How to "live the dream" between the mountain and the sea.

The sea is exceptionally calm this morning when I walk onto the balcony to stretch. It’s just after eight but it’s so quiet and still and the sun is only just peaking up from the Sierra Madre at my back so, somehow, it feels much earlier.

A skin diver is scouring the rocks with a panga waiting nearby to receive his catch. All of this is unusual, since the divers are usually unaccompanied. Then again, I’ve never seen the water so calm on the rocks below my little apartment. He must be collecting quite a bounty this morning. I hear there are bands of red tide elsewhere in Banderas Bay the last few days, but it is clear as a bell here on the south side and I can see each mossy rock nestled into the sea bed like an emerald waiting to be mined.
I go inside to water the plants (those coleus are thirsty little things,) and get the coffee going, measuring a couple of tablespoons of some new “gourmet” Mexican coffee from Chiapas into the cup of my stovetop espresso maker. I haven’t tried this before, and I’m looking forward to it but trying to keep my expectations low. Even though Mexico has some world famous coffee growing regions, it is not especially known for having much of a high brow “coffee culture” and I assume all of those delicious beans must be shipped elsewhere because I have been hard pressed to find anything decent on the shelf amid the rows and rows of instant coffee crystals. Granted, I haven’t looked hard, but it is certainly not as easy to find good grinds in the grocery store as it is in the States.
Wandering back outside, the diver has moved on around the point with his companion boat but another panga has replaced them. This one hovers just offshore with a single driver manning it. He must be cleaning his own catch this morning, because the pelicans are swarming him.

A juvenile Pelecanus occidentalis in flight. They nest here year-round. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

As sea birds go, I love the pelicans. None of the clatter and racket of gulls, which I am lucky not to have here, and no interest in your unattended lunch. They fly so near to the balcony on their daily migrations up and down the coastline that sometimes I think I could almost reach out and grab one. Somehow, they are exceptionally graceful in flight—and unexpected thing if you’ve ever watched one waddle around on land.
Ortalis wagleri, a near cousin of my own West Mexican Chachalacas. Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

There are other birds out this morning. I still don’t know all of them, but I’ve learned a few. The chachalacas are just now beginning to stir in the trees, preening and hopping from branch to branch as if they, too, are considering the day’s to-do list. Later they will decide, and announce the news to the whole neighborhood in the most horrendous cackle you’ve ever heard.
The hummingbirds are out, too. They’re flitting around some wispy yellow flowers on a tree I don’t know the name of. Maybe it’s some relative of the mimosa, with it’s soft fluttering pompoms. Whatever it is, both the hummingbirds and the chachalacas love them and while the hummingbird leaves no trace of its visit, the chachalacas will plow through rough shod, as boisterously as their conversation, and devour the buffet.
I’ve thought about moving into the city. I could find even cheaper rent, I’m told, and it would certainly be less isolating. I’m sure Porkchop would enjoy walks through town, catching up with all the pee-mail around. But I quite like it here. The biodiversity is amazing for a place so close to the city.
This narrow strip of cliffside jungle between the mountains and the sea has geckos and garrobos, more birds than I could ever hope to identify, coatimundi (or so I’m told,) at least a million species of butterflies and moth (only a slight exaggeration) and countless other insects both fascinating and not, periodic plagues of frogs, several kind of crabs inhabiting both land and sea, parrots nesting in hollowed-out termite hives, and boas and tarantulas (neither of which I’ve seen, but I’m oddly looking forward to it).
I love living in this crazy zoo and getting to know these odd neighbors, even when they invade as they did the other day—a swarm of minuscule ants swept through my house taking every last lingering crumb with them…and then were gone before I set in to figure out what to do about them.
A man told me yesterday that my life here didn’t constitute “living the dream” according to the status quo.
Well, sir. I beg to differ.
I’m not sure how much you’d actually have to pay me to put me in a sterile penthouse apartment separated from all of this but outfitted with the standard array of high-end human creature comforts, but it wouldn’t be cheap and I certainly wouldn’t actually pay anyone else for that life. I suppose it’s true, we all have different expectations of what we need and want out of life—what we require to make us “happy”—and I accept that not all would find the value in these simple pleasures.
Why do I find joy, for example, in flicking a gecko turd off the seat of my patio chair before settling in with my morning coffee?! Surely others would consider that a horrific inconvenience, but to me it’s a love note from a shiny little translucent thing that ate up all the mosquitos in the night.
Thank you, gecko.

Seaside in Puerto Vallarta for $800 per month.

I had started considering a move to Mexico long before the November 2016 election forced my hand. When I looked around where I lived in Alaska and any other place I wanted to live, I found one thing over and over again—life was expensive. It was expensive to such a degree that if I were to move anywhere I would enjoy being, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it much at all because I would work all the time just to make ends meet. I don’t know about you, but that’s not a good life to me.

