Lisa's Chapter: First Impressions of Carrillo

Arriving in Felipe Carrillo Puerto late in the evening, having taken Highway 307 south from Cancun, the road damp from an early evening shower, my first sight in town is of what I will soon learn is called The Disco Bus – a double-decker, decorated with bright neon tubing. Tooling about on Saturday evenings, it takes riders through the narrow streets of town.I’ve driven the entire 215 kilometers from the airport with my windows down; the air feels loaded, strumming. I’m now south of the Tropic of Cancer.The Disco Bus moves past and my car windows rattle. Booming music blares, heads inside the bus bounce. I shift to second gear, enter the traffic circle where a statue of Benito Juarez, a book in his outstretched hand, greets me.I’m renting an apartment from a fellow writer, Sonja. It’s a place I have not seen. I’m staying six months, maybe longer. Right now, I don’t know. Following Sonja’s directions, taking first a left, then a right, then another right, I drive along sign-less streets. Finding her bamboo gates only minutes from the traffic circle, I toot the car’s horn and the door slides open.I left everything behind to travel to Carrillo: a man to whom I was committed for twenty-five years, the brick house we shared perched hillside above the Oconee River in northern Georgia, a camellia garden, an herb garden, three cats, a successful fitness studio, women clients. My friends gave me parties. I gave away hundreds of books. My winter clothes are in boxes, and I’m still not sure what I’m going to do with my 14 year-old Nissan truck.I’ve come to Mexico, a place I’ve never been before, and to Carrillo, a place I had to look up on a map. I don’t speak Spanish, but I assure everyone that I will get some lessons, that I will learn. You could say I have entered a strange, groundless life.

Within a week, I’m asked about my first impressions of Felipe Carrillo Puerto. I struggle with what to write, what to put into words. If I call myself a writer this should be easy. What is it I really think about this small town in the Yucatan Peninsula?Maybe I can start this way, with a short list of what I’ve noticed:Brown eggs sit in a basket at a small shop’s windowsill. A corner bakery offers fresh, dome-shaped buns. In the 

mercado

, plump avocadoes, jicama, and shiny mandarins spill from bins.Pale orange 

triciclos

, large tricycles that are peddled by stout Mayan men, serve as primary vehicles for many families. Carrillo’s taxi-drivers beep their horns to let the household know it’s there, waiting. Bicycle shops are plentiful. Scooters pop and burp, passing down the narrow lanes often carrying three passengers.Green Yucatan parrots fly in pairs; Cinnamon hummingbirds feed poolside on the dark pink flowers of the Ixora; extra-large Yucatan grasshoppers wearing what looks like armored scarves cling to the citrus trees in the garden where I live. I wear my swimsuit during the entire month of January. In February, I visit my first 

cenote

. The deep, azul water surprises me. I tell my swimming companion, “I feel as if I should say a prayer before I enter.”“I know,” he replies.Streets are dusty, days are hot; at night things cool off. People are friendly. School children practice their greetings with me, in English: “Hello. How are you?”I try to be quicker, speaking to them first: “Buenas tardes.”In the afternoons, the deep bass of more than one nearby stereo competes for my attention.The local track is busy during the evening hours: men kick soccer balls on the grassy center, girls ride white bicycles, teens pair up and practice lunges on the bleachers.Branches of red, pink, and purple bougainvillea fold out over garden walls. Pale yellow hibiscus stretch their limbs, flirt from tall iron gates. The orange-colored blossoms of the Cordia tree drop to the sidewalk as I walk along.For now, my plan is to settle in here, write. I’ll swim each day, eat fresh corn tortillas from the vendor at the 

mercado, 

take my sheets and towels to the local 

lavanderia.

 Maybe I’ll get someone to give me a ride in the cargo-hold of a

 triciclo 

where

I’ll stretch out my legs, make a short video, write about what it feels like to bump along the streets. And, yes, I want to go on The Disco Bus, too. Maybe Saturday night?

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