus schedules and to avoid arriving late for morning flight out of Cancún, I took a bus from Mérida at midnight, arriving in Cancún around 4:00AM. This gave me some hours to kill before I needed to be at the airport.

So I did what I often do in this situation: I walked across the street from the Cancún Terminal to the Sanborn's restaurant, which is open 24 hours. After a leisurely breakfast and a long linger over coffee (which fortunately is pretty good there), I returned to the terminal and caught the half-hour shuttle to the airport.

As I write this, I still have quite a bit of time to wait, but it isn't bothering me. I watch people, walk around, read, and in this case, work on a blog post. Sometimes I find myself chatting with interesting people.

I think that living in Mexico has taught me patience, particularly with things I can't control. Waiting is something we just have to do. I try to make the best of it.

I don't believe that "time is money." It's much more valuable than money. I've also absorbed the fact that being "productive" or busy doesn't necessarily equate to virtue, so I am perfectly happy to be alone with my thoughts, or quiet my mind and drift for a little while. I don't feel like time spent waiting is "wasted" time.

An advantage of having plenty of time when traveling is that delays or occasional long lines don't bother me. I have little cause to worry about missing my flight. I can let others cut in line if they are running late. No sweat.

Passing through a busy destination like this one gives me plenty of time to observe people who are stressed, rushing around on their vacation, tensely glancing at watches and making phone calls while waiting in airport lines. I am happy to have left a lot of that way of life behind.

Cancún Bus Terminal, 4:00AM

"Good Mornin' America, How Are You?"

I had an enlightening experience in June. I was in the Baltimore/Washington, D. C. area, getting ready to head home to Yucatán with a three-day stopover in Florida on the way south, when I was told that for medical reasons I should not fly. My head was so congested and ears so plugged up that I could barely hear. The abrupt changes in pressure during plane travel would cause pain and possible damage to my hearing. I would be able to fly soon, but not in time to catch my return flight to Florida. I needed to give my medication time to clear things up.

Penn Station, Baltimore

After checking into options, I decided to take Amtrak's Silver Meteor train back to Florida, which would give my ears a few extra days to recuperate before my scheduled onward flight to Mexico.

Unexpectedly, I really enjoyed the trip.

The interesting part is that I haven't enjoyed traveling in the U.S. much in years, but generally have a good time doing so in Mexico. Sitting on the train for about 22 hours gave me plenty of time to reflect on this.

In the early afternoon I left Baltimore's old Penn Station on a local train for Washington, where I spent a few pleasant hours with my cousin Kim, who lives there. At 7:30PM the Meteor pulled out of Union Station headed for Miami, with perhaps fifteen stops along the way.

The train originates in New York. I boarded in the District of Columbia with backpack- and camera-toting tourists, families, dignified old ladies in big hats -- a diverse and cosmopolitan mix of people.

I was prepared for an endurance contest and at first my worst fears were confirmed: as a last-minute passenger I'd been reserved an aisle seat, and that was my only choice. The train was full. So much for slouching against the window and getting a few hours of decent sleep.

And my seat-mate did not make things easier. He was a young guy who, I realized after a few minutes, has some health and possibly developmental challenges. He spilled drinks on himself three times in the first couple of hours, and each event involved me getting up and standing while he pulled his huge bag out of the overhead bin, propped it up on the (my) aisle seat, and looked carefully and at length through what seemed to be all his worldly possessions for a change of clothes.

And that was just the start. The details aren't important here but I'll report that my dreams of a good sleep were not fulfilled. And through it all the guy was so very likable, apologetic and polite that it was impossible to get annoyed with him. So I patiently smiled a lot, and realized that most of the other nearby passengers, witnesses to our little dramas, were doing the same.

That's pretty much the way it went. I enjoyed the trip for a couple of reasons.

My fellow travelers and the Amtrak employees I met were nice people. It was a mellow, helpful and friendly bunch. On the train you can get up and move around, go to the cafe car, take a walk. From the windows you see small towns and peer into back yards. You can view forests, lakes and fields of the countryside. You witness happy welcomes and occasional sad goodbyes of passengers at stations along the way.

