Standing in front of the fruit store, I hear my phone ring.

My friend is calling and I answer “Hey, I am waiting for someone to meet me with a plate of meatballs and mashed potatoes. Can we talk in a half hour?”

His answer: “You just told me such a great short story, right there. That’s all I need for now. I’ll talk to you soon. He hangs up.”

He’s in Washington and for just a moment I get to see me through his eyes, I get to see Mexico through Washington eyes.

And I hear how funny it sounds, how funny it is, really.

The meatballs and mashed potatoes arrive, carried by a man from Belgium to whom I hand 120 pesos. I can already smell the garlic and it smells darn good. Marley and Lila are with me and they agree.

Mashed potatoes in Mexico. Hand carried over a muddy street. With a dash of nutmeg.

It’s noon and the short phone conversation invites me to look at my whole day so far and notice that yes indeed, it is all a bit quirky,

The morning started with a beach walk where an older gentleman showed me the treasure he had found: a twisted piece of wood shaped like either a standing bear or a shaman. Possibly both. The man is carrying his treasure home and he looks very happy about it. It’s not yet 7 am.

Then we pass three spots with the unmistakable prints left in the sand by mama turtles. I always feel these deep inside of my mama soul. Just last week I got to cheer two tiny just-hatched babies on their way to the big waves. Just the two babies, my two pups, and me. I exhaled Thank You.

A few minutes later I am able to take a photo of Oso, a dog famous in the village, so that I may go home and paint him and add him to my Loteria game (see? Just this ONE sentence… ). Since he was a tiny pup, Oso has walked around the village, eaten at plenty of restaurants, and been loved by many people. He has a person with whom he lives but he has never been one to not do what he wants.

10 am. Back home, I give a tour to a young man who is interested in planting a small organic garden next to my house. He tells me that at sowing time he will be walking barefoot, and putting his hands all over the soil so that his sweat may meld with the earth, and this way the seeds will know exactly what kind of minerals to develop to nourish him.

Then to the vet to get Lila and Marley’s current weight. The scale is broken and so the vet tells me not to worry, just take them both to the hardware store and weigh them on the cement scale. That’s what we do.

It’s not even noon and had I not received my friend’s phone call, I would likely not have taken the time to have perspective and notice how different my days are, down here.
This sort of stuff happens all the time. The weirdest conversations. My friend who tells me she is digging out her rocky garden … in her bathroom. My other friend who just finished a two-month psilocybin microdose treatment and raves about it, then gives me the WhatsApp number of the woman who sells the medicine. “She always throws in a chocolate,” she adds.

The pineapples. Right off the truck, on my way home I bought three ripe and swoon-smelling pineapples. Fifty pesos for all three.

A blend of so many Essences. What are they? I see Freedom, I see Creativity, Ease, Simplicity, Community.

Essences that really work for me.

Almost all the time.

I wasn't particularly looking to adopt a cat (you know where this is going, right?) but when I saw the little face on Facebook, around three years ago, I thought: "Why not go take a look?” I love the way life feels with both a dog and a cat in the house.

I asked a friend if she would walk across the village with me and meet the young kitty that someone had found hungry in the street - and off we went.

The directions to the house were creative and it took us a while to find the right door. On the way there, my friend asked me how I would know if this was the right cat for me. My answer was that I would take my time before deciding.

Through a courtyard, up rickety steps, we went. We knocked, ready to come in and have a visit. An audition. The door opened a crack and a woman’s face appeared, holding a small cat whom I remember thinking looked a bit like Audrey Hepburn. I smiled, looking forward to the visit, trying to muster my best Spanish for the occasion.

She handed me the cat, sweetly wished us well, and closed the door.

I looked at my friend. I looked at the cat, seeming comfortable in my arms. My friend laughed her beautiful laugh, I looked at the cat again and well, the only option we seemed to have was to start down the steps and so that’s what we did.

I did not know if this cat was a boy or a girl. I did know that we needed to stop at an ATM to get pesos for litter and cat food.

Holding the cat, I handed my friend my debit card and she punched in a few numbers, asking for 400 pesos. 600 pesos emerged within seconds, along with a receipt stating that we had received 400. We named the cat “Luck” in Greek and then we walked to the store and through the whole village with Tiji in my arms. Note: she has never let me hold her this long since.

Lila loved her right away and the months passed. Tiji is a girl kitty and she is lovely.

Just right for us. Independent, sweet without being on top of me all the time, a mix of indoor cat and wild beast, life with her is great. While Lila hides under the bed, Tiji loves being outside during thunderstorms.

The following summer the three of us went to the States for three months and she adapted within minutes. When we came back, we moved to the country and this is where we have been for the last two years.

Recently sweet Marley joined us and this is a story I still need to tell.
But not today. Today is about Tiji.

A month or so ago, as a girlfriend and I were hanging out in my bathroom, Tiji uncharacteristically jumped into the sink in front of us, sat down, and left a little bloody spot on the colorful ceramic. Odd.

Then I thought I smelled pee in the sink and was confused. Did she pee in the sink and also cut her paw?

I remember not giving it much attention and this is something for which I am working on forgiving myself.

Last week, once again in the bathroom with my friend (ok, ok let me add this: I have a really big bathroom and it is pretty and pink and comfy and we often hang out in there. I even had a couch in it a few months ago. So it’s not quite as weird as it may sound) we are talking when we notice that Tiji is effectively peeing on the Mexican rug.

