Columns

“This is Mexico,” the woman next to me said as we waited for the Mariachi Festival parade to start.

I’ve never been one to claim autumn as my favorite season. I’ve always picked summer – holding on to the fuzzy feelings brought on by the last days of school, county fairs, unstructured days, and evenings filled with neighborhood games of “home free all” played across back yards.

My grandson wakes up on his birthday as if every year is a milestone that opens new doors. “I can chew gum now because I’m four.”

This is the third week that I’ve been taking my grandson to and from a summer day camp. Unlike his school, it’s a little too far to walk, so we’ve been driving, taking streets I’m familiar with, but going through an intersection that I’ve rarely stopped at.

I’ve been home alone for ten days. The daughter and son-in-law are off on vacation and the grandsons are with their other grandparents in Ohio. It’s just me and four bedrooms and unlimited access to the only bathtub in the house.

Just when I start thinking I’m a pretty savvy expat something pulls me back and reminds me that what I really am is a rather bumbling midwesterner who just happens to be living in Mexico.