I Didn't Know What I Was Looking For

It doesn't feel like a vacation anymore.

I had that thought the other day, and at first it sounded a little sad. Like maybe the novelty had worn off.

But that's not what I meant.

It just feels like everyday life now.

Everyday life with a million-dollar view outside my window, but everyday life still.

There are groceries to buy, things that break, errands to run, dogs to take care of, floors to mop, clothes to hang, (we are 100% solar) and all the other mundane little things that apparently follow you even when you move to a beach in Mexico.

And living in another country definitely comes with its own set of struggles.

I had every intention of learning Spanish before and while we were here.

I think I've officially given up.

I've instead developed my own form of sign language. Not actual sign language, obviously. More of a frantic combination of pointing, waving my hands around and acting things out while speaking English...slower.

Because apparently some part of my brain thinks the problem isn't that I'm speaking the wrong language.

I'm just speaking English too fast.

I can only imagine what I look like to the locals.

Clint, on the other hand, has developed his own system.

His name seems to be particularly difficult here. Depending on who he's talking to, he's been Lint, Klin, Clin, Lenk, Quinn and, my personal favourite, Clunk.

So Clint came up with a solution.

“Clint. Like Eastwood.”

Which, surprisingly, works most of the time!

I once watched him say, “Clint. Like Eastwood,” and then, apparently deciding the name alone wasn't enough, he pulled two imaginary guns from imaginary holsters and went full on cowboy.

I turned around and walked away.

There are moments in a relationship when you support your partner.

And there are moments when you pretend you don't know the man.

The funniest part is, it worked. lol

Which, as far as Clint is concerned, means the system is flawless and he's officially cracked the language barrier.

So apparently between my made-up sign language and Clint Eastwood over there, we're basically bilingual now.

Then there's Mexican time.

Mexican time is a real thing.

Don't let the traffic and driving in the city fool you. Nobody is in a rush here.

Especially once you get out here where fishing, surfing and taking your time seem to be a way of life.

At first, it's hard not to be impatient.

It's hot. The lineups at the markets and stores can be long. You have your stuff and you just want to pay for it, get into your air-conditioned car and go home.

There might be twenty people standing in line while the cold beer everyone just pulled out of the cooler is slowly getting warmer.

And nobody complains.

People talk. They wait. Eventually the line moves.

Back home, I can't help but think someone would be complaining that they're too slow, asking why they don't put another cashier on, or offering some helpful suggestion about how to fix something that is probably completely beyond anyone's control.

And I've caught myself standing there with my arms crossed.

Then I look around at everyone else.

Crap. Do I look impatient?

Uncross the arms.

I actually catch myself doing it all the time now. Apparently, I cross my arms a lot.

Add that to the resting bitch face and I'm probably not giving off the relaxed beach-life vibe I think I am.

And maybe that's one of the things that's slowly changing in me here.

Because somewhere between arriving in Cerritos and now, something else happened too.

I stopped feeling like I was on vacation.

But strangely, I started feeling more at home.

And home is a word I've been thinking about a lot.

Of course I miss our kids, our granddaughter, our family and the people we love back home.

They sent me a photo the other day of a few of them together. I looked at it for about two seconds and knew if I kept looking, I was going to cry.

So I'll stick with FaceTime. It feels more real anyway.

Honestly, they'll FaceTime me from another room when we're home, so not much has changed.

There are parts of home that no view—not even this one—could ever replace.

But I've realized that missing the people you love and feeling like you belong in a place are two completely different things.

I've lived in different towns and cities and met people I've loved in all of them.

But I don't know that I've ever felt like I belonged to a place.

That's different.

I'm not talking about people making me feel welcome or feel loved.

I mean the actual place.

I feel like I belong here. On this ground. On this sand. In this place where the desert meets the sea.

I don't really know how to explain that without sounding crazy.

Sometimes I'm on the beach and I stop and really take everything in.

The ocean. The mountains. The sand. The heat. The sound of the waves. The dogs running around. All of it.

And sometimes the feeling is overwhelming.

Not just because it's beautiful.

I've been to beautiful places before.

It's something else.

It's almost like recognition.

Like some part of me knows this place.

I've spent a lot of my life feeling like I was looking for something, although if you'd asked me what I was looking for, I couldn't have told you.

And when I think about it now, music has always been tied to that feeling for me.

I have this core memory from when I was probably eleven or twelve.

We were camping, and my parents had met some new people there. There was a big fire that night and music playing.

I grew up mostly listening to country music, so whatever came on that night was different.

I don't remember the song.

But I remember the voice.

I was lying in our old pop-up tent trailer when it started playing, and I remember feeling something I don't think I'd ever felt from music before.

There was something in that voice that seemed to encompass an entire feeling.

I wouldn't have had the words for it then. I'm not even sure I have them now.

I just knew I wanted to keep listening.

I lay there while song after song played—listening to this voice coming from somewhere outside by the fire.

It was a few years later, I think, when I finally realized that voice belonged to Tom Petty.

Maybe that's why I remember that night when I've forgotten everything else about it.

I don't remember the campground.

I don't remember who my parents met.

I don't remember what we ate or what everyone talked about around that fire.

But I remember how I felt.

Looking back now, I wonder if that eleven-year-old girl lying in an old pop-up trailer was already drawn to something she didn't have words for yet.

Freedom. Restlessness. Wandering. A life lived a little differently.

I've spent so much of my life drawn to that feeling. Through music. Through travel.

Through the places I've lived and the places I've left.

I've always had this sense that I was searching for something, even though I couldn't have told you what it was.

And sometimes now, when I'm standing on the beach and that feeling becomes almost overwhelming, I think back to that night in the tent trailer.

More than thirty-five years later, I think I finally understand that feeling.

That sense of freedom. The pull toward a life that somehow felt more like me, even when I didn't know what that life looked like.

I never expected to find it here. In fact, I wasn't looking for it at all.

But somehow, for the first time in my life, I feel like I've stopped searching.

We came here for a few months. To take care of three dogs.

To have an adventure.

To live by the ocean for a summer and then go home.

I expected to love it.

I didn't expect to recognize myself in it.

And I certainly didn't expect the vacation feeling disappearing to make me love it more.

Because now I've seen some of the reality too.

It's not a resort.

It's hot. It's dusty. Things don't always work the way I'm used to.

Finding something that should be simple can become an afternoon excursion.

My Spanish is terrible.

Sometimes I desperately miss the convenience of home.

Sometimes I'd really, really like the second cashier to open up.

And boy would I love to chow down on one of my son's homemade donairs.

But then I catch myself.

Uncross the arms.

Wait.

Look around.

Nobody else seems to be in a hurry.

But that's the thing.

This isn't a vacation anymore.

It's just everyday life with a million-dollar view.

I don't know what happens after this summer. I don't know whether this feeling lasts forever or whether someday another place will surprise me in the same way.

I don't think I need to know yet.

I just know that for the first time I can remember, I don't feel like I'm searching for somewhere else.

There will always be things I miss about home. My family most of all.

And I'm equally sure there will be days here when the heat, the dust, the language barrier or a painfully slow lineup makes me question this whole love affair.

But right now, I'm not wondering where I should be instead.

I'm here.

-Amy

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