I needed somewhere I could have a better quality of life at a more affordable price, and as much as I searched I couldn’t find my slice of paradise by the sea in the United States. So Porkchop and I moved South. South of the Border, to be precise. Puerto Vallarta in the state of Jalisco in Mexico welcomed us with open arms and now three months in I’m settling into the place, making friends, and enjoying the quiet as the tourist season dies down for the summer.

A lot of people ask me how expensive it is to live here. I’d say as a general ball park average it is easily half as expensive as my last home in Anchorage without even trying to stick to a budget. With any effort at all, it could be considerably less.

A post on Facebook got me thinking about the details of all of that and how my budget and hers compared. She also lives in a beach town, but on the East coast in Progreso. She is also single, but has a baby instead of a dog. We both live in studio apartments, but hers is half the cost of mine. Somehow we still come out at the same $800 per month budget as a comfortable figure at which to live. We both agreed, as well, that a couple could easily live for approximately the same budget (Still under $1,000 per month) since the biggest chunk goes to rent and that wouldn’t increase. It’s also important to note that neither of us have listed health insurance for ourselves in our budgets and for similar reasons—we live below our means and pay out of pocket for the affordable care here as need arises. That being said, we admit the need to look into insurance for emergencies and are doing so.

Here’s my break down lately, and a few notes to help you figure out how things might fit into your own lifestyle and situation.


My rent is $400 per month for a small but new studio apartment directly fronting Banderas Bay with no one below me or crowding me from the sides. It is a simply appointed situation that includes basic furnishings and all utilities, including unlimited internet and cable. (The latter of which I don’t use as a TV wasn’t included and I don’t care to buy one.) I was specifically attracted to this place because it was sparsely furnished—most units are unfurnished or OVERLY furnished and generally not to my taste. I lucked out by finding this place on Craigslist, but it is very difficult to find good deals online. Anyone with the ability to post on Craigslist or other known English language site is instantly able to command a higher price because their listing reaches a wider audience, and the ones that don’t jack the price up get snapped up quickly. Best bet to pre-lease an affordable place is to track down local expat groups for the area and make friends. Puerto Vallarta: Everything You Want or Need to Know was my gateway to life in Vallarta, but similar groups seem to exist throughout Mexico with varying amounts of activity. You might find people “on the ground” willing to keep their eyes peeled for you, otherwise the best bet is an Air BNB or temp situation while you explore for yourself and call the numbers posted on the sides of promising buildings.

Admittedly, my place is small at about 200sf but I am a single girl and a minimalist so I’m quite comfortable in a studio about the size of a hotel room. There is just enough room to pull out an air mattress for a friend as I discovered this past week, but obviously, it’s tight quarters for more than one. My apartment is seven stories down a cliff to the water’s edge, and the stairs are my workout taking the dog for a walk each day! I have happily accepted these compromises for the view.

The first photo I took from my balcony upon waking up early in the morning after my arrival the night before. At night I can see the lights of Banderas Bay from Yelapa in the South to Punta de Mita in the North with all of Vallarta sparkling in between.

A few things:

  1. The best rates for 6 month or, more often, 12-month leases. Short term leases tend to shoot up exponentially because they target the tourist market and you’re back into the $1000+ USD per month range.
  2. If living cheap is important to you, don’t expect all the bells and whistles. In fact, many people find a place they like at a price they like and expect to go in and paint and do repairs before moving in.
  3. The best prices will be unfurnished and without utilities. To me, it wasn’t worth dealing with these things so I am happy to pay a little more to only pay one bill per month.
  4. In Puerto Vallarta proper there are many things that can make rents low, so if you find an exceptionally good deal be sure to check around as to why. Street noise, loud music, barking dogs, fireworks and other noise issues are VERY common, but also keep in mind how a place might be in both the hot dry part of the year and the rainy muggy part of the year—not only the long pleasant winter months. Open air living is common, and so are bugs! Ceiling fans and air conditioners are important commodities that you will likely want to add if they are not present.
  5. Many places in the older and more picturesque parts of Vallarta have a LOT of hills and/or stairs. Depending of the severity of these factors, it can send the rent prices plummeting, but they often have the best views and are worth it if you’re up for the daily hike.
  6. How low can they go? I have seen studios the size of mine reportedly for rent for as low as $50 per month with no furnishings, utilities, or amenities included. I have also seen three bedroom houses for a couple of hundred dollars occasionally with the same caveats.


Because I live South of Puerto Vallarta between the small towns of Mismaloya and Boca de Tomatlan, I pay eight pesos each way to and from Old Town PV. I generally stick around that area and can take care of most of my weekly business there and so 50 pesos (less than $3) per week is a safe estimate for me. Buses in Puerto Vallarta are plentiful, affordable, and quite easy to get the hang of quickly but they can be in poor repair and are sometimes quite an adventure. Taxis, if needed, are another option and also generally plentiful and affordable. When I have an extra large grocery run or miss the last 11:00pm bus to Boca it will cost me up to 350 pesos to get back to my house, which is about $19 at current exchange rates and still not bad for a 30 minute plus cab ride.


