At 7:37 AM on February 6, I departed Boston with my sister, husband and son. Four hours later Jet Blue delivered us safely to Cancun, Mexico. After being admitted at Immigration, claiming our bags, and clearing Customs, we hailed a cab and were on our way (a 30-minute ride) to Puerto Juarez.
From there, we rode a ferry over to the island -- our island -- La Isla Mujeres, where we (well, some of us) have been vacationing off and on since 1998. We were eating a late lunch on the beach at 2:30 PM, Mexico time. Paradise.
Traveling to Isla Mujeres is like going home. We know the place. Not like locals know it, but we know it well enough to feel instantly at ease when we step off the boat. Our hotel, with its wide private balconies and rooms that open onto a lush courtyard, feels like home.
Our beach, with its shifting sands and familiar faces, feels like home.
Our favorite places to eat, favorite streets on which to walk, favorite sites to go and see – it all feels like home.
We were there 24 hours before my parents and their traveling companions joined us. By then Marnie and I had already enjoyed more hours of uninterrupted conversation than we had since my son was born. By then Chris and Abel had rented a moped and toured the island. By then we had swum in the ocean, made sand sculptures, sipped fresh coconut water, fallen asleep to the hush of gentle surf and been awakened by the coo of mourning doves.
If you’re keeping count, the arrival of the Bacons and the Donovan/Hickeys yielded a ratio of seven adults to one child. Seven to one! Seven adoring adults and one almost-five year old. The next morning, after breakfast, Chris and Abel headed out for a moto ride, while I ambled back to the hotel. The rest of our group was off eating, or shopping, or changing dollars for pesos . . . I don’t know where they were. The point was: they were not there.
And so I sat, on my private balcony overlooking the hibiscus grove, and read a book. And worked a crossword. And wrote in a journal. I haven’t written in a journal in years! All. By. My. Self. I think it was an hour before anyone came up the stairs to our connected-but-not-adjoining rooms. By then I’d had a revelation.
This was the first time, in nearly five years, that I was experiencing a guilt-free moment to myself. Abel was in good hands. I’d left my work at home. There was nothing to clean, nothing to cook, nothing to organize, nothing to do. Unless I wanted to. And for that hour I did exactly what I wanted to do. By myself. Paradise indeed.
Amazingly, the week continued in this fashion. Sure, I spent 22 or 23 hours a day doing my usual duties – caring for my son, being with my family, playing eating, bathing, sleeping . . . procuring daily double-quarts of bottled “safe” Mexican water. But each and every day, I seemed to have some sort of reprieve – a walk with Marnie, a moped ride with Chris, some time on the beach while Abel was swimming or exploring with someone other than me . . . when I could just contentedly read my books (I managed to finish five of them), do my crosswords, write in my journals, or just daydream. What working mother of a preschooler has time to daydream?
Not long after Abel was born, we tossed around the idea of returning to Mexico, but for various reasons it never felt right. He’s too young – what if he gets sick? He’s too equipment-laden – we’re not schlepping all his gear on a plane. He’s too finicky, or unpredictable, or apt to poop in his underpants . . . but then after last fall’s trip to DC to attend/perform a wedding, we realized that all those excuses had fallen away. We were ready to travel again, to show our son some new perspectives on this world . . .
And boy, did he do well! A four hour plane trip? No problem (thanks to chewing gum, Cartoon Network, Angry Birds and Leapster). Long lines in the airport? He handled them with aplomb. Overwhelming changes in scenery, temperature, cuisine, language, demographics . . . the kid is a born traveler. I thought for sure he’d miss his friends, his TV shows, his Transformers . . . but no, not so much. He picked up more Spanish vocabulary words in a week than I’ve been able to in a decade. Was he ready to go home at the end of the week? Sure, we all were. Does he want to go back? You bet!
I enjoy family vacations because they strip away all the home-based static – the jobs, the housework, the managing of minutia – and permit us just to spend time together. Even if we’re just lounging around our hotel, doing nothing (because it’s raining outside and there’s not much to do put play Spanish Bingo), it feels really good. And important.
This trip reminded me of a particular person with whom I have not been spending much quality time: myself. A week away provided a valuable pause in the busy-ness, to help me reflect on what’s important and re-prioritize my life. I returned home rested, connected, and grateful.
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