35 years...

and counting...

The day - 35 years ago - that I left England for Mexico was, I thought, an easy thing to do. It was July 1991 and I had just got married in London, honeymooned in Italy and France and had packed my life into tea chests prior to shipping. I was ready. I was excited.

No one had told me what it would feel like when I actually left.

My parents were at the airport seeing us off, of course they were. I was fine. And then my mother gave me a last hug. And this sob, this incredible deep rush of emotion, rose up from deep inside me and came out like a jolt as she held me. Of course she felt it, she must have, but she never said anything. We held each other, cried a little, and then we drew apart, for me to start a new life a very long way away.

That sob has stayed with me ever since.

I had visited Mexico many times before. I had lived in Boston, USA, in Lyon, France, but this time was different because it was forever. I got married and was ready to take on an extended family and to cope with permanent life in Mexico City.

Moving from one country to another is not an easy thing to do. You take on a new culture, a different history, a way of life, a language you never learnt at school, you drive on the other side of the road, eat strange food, tolerate a family who expects you to produce children almost immediately, cope with people who look at you expectantly, and you give up a job, abandon a career, leave behind a family and dear friends, swop one capital city for another, relinquish everything that has been your life up until then.

My husband gave me the keys to a car, he organised a bank account, but driving was hard since I did not know where the nearest bank was, or anything for that matter. We were all peso millionaires back then, before a few zeros were taken off so writing cheques was very complicated. In those days you would queue up in the bank with a cheque, which would hopefully be authenticated, and then you’d have to join another queue to get the cash, the girl bashing a manual typewriter with a grim expression on her face to produce the receipt. It would all take about an hour.

Phone calls were so expensive and calling home was something I had to do quickly, which was hard for my parents to accept. Letters would take up to three months to arrive (as they still do) so it was difficult to communicate in general.

35 years ago I moved to Mexico and despite jettisoning my husband on the way I’m still here. Life is very different, my parents are no longer of this world, communication is easy and cheap, banking is instant and we all carry mobile phones. Many friends have come to visit, some of their children too and soon the grandchildren will turn up, at least I hope so.

Over the years it hasn’t always been easy and my friends back home say that I live in a war zone which is very far from the truth but I am blessed with the finest friends and I live a lucky life as a retiree teaching English to professional Mexicans and enjoying the best weather in the world and a house and garden that I love and share with friends and family near and far.

That sob may still be with me but I never regret having made Mexico my home.