Honestly, this is the budget area I have tracked the least. My grocery estimate is about 500 pesos per week on average. (About $27.) This includes generally lots of fresh fruits and veggies, rice, tortillas, sweetened condensed milk and coffee, beans, chicken, cheese, salsa, eggs, etc. In other words, mostly whole foods which makes a big difference and drops the budget significantly. I love cooking and working with Mexican ingredients so this is no worry at all and often I feel I eat as well at home as when I go out.

Porkchop the Dog generally eats some dog-friendly variation of my own food since local brands of dog food seem to be very poor quality and the import stuff is expensive, and inconvenient. I think he is happy with this arrangement and seems exceptionally healthy lately. The food he used to eat is available here from Costco but because of my small space, bus transport, and many stairs, getting a 40lb bag of food around is not feasible, never mind the fact that it would become a major chunk of my grocery budget. He mostly gets a bit of rice and veggies before I add seasoning, plus a portion of whatever meat I have (he likes the parts I don’t like when I buy a whole chicken, for example,) and an egg. He’s only about 30lbs so not a huge eater but he seems to enjoy the variety and I think it’s probably better for him than eating the same dried up crunchy stuff every day anyway. It is also possible to make connections with a butcher shop or fish market for lots of good bits and pieces for a raw diet for a few pesos, but so far I have found it easier just to feed him what I eat. (One of those things where I could easily save more money with a little effort.)

I plan to track the grocery expenses more carefully in June and will update then, so stay tuned!


Obviously, based on the above my necessities are quite manageable at a modest $520 per month including housing, transportation, and groceries. If you’re going to have budget problems, you’ll have them on your entertainment spending. There are just so many things to do and each of them, though quite affordable, seems to add up quickly and the sky is the limit. There are ways to go out and enjoy things on a budget, however. A great meal from a street vendor will have you full to bursting for less than $3, and there is literally a happy hour somewhere in town going most any hour of the day. In fact, one of my favorite swanky places in town for a treat is Joe Jack’s Fish Shack right near my bus stop on Basilio Badillo and I’ll drop about $15 usd with tip for the most delicious serving of poke and fried wontons you’ve ever had and two-for-one mojitos to wash it down with. (Joe Jack’s also has delicious all you can eat fish and chips for under $12 on Fridays, and they’re a great example of how it is possible to eat at even the spendier places on a budget if you know where to look. More on that later!)

Aside from this potential for endless entertainment, my monthly bills in this category are at $15 for Netflix and Hulu and $80 for my AT&T phone with unlimited data and calls. (High because it also includes the payment for the phone itself.)


So, in case you weren’t keeping tabs, that’s $615 per month in regular expenses with $185 left over for entertainment to keep me on this modest budget of $800 USD per month.

While Puerto Vallarta is far from the cheapest city in Mexico, it suited my needs as an affordable coastal community with an international airport and enough English-speaking infrastructure to get me started while I learn Spanish.

It is also important to remember that you could always go cheaper if you must, as many locals do, but as I moved here in search of a better quality of life I was looking for a sweet spot between budget and lifestyle and I think I’ve found it. This is not bad for my own little place on the water with two sandy beaches within walking distance and a beautiful and vibrant cultural center a short bus ride down the road.


Five free things to do every day to improve your Spanish.

I moved to Mexico without knowing any functional Spanish at all. Sure, fifteen years ago I took a semester as a freshman in high school…but that wasn’t helping me much. Now, as an International Studies major at the University of Alaska, I need to collect a lot of language credits in order to graduate but in the interim I still need to get around and be able to take care of business in my new life in Mexico.
Talking with my friend Samara the other day I realized that my vocabulary really isn’t that bad—I know a LOT of words and can follow a conversation fairly easily. But when it comes my turn to talk I’m stumbling all over myself and get tongue tied because conjugation and all the little bits and pieces that connect the words I know are still a mystery. This is incredibly frustrating for someone who is used to being able to express themselves easily in their first language, and I think that frustration in and of itself is my biggest stumbling block and my own worse enemy while I am still in the self-learning phase of this language education.
So clearly, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and trying to come up with ways to overcome this problem. After consulting with a couple of teachers and both native- and non-native Spanish speakers, here are a few tips that have my brain slowly making the switch. Maybe you’ll find them useful as well.