Train travel is sedate and human-scale. I liked my trip on the Silver Meteor because it shares many of these attributes with bus travel in Mexico, which I happen to enjoy and do frequently. Human contact and a sense of the country is something we miss when we travel by plane and along sterile, homogeneous interstate highway corridors in the United States.

On the train, I learned something about the country. I grew up thinking that reasoned problem-solving, respectful disagreement, civil discourse and willingness to compromise are needed for a society and a democracy like ours to function. I haven't a great deal of recent experience with life in the lower-48 United States, having spent just about all of the past thirty-eight years in Alaska and Mexico. The screaming, hate, name-calling, disinterest in facts, rudeness and raging emotionality I see on current U.S. television, talk shows and web site comments often makes me wonder if I know my country at all at this point in my life.

The people I met and the things I saw on the Silver Meteor weren't like that. I realized that despite extreme challenges and severe problems, The United States of America could be in slightly better shape than I'd thought. And it's greener and more beautiful than I've noticed in a long, long time.

Travel: Making Connections in Mexico City

Mexico City -- After many years traveling primarily through Cancún on trips between Mérida and the U. S., I've begun to pass more often through Mexico City. Although it can be a nail-biter, I've discovered that it has advantages.

First, when I tote up the long hours spent shuttling between Mérida and the Cancún airport, going north by first heading west through Mexico can be quite a bit quicker. Another time advantage is that you can arrive at the Mérida airport sixty to ninety minutes before flight time rather than the two to three hours officially required at Cancún.

While you will spend more time on planes when going through Mexico City, without having to take the Cancún bus, you get to your destination quicker. Even when traveling to Florida -- just across the pond from Yucatán -- the flight west to Mexico City and then back east again, waving "saludos" to the Yucatán as you fly overhead, takes perhaps five hours less than a Cancún departure if you factor in the Mérida to Cancún bus ride and longer airport waiting time.

Second, prices can be competitive. Over the winter months I found cheaper tickets going through Mexico than through Cancún, when bus fares and transfers to the Cancún airport are factored in. Summer prices are up, but I am hoping that they will slide again this fall.

The downside is that sometimes itineraries through Mexico City (on AeroMexico, for instance) leave one hour between arrival time there and the scheduled take-off of my connecting flight. Mexico City airport is large and has two terminals, so making tight connections can be hectic. I guess it is possible to ask for longer connection times, but this would negate part of the time saved by going through Mexico City.

I definitely recommend that Mérida friends heading north try Mexico City as an alternative to Cancún. However there are a couple of things to keep in mind when making a connection in Terminal 2.

The first bottleneck is security. Sometimes the lines are long.

Then there is Immigration. If you live in Mexico and have an FM2 or FM3 residency visa, you have to stop in at the Instituto Nacional de Migración (INM) module in the airport of final departure from Mexico to get your exit document stamped. The INM desk is usually efficient, but sometimes you have to wait. If you hit a long security line and then have to wait at INM, you can miss your connection. If you have a tourist visa, you've already got your paperwork (you turn it in to the airline at the departing gate or check in) and don't have to worry about this part.

On my last trip there was another wrinkle. When I arrived in Mexico City with an hour to connect, security was pretty quick. However when I got to the INM desk about 8:30AM, no one was there, the computer screens were dark, and there was nothing, no papers, no sign, and no indication that the post was even in use. An information monitor indicated that my flight was boarding. It's a long story, but after a frantic fifteen minutes I finally found someone to stamp my paperwork so I could board my plane.

The other critical factor is the timeliness of your first flight. If you arrive late into Mexico City, it may be difficult to make a tight connection. On this one all you can do is hope.

Considering all this, I still prefer the Mexico City route to Cancún and the bus. Here is what I recommend, if you decide travel from and to Mérida through Mexico:

First, if you prefer to avoid stress, are not fast, or travel with children or the elderly, find an itinerary that gives you plenty of time to make your connection in Mexico City. Two hours should be sufficient to run the gauntlet, hit the restroom and get to the gate before your flight starts boarding. You're still way ahead of the game, time wise.

If you do find yourself on an itinerary with a tight connection, minutes count. Request aisle seats in the front of the plane on your first segment and travel light so you can get out of the plane quickly.

