Be a Sponge and a Mirror: Getting the Most from Expat Life

A morning in Mérida reminds one expat how to absorb every experience—and reflect the best of where you come from.

Colorful street life in Mérida’s neighborhoods offers lessons in connection and culture. ©iStock/al_la

I had driven over two hours on a special mission for my wife and now found myself deep within a working-class neighborhood in the bowels of big-city Mérida, Yucatán, Mexico.

It was early morning. The neighborhood was awakening, stretching, and beginning to move. Uniformed schoolchildren walked along in small groups, laughing and talking as they headed to school. I passed a large public hospital, men and women dressed in green and maroon medical scrubs like bees entering a hive, hovering around entrances while others found their way inside to deal with their medical conditions.

Street vendors manning small, wheeled carts sold tacos, carnitas, and tortas to those entering, while I jockeyed for position in the slow-moving, moderate traffic. Motorbikes and cars dueled with commercial delivery trucks and taxis. The narrow streets were cratered with deep potholes, impossible to avoid, and the ubiquitous speed bumps, called topes (TOE-pays), guarantee at least two front-end alignments each year and more frequent suspension maintenance. My progress was frequently halted by commercial trucks making deliveries to the hundreds of small local businesses that make up Mexican neighborhoods.

Driving in Mexico’s cities takes ample amounts of caution and bravery, with the understanding that traffic laws are merely unenforced suggestions. Lane changes can happen at any time, at any speed, under any conditions, for no apparent reason, despite obvious collision hazards. Yielding seems unknown, and reflexes are regularly tested, adding some spice to my Spanish vocabulary.

Zoning laws, as you might think of them, do not exist here. Homes and apartments are randomly mixed with motorcycle repair shops and tiny markets. Small, colorful flags beckon you to family-owned restaurants, and a plethora of mixed signage directs you to cell phone stores, doctor and dental offices, electricians, and plumbers. Sometimes the source of the blaring music cannot be located. These are not the spotless streets of Japan, and the remnants of eviscerated trash bags can be seen as evidence of local street dogs scrounging for food.

These neighborhoods are wonderful, experiential journeys meant to be inhaled and absorbed through your skin; tasted and savored like a thick, rich cultural stew, sprinkled with hanging laundry and boisterous, good-natured banter between neighbors. This is not the pristine beach life or resort experience often portrayed in advertisements and seen by tourists. This is the neighborhood where the employees of those resorts live and raise their families.

Schools, churches, bakeries, and barbershops are part and parcel of life here, and it all works to create a vibrant, condensed, multi-sensory kaleidoscope.

It felt safe and welcoming, like my favorite aunt’s house. No fear or perceived threats, but rather a busy yet peaceful space filled with laughter, smiles, and congeniality everywhere I looked. People coexisting, arms entwined.

Parking is always a challenge in Mexico’s cities, with parallel parking being the only option along narrow streets. You must become an expert at quickly and successfully squeezing your car into tiny spaces. Many locals simply walk, take a taxi, or use a bicycle or small motorbike.

My task this morning was to purchase a number of antique window frames my wife had found advertised on Facebook Marketplace. Diane is an artistic spirit. If you know someone like this, you know what I’m talking about. Perhaps her most prolific gift is photography. Give that woman a camera, or even a cell phone with a decent camera, and she will capture a photo of a common object, like a door or a window, in a way that makes you gasp. She lives in the same world as I, yet she doesn’t see it the same. Artists are special people.

These antique window frames I sought, once cleaned up, will hang on the interior walls of our home, showcasing some of her favorite, or maybe my favorite, photos from the hundreds she has amassed. I was looking forward to bringing them to her.

I also realized that I wanted to deliberately absorb this experience. My daily life in a tiny Maya village is certainly interesting, wonderful, in fact, but I wanted to soak up all that I could from this morning’s adventure.

Some of these people will not travel more than a few miles from this neighborhood for their entire lives. There is no need. Everything they need is right here, including several generations of family.

Google Maps delivered me to my destination, or close enough, in this congested area. It would be a private residence, and what I saw was a row of twelve or thirteen similar entrance doors leading into small, attached homes about ten to twelve feet apart. No visible numbers on these older, decaying block-and-stone structures, but I knew I was close. I found a temporary parking place, blocking the entrance to something, and sent a text message to the seller, telling her I was parked on the street. In just a few minutes, a woman appeared about twenty-five yards away, waving and pointing.

I pulled ahead and found one of those tiny parking spaces directly in front of an entrance door. I utilized my well-practiced parking skills to squeeze in with a couple of extra feet to spare.

After a brief introduction, I was invited inside. The antique windows were stacked and staggered, leaning against the wall. I knew Diane would love them. We concluded our business, which had been quite cordial and ended with a combination handshake and light hug, the seller complimenting my Spanish-speaking skills (polite but unwarranted).

I would not be surprised if I was the first U.S. expat this woman and her mother had met, a possibility I always try to remember in all my interactions with the citizens of the country that is hosting me.

To them, I personally represent the entirety of the United States of America, and these days, that feels like an important responsibility.

If you find yourself living outside the United States, I encourage you to live like a sponge, absorbing all you can. The best experiences are almost always found outside your comfort zone. Get off the beaten path, get into the neighborhoods, and practice your second language.

You can benefit from being both a sponge and a mirror, reflecting the best version of your home country.

— Don Murray

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