Five Free Ways to Improve Your Spanish

  1. Cartoons. Yes, specifically cartoons! I have discovered that Netflix has a great selection of cartoons in Spanish and I find it much easier to follow than other more mature shows I’ve tried because of the simplicity of the language. This is the least intense yet probably most useful way I’m learning simple conjugations and such. (I must admit I am particularly fond of The Mr. Peabody & Sherman Show at the moment.) Obviously, Netflix is not free but many have some access to Spanish-language cartoons one way or another, so look around until you find something that doesn’t drive you batty.
  2. Duolingo. I’ve tried a few apps but Duolingo keeps me coming back. It’s not always perfect, but it’s free and repetitive and engaging enough to keep me going. I also like the feature which allows me to “compete” with friends and the reminders and incentives to practice daily are surprisingly effective.
  3. Read Something, Anything! A new friend who trains ESL teachers told me the other day to find something I’m interested in and read a bit each day. Not much, only maybe 15-30 minutes, and it should be a topic I’m really intrigued by and want to know about. He suggested a book, specifically. Others have suggested similar strategies with reading a news article that interests me each day. The consensus so far has been NOT to use any translator or dictionary as a crutch to get through it, but rather allow your brain to start working to process the context and inference of words as we go.
  4. Music. This one is easy, but is probably not the most effective. I love Latin music of all sorts and quickly find myself singing along to favorite songs. This isn’t really very useful for fine tuning anything about your Spanish skills, but I feel like it gets my brain engaged and the more exposure to the language the more likely I am to feel comfortable and not freeze up when I’m trying to find my words. Checking out live music events is especially engaging!
  5. Movies & TV. I feel like this is significantly different from watching children’s programs and cartoons, honestly. The language is so much more varied, and here’s the other kicker—you can watch in English or Spanish but either way you go be sure the subtitles are on and you’re paying attention. The more variety the better.

A couple of extras:

These aren’t free, but I’ve found them useful and promising, respectively.

  • Be a tourist. Showing my friend around Vallarta last week exposed me to a couple of situations in which all material was presented in both Spanish and English. A boat trip in which all announcements were made in Spanish first, and then English was especially enlightening and encouraging in reminding me that my vocabulary is improving as I could understand all that was said, and then confirm it when the English announcement was made.
  • Try Coursera. Coursera has a really intriguing online Spanish language course through UC Davis. I’m currently waiting to hear back from my home University as to whether or not they might accept credits through this program since they don’t offer many online language courses themselves, but it’s quite affordable and has good reviews. You can try it free for seven days and then it’s $733mxn ($39usd) per month for as long as you study. Obviously, the more time you devote to it the cheaper it is.
  • Find a teacher or class. There are so many great teachers around willing and ready to help you learn for super affordable prices! Again I would suggest asking around on your city or town’s local Facebook groups to find something that fits your schedule and budget nearby.

Recent studies have shown that repetition is key in learning new languages and both passively listening to something in the background (conversations, radio, music, TV, etc,) and actively listening and paying attention to the same content achieve similar results. So, go ahead! Turn the music up and leave the TV on, just make sure you’re listening and practicing and eventually it will come to you.
Beyond that, just make every effort to use what you do know at every opportunity. Most are patient and friendly and eager to help. I’ve learned more in my daily exchanges with waiters and bus drivers and Oxxo attendants than anywhere else…when I force myself to do it!

On being new to Puerto Vallarta and playing the tour guide.

It’s always a little odd to move to a new place and start writing about great things to do locally when you know so many others have far more expertise on the topic than you. That being said, sometimes a fresh set of eyes adds a unique perspective and sometimes it is the newness and the fresh approach itself that brings value to a common topic in discussion. I know certainly after ten years in Southcentral Alaska I felt largely uninspired to write about a region which brought so much excitement to others, even though I was intimately familiar with it and had a great many things to say on the subject.
This time however, moving into Puerto Vallarta, I am determined not to be so close minded about these things. I know from the constant flow of questions I am asked from friends and family elsewhere that there is curiosity about this place and apparently they want to know what my take on it is. Ok then, I’ll share. I won’t be stingy with the things I’m learning, even though I’m far from an expert on these matters, and someday I’m sure I’ll look back and appreciate the fact that I took the time to write it down so I can fine tune and update the information as I learn more.
Most of the things I’ve been asked lately revolve largely around what it’s like to live here. What is the cost of living? Is the internet good? Are there other work options? Is it safe? Is there health care? What is there to do? What is the art scene like? What kind of cultural activities are there? Is it difficult to obtain a visa? Is it dog friendly, and is it easy to bring a pet into Mexico? Is there public transportation available? What should I bring and what should I leave? Should I change my cash to pesos before I come, or should I bring only a little money or a lot?
These are a few of the things I’ve been asked lately and hope to write about in the coming weeks, but what do you want to know about this corner of the world? Do you have concerns about this place or questions you have difficulty answering with resources you’ve found online? I’ve now hosted two friends from Alaska in the three months I’ve lived here (for comparison, I had one out of state guest visit me in ten years when I lived in Alaska,) and it was the first time either had ventured to Mexico. I hope they leave with a love for this place like the one I have, but I’d love to help allay the fears and concerns of other solo female travelers considering Mexico for the first time as well!

On finding your voice when there is nothing new under the sun.