Once out of the jet way in Mexico City, walk fast. You can gain a few minutes' advantage by quick-walking in the long hallways between your arrival gate and the security area. If it's crowded smile and say, "con permiso," and people will make way.

After passing security you have more walking to do. Do not yield to the temptation yet to go to the restroom or stop at Starbucks. First make a beeline for the Immigration desk (walk on the moving walkways) with your completed immigration form in your hand.

If you have done all this, you've done your part. When I once missed my connection, AeroMexico was nice about re booking me on the next available flight. And actually, although I spent two extra hours sitting in the airport, the trip was still shorter and more restful than the Cancún alternative.

For Mérida residents, traveling abroad through Mexico City instead of Cancún is not always the best choice, but given these considerations it definitely is worth checking into.

Living Here: Taking the Bus

I was the only passenger on a long-distance bus Thursday. I had the entire first-class coach to myself. It was just me and the driver. This was surprising to me considering the high level of bus ridership here, and is an experience I have never had before in Mexico, even though I have traveled a lot by bus.

I make a lot of trips between the Cancún airport and Mérida. This typically has entailed a half-hour shuttle between the airport and the Cancún downtown bus terminal, and the four-hour bus ride between Cancún and Mérida, or vice versa. Recently I have been able to use a newer ADO (Autobuses del Oriente) service that takes passengers directly from the Cancún airport to Mérida, skipping the shuttle and bus station segments entirely. In Mérida it stops in Alta Brisa and at the Hotel Fiesta Americana.

This is a great service and although it costs a little more, if it dovetails with one's arrival or departure schedule, it will save an hour or two. However, I have been on this bus route several times now and have never had more than one or two fellow passengers. At this time there are only a couple of departures from the airport per day, both in the afternoon. From Mérida there are only midnight and 10:00AM departures. With the kinds of flights I've been taking lately, I've only been able to take advantage of the Cancún airport to Mérida run and not the other way around.

The novelty of riding alone in the big bus this week prompted me to recall past bus experiences. When I first traveled by bus in Mexico nearly 20 years ago, I was amazed by the habit of Mexicans to close all the curtains in order to sit in the dark and watch movies or sleep. As a curious traveler, I always prefer to enjoy the beauties of the countryside and see where I am headed. It frustrated me on several occasions, as we passed through spectacular countryside I'd never seen before, when a fellow passenger asked me to close the curtain to eliminate glare on the video monitor so they could watch a vapid, violent movie. Even after making the trip dozens of times, on these cross-Yucatán runs I still often prefer to watch the countryside pass by, monotonous as it may appear along the toll road, than to watch a movie or read. There is always something interesting to see.

I also recalled my surprise, some years ago, at seeing a Jalisco bus driver hurling his cola bottle, junk food wrappers, plastic plate and bags out of the bus window one by one after finishing the various courses of his on-the-job lunch. No one said a word.

I remembered a couple of long, long rides, when a combination of winding mountain roads, those always-closed curtains, heat and questionable roadside food led to the most disagreeable travel experiences I have ever had. Despite those bad trips, I enjoy taking the bus.

I thought about my very first Latin American bus rides, when in the early 70's I did volunteer work in rural Colombia -- the romantic heart of Gabriel Garcia Marquez country. These were true pigs-and-chickens buses. The surplus early 1950s American school buses were painted bright colors and had beads and bangles hanging in the windshields. All of our baggage was piled on the roof, accompanied by a few passengers, young men whom we later suspected of having passed the trip reviewing the contents of our luggage. We sat eight abreast on closely-spaced wooden bench seats as the buses slowly ground along muddy, potholed dirt roads. As we reached a stop, people would swarm on and off the roof, passing down boxes and bundles, and despite the fact that we wanted to watch this process in order to make sure our bags were not stolen, we remained seated in order to not lose our places in the crowded interior. We once waited hours in line at an isolated sun-baked, steamy ferry crossing on the Magdalena River. My most vivid memory of that experience is the very poor campesino family who offered to share their meager food, thick tortillas and some overripe fruit, with me as we waited.

