Spending the Holidays Abroad

Surreal. I’m walking through the streets of Puerto Vallarta and someone stops me. Inwardly I sigh, expecting yet another sales pitch (You want braids? You want bracelet? How about massage). Instead he says, “Are you American?” I say yes and take a step to walk away. “When is Thanksgiving? “ It’s tomorrow I tell him, and he hits his buddy on the arm as to say, “See I told you”.

Until he asked, I had forgotten. Last week, I flew to Mexico. I didn’t tell you about that, but I did. And I’m traveling solo. In a whirlwind of events in the preceding weeks, everything changed. There was the house my father in law owns in Vermont. There were tenants that had to go. There was my husband, feeling every bit the responsible son, and determined to help out. And there was me, travel plans ready, husband insistent I don’t waste the opportunities I have.

Truth be told, I didn’t want to waste them either.

And I had forgotten all about Thanksgiving. Perhaps I was distracted. Or perhaps it was the lack of constant reminders—the commercials, the traditional foods conveniently placed forefront in every store, your friends, family, and strangers all asking: So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving. This year the answer was spending a week in Puerto Vallarta and trying to figure out my new plan. And on Thanksgiving day, I caught a 20 hour bus to Acapulco.

I’ll be spending Christmas with a family in Guatemala. Not my family, but a family associated with the language school in Quetzaltenango. And after I’ll be heading further south. My husband will meet up with me at some point, or I’ll fly home to visit.

I am so thankful that I still get to do this trip, even if it’s not to plan. But when someone on the street asked me about Thanksgiving, it startled me a little. It reminded me of the reality… I was really in Mexico, and everyone else was far away doing something else. Do the first few days back on the road always feel slightly like a dream? You leave chilly New England, with snow already falling, and 6 hours later you wake up in 85 degree humidity and sunshine. All that Spanish you were sure you forgot, comes flooding back. You’re lost, trying to figure out what bus to take. You’re dehydrated, sitting on the beach, enjoying the view. You’re meeting up with people at the hostel who talk about coming from Australia or Japan or Canada. They want to drink Tequila. Ok, just a little.

The last night in Puerto Vallarta, I was sitting on the porch with my laptop and a dozen Mexican kids come running over. It’s 8 PM and they’re noisily playing some version of tag. They are using me and my table as cover. We talk in Spanish. I try to teach them some English words, and they proudly inform me they already know Good Morning and Thank You. One of the hostel staff asks me, “Are the kids playing with you?” I laugh and nod and the kids screech and run away.

While everyone I know back home is prepping turkeys and baking apple pies or visiting with friends on the night before Thanksgiving, I’m entertaining some kids with my limited Spanish. It’s not traditional, but I’ll take it.








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