When I was younger I was a writer. The prose came easily and content generation happened like magic over night. The ideas were hot coals ready to be stoked and everything I came across seemed to stir them up. I was a writer because I wrote, and I never stopped to think whether or not what I was writing was original or valid or culturally sensitive or politically correct because I wrote more than I read, and a steady line of people told me it was good.
Things are so different now. The constant stream of information has put a damper on that once burning writer flame. My thoughts are co-opted by Facebook and Twitter 140 characters at a time. I’ve had editors and teachers show me the ways of the world, and it silenced me because I was unused to criticism, as constructive as it may have been.
When I was younger I was a writer, and I loved travel and I loved reading books about travel. I always wanted to write my own great soul-searching travel epic and I went to all the right places to gather material, but the story hasn’t come to me because the more I traveled, the more I met other travelers who were also writers. They were all so enthused about their own stories and, frankly, their stories sounded much more interesting than any of the ideas I’d been tossing around. It was intimidating to finally meet my peers and come out of the sheltered environment which had fostered so much creativity. The gully washer rush of ideas slowed to a trickle over time and then dried up altogether.
How does this work? Creativity, inspiration, collaboration. What is “the right amount” of outside influence to get ideas coming out of you before they can be stomped down and relegated to the trash heap of unoriginality and played-out thoughts. Feedback is valuable, but is there such a thing as too much? Education and awareness are important, but can you become so immersed in them that you lose your own voice?
I theorize that’s what has happened to me through the steady tutelage of twenty years of social media and exposure to other people’s ideas. People used to have to work hard to hear what others had to say about things. They wrote letters and waited weeks and months for replies. They consumed the rare newspaper or magazine or book voraciously. They traveled long distances to fellowship with other great thinkers and collaborate on new concepts.
By contrast, today I can research fifty topics before noon with a hangover and learn whatever I want to know about, say, orangutan dietary habits and family units with a few clicks of the keyboard. The consumption of media no longer holds value for me because it is so accessible, and I think I feel my own ideas are lumped into that. When I consider what I write swirling in the melee of Google and Facebook, something squeaks in my gut and it works on me until the overwhelming feeling of “what’s the point” takes over and I surrender to another night of Netflix.
I’m trying to change that, though. Trying to adopt new habits and push the noise to background. It’s certainly easier said than done for a content addict like myself. I’ve come up with a few ideas I rarely stick with (Facebook diets? Laughable!) but the awareness of the issue actually has been half the battle. Yeah…cliche as that may be.
I had to decide what I’m about and I’ve decided that I am not here to write another Toes In the Sand travel girl memoir. I am here to uncover that writer I used to be before I got too scared to be her and too disillusioned to bother trying to bring her out. In fact I’d like to revert wholly to that teenage self—that brazen, disdainful, irreverent thing. She was really something, I think, and I admire her don’t give a fuck attitude very much. Her voice, my voice, is valid even if I’m the only one that thinks it is. My stories hold value because they are not anyone else’s, and that’s enough. And even if nobody else ever reads a word I write, I am creating something worthwhile… simply because I am creating. It takes a certain amount of hubris to be a writer, and I think being bold in life is triggering a revival of the confidence I have desperately needed in every way for so very long.

On why sometimes you should go forth and ignore good advice.