Modern long-distance bus travel in Mexico is a far cry from that long-ago trip and is vastly superior to similar services in the United States. Buses are safe, run frequently, generally run on schedule, and make connections to small towns and pueblos. Buses here are for everyone. Middle-class families and even business executives take the bus. The deluxe buses, such as Platino here in southeast Mexico and ETN in the central part of the country, are more comfortable than first-class airplane cabins, offering roomy reclining seats with full leg rests, snacks, cold and hot drinks, comfortable, clean restrooms, and for those who like that sort of thing, movies -- with headphones -- so the rest of us don't have to listen to movies we have no desire to see.

Second-class and country buses are more interesting, but slower and less reliable. However the people on these buses are wonderful. I can't count the number of times seat mates have offered to share food and drink with me, just as that family did decades ago in Colombia.

I love the bus system here because you can easily go just about anywhere without a car. Taking the bus often costs less than driving, and although it may take longer, it is certainly less stressful. It also affords the chance to really look at the countryside (most of the time), and sometimes to meet interesting people. It's my preferred mode of travel in Mexico.

Wanderings: Magic Places

Shrine at los manantiales of San Pablo

As time passes, I travel far less and yet gain more from each experience. I log fewer miles, and do them more slowly. I often explore closer to home. I take fewer pictures as I go, preferring to use all my senses to gather impressions and memories of a place.

In addition, now when I visit a place I spend more time there. What I find as a result of this simplification is that I see, feel, hear and sense more about the places I do visit, and take much more home with me from the experience than I used to.

Anyone sensitive enough to the surrounding environment occasionally stumbles across special places where there is an atmosphere, a presence, a spirit, perhaps an aura, that lends them a magic quality.

Conseulo and son Marco

During my July visit to Querétaro, I took an afternoon hike in the hills above the tiny pueblo of San Pablo, Amealco, located near where I teach summer school.

I went with a small group of other teachers, led by San Pablo resident Consuelo, who is an indigenous Otomí woman, a local teacher and our co-worker. Also walking with us and helping us gather firewood along the way were her young sons Carlos and Marco Antonio.

Our goal was los manantiales, or the springs, which supply water to the pueblo. The flow is divided. Part of the water runs in its natural course. The rest is confined by pipe and in a narrow, old rock and concrete channel from the source, at the top of a valley, down past fields where small sluice gates allow its diversion for irrigation, and then into the pueblo itself.

We climbed above San Pablo on a rocky, sometimes muddy path, which follows the channel up through tall old trees that cast a deep shade on this cloudy afternoon. Along the trail and in clearings, large spiky maguey plants and clumps of yellow, pink and blue wildflowers occasionally relieved the gloom. Under the dense forest canopy the ground is covered by a thick matte of brown leaves which makes the place seem soft despite the presence of rocky outcroppings.

As we climbed, a sudden chill and dark clouds threatened an imminent downpour, but beyond a few errant drops, the enveloping walls of the small valley held the storm just far enough away to keep us dry. The shelter of our valley notwithstanding, the deep bass rumble of distant thunder was powerful enough to vibrate our insides from time to time.

As we approached the spring, there was no mistaking that we had arrived. In the clearing around the water source, the people have constructed a tiny shrine, painted sky blue and adorned with crosses and strings of starlike decorations which extend into the surrounding trees that arch overhead. It is a protected, intimate and refuge-like place.

It is wonderful after the climb to kneel down next to the shrine where clear, cool water burbles from the ground, and drink from this ancient water source. Countless beings have done this before me. Ruins of earlier civilizations in the vicinity date back close to 2000 years. From the presence of the small, fertile cornfields and pueblo of San Pablo directly below los manantiales, I suspect that this spring has been a special place and a source of life since ancient times, perhaps for thousands of years.

When I travel, I still enjoy the occasional experience of a city, a show, or a noisy night on the town. However now I mostly concentrate on quieter, more contemplative visits to places like los manantiales. These places don't shout out at you, don't demand your attention, and are not always easy to find. Some people do not notice them at all. But those who do sense the meaning of these places definitely experience something that surpasses human-made attractions.

Above all, places like los manantiales possess a strong sense of self. They resonate with life, the passing of time, the seasons, the spirits of people, animals, plants and venerable trees long ago dissolved and reincarnated in the cycles of life. The reverberations of past events still linger in these locations because it is so evident in them that although everything over time changes in form, it all is still here.

Being Away: What I Miss

I am up north in the States right now. I am not a snowbird; I have lived year-round in Mèrida now for a few years. I typically make a couple of trips per year to el norte to visit family and friends, including a spring visit in May or June. This time some other family business came up, so I am away longer than I would be on a normal visit.

Being away from Mèrida for an extended period makes even more evident to me why I prefer to live there. I enjoy visiting the States, especially Alaska, and always have a good time, but very quickly I begin to miss the things that make Mexico feel like home to me now.

Here are a few of the things I miss when I am not in Yucatàn:

Waking to birdsong as the sun rises.

Getting up when I feel like it (which usually is fairly early because I look forward to the day).

Shaking off sleep with a cool swim and hot coffee before breakfast.

Feeling no pressure to have a plan for the day and live by the clock. I only put on a watch (if I can find one and the battery is still working) when it's time to take a trip north.

Eating when I am hungry and not because "it's time to eat."

Breakfasting in the shade of an aromatic, flowering tree.

Truly fresh fruits and vegetables, and morning conversations with the vendors at the market, a five-minute walk from the house.

Working at things I choose to do because I like to do them, not at things I have to do for the money or because someone else thinks I should do them.

Coffee and conversation (or a few games of backgammon) with friends at a local cafe.

The delicious and affordable restaurant options within a few minutes' walk of home.

The friendliness, security and peacefulness of my neighborhood.

High ceilings and ceiling fans, which make living in a hot climate comfortable without air conditioning (most of the time, anyway). There is something about the soft whir and cool breeze of a ceiling fan that enables me to go to sleep anytime I choose, morning, afternoon or evening. I never suffer from insomnia when at home in Mèrida.

The tile floors found in many older buildings here, including my house. They are more beautiful, cooler and cleaner than carpets. I'll never again live with wall-to-wall carpeting.

Peace and quiet at home. I don't have a TV and forget how stressful (the constant bombardment of noise) and depressing (negative and meaningless content) television can be until I spend time where the box is everywhere and on constantly.

Being able to go to the countryside or the beach quickly. It's all close by. If the mood for a getaway strikes me, I am "in the sticks" or feeling the sand between my toes in no time.

If I keep thinking about it, I can go on extending this list, but that's not the point. The most important thing that I miss is something that is harder to put down in words. It is the feeling of the place, the way my heart is when I think about Yucatàn from a distance, and the joy and comfort I feel when I arrive home. It's the "there" there. That's what I miss the most. It's all of the things I listed above, and a lot more.

Transitions

I just got back from a visit to Alaska. It's always a great pleasure to return, catch up with family and good friends, revisit favorite places and gaze at the very mountains that exist unchanged from my earliest memories.

It's a long trip that I have made dozens of times and it has become routine, but I have learned to enjoy the familiar transitions along the way. The journey typically begins as I lug bags past my hammock and under the arches of the patio to board an early morning taxi that delivers me to one of Mèrida's bus stations, and a morning bus, le lujo class (movies with headphones, drinks, recliner seats, nice bathrooms), for the four-hour trip from Mèrida to Cancun. It is easy to sleep on the ride; the scenery along the modern Mèrida-Cancun toll road is mostly the uniform green of the flat, forested Yucatecan plains. There isn't much variety in the view. I always plan a couple of extra hours for this trip, to allow for weather or bus problems, and normally arrive in Cancun with a little time on my hands. It has become my habit to trail my luggage out of the Cancun bus terminal, and eat a hearty lunch of enchiladas or a burger, followed by leisurely cups of coffee over the newspaper, at the Sanborn's restaurant across the street. Sanborn's is a large chain and a Mexican institution; I remember in the early 90's arriving in Guadalajara fresh from Barrow, and going to eat in the first restaurant I saw: a Sanborn's. Since then, Sanborn's restaurants have been a reliable and comfortable place to go when I visit larger cities in Mexico.