I spent ten years in Alaska. I moved there alone and I lived alone for four or five of those years. I worked behind both bars and desks alone. And for half of the ten years I lived there, I spent lots of time at home alone because even though I’d rather be out camping or fishing or adventuring, I couldn’t find anyone to go with me and I’d been scared off going it alone.
All the advice was the same, every single time. “Don’t go alone,” they’d say.
People have been telling me that in almost every situation my entire adult life, and I successfully ignored them most of that time. I think maybe it’s because my mom never told me that. She understood the desire to be out in the world and observe it on your own, without the clutter of companionship; without the restraint of addressing someone else’s pace or preoccupations or schedules. She told me about growing up in the country and spending full days rambling around the rural South on her own and she never discouraged me from doing the same when I became the echo of her youth, another lonesome-loving wild child of the Mississippi Delta.
I’d spend all day out on my own before I even hit double digits, dodging near-misses from snakes and coming face to face with alligator snapping turtles as big as the hood of a car. There were always scrapes and bruises and bumps to report when I’d roll into the kitchen at dinner time after a full day on the lam. It’s a wonder I was never injured, honestly, but Mom told me that she couldn’t worry about us all the time. She couldn’t protect us at every moment of every day, so she shared what guidance she could and let us loose on the world. I think her faith helped her—but I have another kind of faith. The kind where I’m just simply OK with whatever is to come as long as it comes when I’m living life to its fullest.
I never let fear stop me in Hawaii, driving from one end of old Molokai to another on an old beat up Honda Mule. I never let it stop me in Memphis, traversing neighborhoods at hours that would make decent folk go white with concern. I didn’t let it stop me my first summer in Alaska, in Denali, and I didn’t let it stop me in New York City after that.
Something happened during my second stay in Alaska, though. The long one. I don’t know what it was. I guess all the dire warnings finally caught up with my more sensible self. I didn’t feel so bullet proof in the world anymore. I let it all get to me and I sat around wasting time, waiting for someone to join me on an adventure because for the first time in my life the world had succeeded in making me afraid.
Sometimes I think that’s the only reason I stayed there so long. My “Alaska Bucket List” wasn’t dwindling. I worked weekends when most others worked week days and could never quite seem to coordinate to do anything with anyone else. I guess eventually I just got tired of waiting. I started collecting the things I’d need to enjoy the outdoors on my own instead of relying on someone else’s tent or stove. I started small with going to places I was familiar with, places I’d gone with groups in the past and had missed for too long. People still said “don’t go alone” but something funny happened—nothing.
And the same thing happened again and again and again. Nothing. I always came home safe, and perhaps more unscathed than I had as a child. I was always careful, I always educated myself on an area and took precautions and told people where I was going and when I should be back. Alaska is a particularly dangerous place by many measures. If things go wrong you bear a much greater risk of not being found in a timely manner—or at all, if they go really wrong. It’s happened many times before, and perhaps it was this collection of dire warnings and regular news stories of misadventures that kept me at home so often.
And it’s starting to happen again here in Mexico. Even after ignoring the pushback from all the people that warned me that I shouldn’t come here, that it was too dangerous, “especially alone.” I find myself surrounded by others who did the same, but now many of them are the very ones who regale me with horrifying anecdotes of A Million Ways to Die in Mexico.
I didn’t come here to post up in my apartment and watch the sunsets with a margarita…at least not every day. I came to keep living the life I love until I’m not living anymore, and if the former leads to the latter, so be it. I will still go on hikes, I will still camp, I will still kayak…and I will do all of it alone sometimes.
And because of that, I will still get disapproving looks when excitedly relating plans for some new adventure from the majority of people I share it with. My exuberance will be often met with some horrifying anecdote, and I will brush off my annoyance to thank them and adjust my preparations, if needed, to address whatever unlikely threat they warn of. I suspect now I will also be told “it’s not like it is in the States,” just like I was told “It’s not like it is in the Lower 48” when I was in Alaska.
I will be called reckless for this, but I will persist. I will be called irresponsible, but I will smile and usually go anyway. I am used to those kinds of judgements at this point, and I can’t help but notice such commandments to “be careful” fly more frequently in the face of women while men generally need not suffer the suggestion that they are incompetent—even when they are.
I’ll leave you with this: Thank you for your concern. If you have specific useful information pertinent to my plans, feel free to share. Vague comments and any advice to the tune of “be careful” is redundant and unhelpful. I am a grown woman, not a neophyte in need of your protection. I have spent some time in the outdoors and around the world. I am not unaware of the things that can go wrong, but I take the risks because I believe them to be worth it.
You should try it some time. It’s liberating.

On the unique challenges of thriving on lateral change

It can be bewildering to finally get what you want.
I’ve always been an obsessive person. I obsessively do just about everything I do, whether it is wallowing in my own misery, researching an interesting topic, dieting, or planning a trip. I’ve been planning on moving to Mexico since February of 2015. Since then, I took a lot of very big steps to get here (getting rid of all of my things, moving out of my house, buying an RV, saving money,) but ran into a series of infuriating road blocks that prevented success in achieving my goal until this past February, nearly two years to the date that the idea was formed and about a year and half later than I had hoped.
I’ve been here a touch over two months now and it feels “real,” finally. The shiny is wearing off and the reality of this new existence is setting in. My routine feels like a routine rather than a novelty, I barely hear the waves crashing outside my window, and the iguanas are more of a dog teasing annoyance than an enjoyable wildlife encounter. I get a lot of work done, but I spend a lot of time alone. Aside from the amazing view, my studio isn’t that much different from a concrete jail cell: sparse, functional, and isolating.
This is what I wanted, right? Two years, so much planning and preparation, so much worry, so much money. It was all for this. I made it.
Now what?
As you can possibly tell from my last post, I’ve been thinking a lot about minimalism lately and this week I read Goodbye, Things: The New Japanese Minimalism by Fumio Sasaki. It’s the latest in a spate of literature that has modernized a lot of ancient ideas about the joys of simplicity and owning less. I was taken by a number of notions and plan on sharing a couple of other posts loosely related to subject matter within its pages, but the first idea that really struck me is that happiness and joy are things that are best triggered and maintained by change.
Not really a novel concept. In fact, this is something my gut has always known and I’ve done quite a good job on acting on it throughout my life without the affirmation of scientific studies or any form of philosophy to influence me. I have always struggled with stasis but spent a good portion of my life trying to combat that instinct to seek change, to keep evolving, because change is not compatible with traditional notions of American success. In American culture the only change we are supposed to strive for is progressive change. We are always building on past accomplishments and “leveling up” in a beguiling form of progression. This kind of change calls for a foundation to be built on though. It is a kind of change that requires stability, and roots. We go to to school to get an education to start a great career and achieve financial success through promotions and building wealth. We start a relationship to get engaged, to get married, to have children, to have grand children. We get a home to decorate and fill with things and put our stamp on it and call it our own. All of these seem like change—they are changes. But because of the systemic progression they aren’t dramatic changes and I suspect that that is not only sufficient, but preferable to most.
I’ve always needed something…more. I think I thrive on lateral change. The whirlwind, totally uproot your life, fake your own death kind of change. Or, you know, quit your job, sell all your stuff and move to Mexico kind of change. I’ve always thrived on the kind of changes that take every damn thing I’ve got in me to accomplish, and when I accomplish them the novelty tends to wear off quickly and I find myself looking for the next “project” to stimulate joy and engage my senses and creative efforts.
Which brings me to now. That dreaded “now what” that follows success. It’s not a bad place to be, really. It means I accomplished a huge goal. But that accomplishment comes with the burden of choosing my next adventure, which is a distinct privilege I am grateful to have these days.
So bear with me as I sort through the options, because there really are so very many. So many business ventures that are calling my name, so many places I could go next. Sometimes your direction is obvious and others it is much less so, but honestly…figuring it out is half the thrill.