After lunch, I cross back to the bus station and grab an airport bus, and upon arrival at the airport board a shuttle or take the ten-minute walk over to the new Terminal 3. The first order of business is to go to the Immigration counter for an exit visa. Next, to Alaska Airlines to check in, and afterward to pass through security into the boarding area. The new terminal was designed so that it is impossible to get to the boarding gates without walking through the duty free shops, which in addition to tequila sell exactly the same types of expensive perfumes, designer watches and other "luxury" products seen in duty-free shops the world over. Here, sunburned tourists can squeeze some final moments of enjoyment from their vacation by maxing out their credit cards, if they haven't done so already. Personally, I walk quickly though Duty Free. Once through the gauntlet, there's plenty of time to get a latte and relax.

It's a more-than-five-hour flight from Cancun to Seattle, which these days is my port of entry into the United States. Alaska Airlines has added additional flights and this is a good one; in the past we normally passed though customs and immigration in the noisy chaos of always-under-construction LAX before a circuitous walk to a different terminal and encounters with hollering, cocky TSA employees, in order to board the connecting flight. The direct Seattle flight saves time and line-standing energy, and at Seatac the formalities are calm, friendly and efficient. My itineraries usually include a long stopover in Seattle, arriving late in the evening and boarding a northbound flight early in the morning. Often I pass the seven or so hours on a favorite couch in a little nook of concourse "C" at the airport. It is secure and quiet after midnight and the only people you see are the cleaning crew. It is easy to sleep if you don't mind being watched by security cameras as you do so. I don't mind because I can really sleep; there isn't much worry that someone will pick my pockets or snatch my bag. And, mornings are calm there because my bags are checked through and I haven't passed outside of airport security. I simply wash up and change shirts in the spacious restroom, eat breakfast, buy a paper and coffee and wait to board my plane.

Occasionally in Seattle, I work out a longer stopover and go into the city. This recent trip was one of those. A friend since my Anchorage days in the early '80's, Paul picked me up at the terminal, and I spent a pleasant 22 hours in Seattle, hanging out on the houseboat he lives in on Lake Union, eating out, and catching up. My family lived in Seattle for several years when I was small; it's always interesting to look around and discover that, despite all of the growth and changes, many of the familiar landmarks of my childhood are still there.

Flying to Alaska from Seattle is always the same: there are friends and familiar faces on the plane. I often get to talking with old friends, former neighbors, coworkers or ex-students in the boarding area. Sometimes I see people I haven't seen in years, or decades. It's always interesting, and time spent waiting to get on the plane passes quickly.

Arriving in Sitka or Juneau, I am always struck first by the cool moisture of the clean-scented air, something that it's easy to take for granted when you live in Southeast Alaska all the time, but when I have been away, it is the first thing I notice. The exact nature of this aroma of home is something a little beyond words that revives distant memories and awakens feelings. When I walk off the plane, I know exactly where I am.

Speaking of home, sometimes when I pass through immigration when returning to the States, the officer who stamps my passport will say, "welcome home," as he or she returns it. Since I was born and lived most of my life in Alaska, it will always be home, however in more recent years I also feel very much en casa, at home, in Mexico. After my visit up north, I arrived back in Mèrida late in the evening a couple of nights ago, and in the morning when I woke up there was nothing to eat in the house. I decided to walk the three blocks to the market at Parque Santiago, where there are some small restaurant stalls, planning to order an omelet. When I arrived, the hot, tangy aroma of choco lomo, a breakfast broth with chunks of beef and served with onions, radish, cilantro, sour orange wedges and tortillas -- a very traditional Yucatecan breakfast -- reached my nostrils. I used to eat this breakfast when I first bought the Mèrida house, before I fixed it up and put in a working kitchen. Eating choco lomo is among my first warm memories of living in Yucatàn, and the unique smell brings back the sentiments and memories of those first exciting days here.

I said "buenos dias" to the couple I sat down next to and ordered the choco lomo, with a Coke. Very Yucatecan. When it came, I put the garnishes in my broth, broke up the meat and liver chunks and began eating the meat rolled up in tortillas. It really tastes great contrasted with the cold, fizzy cola, sucked through a straw from the green glass bottle. A young man who makes his living selling sweets in the park whipped the tray off his head to display his wares and asked me if I wanted a meringue. An older man played an electronic keyboard and sang traditional songs for tips just down the corridor. It's interesting, but I realized while eating that breakfast that Yucatàn no longer feels foreign to me. I seem to be "going home" when traveling in either direction.