On the slow path to minimalism.

I’m not a minimalist by nature, anyone that knows me at all would scoff at that idea. But I am slowly becoming a minimalist by force of circumstances and it’s so. damn. liberating.

I guess my path towards minimalism started a couple of years ago when I decided that my little house in downtown Anchorage, the one actually so packed to the brim with stuff that it was suffocating me, had to go. It was unhealthy physically and psychologically and I couldn’t keep subjecting myself to the weight of so many belongings. I was living in a prison of my own creation. I had collected that prison in piecemeal through six years of depression and manic episodes of inspiration in which I thought somehow buying more things to contain my other things would make the things less…overwhelming.

When I moved out of that tiny one bedroom house there were bags full of things intended to hide or organize or contain other things. Bags that had never been unpacked after I brought them home. Bags that maybe had three year old receipts in them because I wanted to return them when I walked in my door and realized how inadequate and ridiculous I was to think this was somehow my solution, or my salvation. Most of the time hopelessness or embarrassment kept me from following through with those returns, so they languished on a shelf or in a closet or in the basement, mouldering with the other forgotten toys of organized homes and neat spaces. Thousands of dollars worth of things that never left the bag they entered the house in.

Getting rid of it all was hard. Not because I still wanted it, I hated it all and if I could have walked away and dropped a match I would have been relieved. It was hard because sorting through things to get rid of them forces you to confront the sadness that brought them into your life. It forces you to acknowledge the mental illness you’ve been denying for so long and all of the things that goes with that suddenly surface, when you’re sitting alone in a heap of crap you don’t want too embarrassed to ask for help. Hoarding has a complicated relationship with isolation and depression. It often begins with depression which can make even basic house keeping and organization seem overwhelming. It quickly spirals into isolation because you’re embarrassed to have people over and you feel guilty if you go out to do things because you should be getting your shit together at home. Once these two things are in place, you’re set up for the real business of hoarding to get underway because people don’t understand it and they are cruel and judgmental about it—usually unintentionally—and it creates an environment which makes asking for help seem impossible and therefore it keeps getting worse. It just keeps snowballing until you break, if you break.

Luckily I did. I got to the point where I couldn’t do it anymore. That rock bottom kind of thing. I knew I wanted so much more in life and my belongings…all that CRAP…was keeping me from doing it. I was 30 years old and living like a goddamn spinster cat lady and it was no longer acceptable, no matter what the cost of breaking free. I’m so glad that I was able to get to that point and get just enough help to get rid of it all and start a new life for myself. I know not everyone is so lucky, but all it took was one friend saying they would be there full of understanding with their work gloves on and no judgment to help me do the heavy lifting. Bless her heart. I was salty to work with because it really is such a difficult thing, but she put up with it like a champ. That’s a real friend.

I moved out of that house two years ago in June. I didn’t get rid of everything, but I got rid of at least 3/4’s of everything I owned. When I moved to Mexico in February, I left some things in storage in Alaska (yet to be purged) and came here with two rubbermade totes, two suitcases, and my dog. In the last month I’ve realized even this is too much for me. I’ve worn less than 1/4 again of the clothing I brought, the desktop iMac and DVD collection has sat unused, the toiletry bag full of my slimmed down makeup collection has not been opened, and my colored art pencils remain in their zippered pouch with factory points intact.

I have added a few things: a pot with a lid to replace my small camping pot, a lounge chair for the balcony, and some plates, bowls and coffee cups.

I have also added to my wardrobe, surprisingly. I bought three spaghetti strap bamboo rayon slip dresses, two wrap skirts, and a pair of leather Mexican sandals called hauraches. These items, in addition to my sports bras, bathing suits, and capri leggings, are literally all I have worn for the last month. Not one other thing from the pile of clothing I brought from Alaska has been touched, and today it is being packed up to go away.

This is a lighter way of life in every way and I feel so lucky to be living it.

Three Weeks at Carretera a Barra de Navidad Kilómetro 14.5

At the beginning of February I left Alaska, a place I had grown to love and feel to be more my home than anywhere else on earth after being there for ten years. I left her for the hazy allure of Mexico, an anonymous little spot on the map south of Puerto Vallarta, to be specific. Here I am sandwiched between the fishing villages of Boca de Tomatlin and Mismaloya on the Mexican equivalent of California’s Hwy 1. I live in a little studio apartment carved out of a cliff and reinforced with concrete and tile with the Pacific ocean lapping at my balcony and the jungle-draped mountain rising sharply behind me. There is nothing in between except a two lane road, a few other similarly precarious homes, and me.
I’ve been here for three weeks and patterns are beginning to emerge.
Every morning I wake up at eight in the morning when the sun comes over the mountain behind me and the water taxis start slapping the waves back and forth from Puerto Vallarta to Boca and Yelapa carrying tourists and fishermen and sight-seers. By 8:30 or 9:00 the neighbor upstairs is stirring and she moves some mysterious heavy furniture item across the floor and the sounds of breakfast—dishes rattling softly and water running—trickle down the cliff from her open windows into mine.
I get up and begin my own rituals of making coffee (two ice cubes, one teaspoon condensed milk) and checking to see if the iguanas are out yet. Around this time some heavy, musky floral aroma makes an appearance on the scene, mingling with the sea water and whatever other olfactory flotsam and jetsam happens to be on the air at the moment and I think it must be the neighbor’s body wash when she showers. Not bad, but a little loud for me.
Feed dog, water dog, consider the contents of my refrigerator, walk dog.
Around 11:00 or 11:30 the pirate ship is out in the bay shooting off its cannons. How exciting that must be for the people on the ship, it must be so loud from there, and how sharply that contrasts to the way it’s become a regular punctuation of my day. The dog perks his ears and paces and I go back to work or study or whatever pointless preoccupation I have going on.
Lunch? Eh.
Around 2:30 or 3:00 the sun will start creeping onto my balcony at last and I check the cloud cover and consider my current state of sunburn, or lack thereof, and if all is in order I’ll take my studies out with the intention of reading and decreasing this Alaskan whitewash I wear. But I’ll probably just daydream, write a few notes, listen to whatever latest music is making me feel creative by proxy. This goes on for an hour or so, and I’m finally hungry and come in for some ice water while I cook an early dinner and work a bit with one eye on the horizon for the daily round of sunset pictures. (I’ll probably be out of space on my phone soon.)
After sunset I’ll walk the dog again and close up the big sliding glass door so the bugs don’t come in. I’ll have every intention of working some more, but the overhead lights in here at night—weak coiled fluorescents dangling from naked wires above the ceiling fans—are not very inspiring, so I’ll likely turn them off and work a bit by lantern before I give up and wash up for bed and fall asleep to some show on Amazon.
On Fridays we do laundry. On Saturday and Sunday we focus a bit more on school because deadlines and procrastination. One or two days per week we try to go to town for groceries and human contact. We feed the iguanas the not-really-bananas as often as possible.
Part of me is surprised that I’m ok with this routine, and I’m sure I won’t be happy like this forever…but for now it’s not bad at all.

On conquering the material self

The initial blush of excitement has faded.
In its place the question of “what have I gotten myself into” is answered only with a creeping chill of fear and dread. I’ve always thrown myself into the well headlong and waited to wonder what was at the bottom until I was halfway down. For a long time, being burned by that mentality has kept me from making such leaps of faith.
But I had to make one, and now reality is setting in. The slow, painful process of shedding your accumulated earthly belongings by choice is like molting off your identity. You know yourself by the things you choose to own, or want to own. When you let them go, in many ways you lose yourself. It’s disorienting and isn’t something to take lightly.
In essence, I am saying goodbye to Rachel, the homebody with her chickens and rabbits and gardens and passionate interests in agriculture and homey shit like cooking and putting up food and crochet. Adieu to the selectively social creature that loved to shop, go out for dinner or music, and loved her job behind the bar.
Keep in mind, I am trying to say goodbye to this person while simultaneously wrapping my brain around being the kind of person that lives in a 30-year old RV with her dog. I will not have a job for a while. I will not have a home aside from the one I will be driving.
Maybe the implications of this seem like they would be something I should have conquered emotionally before taking on the project…but would anyone take such a thing on if they thought it through first? I know myself well enough to know I wouldn’t have, because I have passed up opportunities such as this before. It’s really rather unreasonable on many levels and may even speak to some textbook case of mental illness to forsake everything you own, everyone you know, everything you love and run away to Mexico.
And yet, I know the fear is fleeting and I will box up these belongings and pack them away re-discover happiness in simplicity and minimalism. And I will certainly be a better, stronger person because of it.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, i understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (1 Cor. 13:11 KJV)

Maybe this is what growing up feels like.
It’s about damn time.