Right there, inside the house, on the rug, she is peeing. Not at all like her. And then, as she starts to leave, we both see it: blood. There is no doubt at all that she just peed a bright red spot of blood.

I freeze. I remember the sink.

The next day I happen to have an appointment with a vet my friend strongly recommended in Vallarta, to talk about Lila. My friend says: take her too. I WhatsApp the vet - I LOVE that we can do this - and the vet quickly answers sure, bring her in.

I’ll skip the details and just say how sweet, caring, and knowledgeable Dra Myrna is.

She did both consults at the same time, made a plan for Lila, and performed an ultrasound on Tiji. Before doing that, she told me that while the ultrasound would tell us IF there were stones in her bladder it would not tell us how big they were. An X-ray machine was needed for that and she didn’t have one. She could take her to another clinic to do it, but starting with an ultrasound was a good idea.

Yes. There was a stone. At least one.

“Let’s start with a stone-dissolving diet until you come back with Lila in a couple of weeks,” she says. She then drives to the store to get me a bag of the special urinary care food we need so I don’t have to wrangle leaving the girls in the car while I go in myself. That’s how cool she is.

As we leave she smiles and says to me: “She knew just how to tell you.”

Back home, we start on the new food. I pay attention to Tiji, I work with my guilt for not having understood the first time, the time with the sink. I am also aware that I have a trip planned next week.

The next day I decide to bring her back for X-rays. She is still bleeding and I read that the special food can take weeks to dissolve a stone, assuming it is small enough. I also personally remember the pain of having kidney stones.

We do the drive again.

Dra Myrna explains the three options:

1. we find out that the stone(s) is small enough to dissolve and pass on its own with the help of the food and we just got home
2. we find out that while the stone(s) is too big to dissolve it can be aspirated
3. we find out that surgery is the only option.
   
   

I leave Tiji with her so that she may take her to the other clinic and I drive myself straight to Starbucks, waiting for the vet’s message, and the news.

While in the States, I hardly ever go to Starbucks. Here, every six months or so, when life feels a little too intense, seeing the green logo, walking in, and sitting down to a hot chocolate is medicine for my soul. Strangely enough, I bought myself a membership to Costco for the same medicinal purpose. In the States, I will go to great lengths to avoid walking into a Costco. Humans, we are funny.

Halfway through a bite of Portuguese cheese bread, I receive a photo. The stone. It is 8.20 mm. That’s roughly a third of an inch. She has to have surgery immediately. And spend at least one night in the hospital. I call my daughter and I sob. I sob of guilt and I sob of fear and well, I sob of love.

I want to drive home. I want to book a hotel near the clinic. I don’t know what I want.

Dra Myrna tells me the surgery will be at three and that she will keep me posted right away. I ask her to please tell Tiji that we love her and I very slowly make my way home, in the other direction. It feels unnatural.

My daughter is the one who thinks of it first, the beautiful pet mama that she is. She says that I may want to postpone my trip. Six days away, I have no idea what recovery will look like. Spaying surgery I am familiar with and that’s usually fairly smooth. Surely the friend who always stays at my house when I travel could handle that. Tiji loves him. But this is different.

A couple of hours later I receive a message saying that they decided to do the surgery earlier and that all went well. Then a photo of the darn stone, out in the fresh air, out of my girl’s bladder. “This stone is huge. There were many many small ones, too and her bladder took a beating. She did well, she is resting and I will let you know whether you can pick her up tomorrow morning.”

I do a little Googly research, the one I had not wanted to do until I heard back. Research on recovery, on cost too. I read that proper, calm recovery is crucial, and that cost of the surgery can be as high as 3,000 USD.

Canceling the trip starts to become a strong possibility. I have been so very much looking forward to going. And yet.

I decide to ask the vet what she thinks about that.

The way she handled my question has been repeating in my mind. She did not hesitate. She did not try to sound neutral. She did not say “See what feels best for you.”

She said: “I think you need to cancel. She needs you.”

Bam. Just like that.

She cut through stories, questions, doubt, and the discomfort that doubt breeds.

She needs me. I need to cancel.

It immediately felt right.
So I canceled.

The next morning I picked up Tiji and brought her home. She is wearing a cone on one end and a stint to keep her bladder open on the other. I settled her into a comfy bed (in which she stayed for about twelve minutes) Marley and Tiji were so very very sweet to her as we set up her little home-hospital bed. My friend bought me a pack of pipi pads as she would be dripping for the next few days.

We are hunkering in. As the Fiestas Ferias do their happy celebration in town, we are setting up a bubble of care and healing and HUGE GRATITUDE.

I still occasionally feel the pang of wishing I had reacted sooner. And then I remember that it worked out perfectly. I remember to trust that Life’s timing is so much more accurate than mine and that Tiji, my lucky kitty, knew just what she was doing.

And the big lesson: the doctor’s straight words. She had an opinion and when asked for it, she shared it. Whether it was inconvenient or unpopular, she shared it. I am still digesting this Gift and its inspiration.

Sitting in the sprawling coffee house, I am transported.

First of all, it’s old. Just the kind of old that I adore, the era that speaks to my soul.
Early 1900s, born approximately the same year as the Ballroom I cherish, as the house where I grew up - and also as my grandma. The Era of Love, for me.

Then, it’s huge AND it’s intimate. What a feat.

Also, it’s alive, very much alive, without being busy. Another feat.

Finally, it’s “away.” “Away” is such a turn-on for me. Away from the familiar, “Away” speaks of so much yet undiscovered, of adventure and also of anonymity. A delicious cocktail.

I am in the old port of Veracruz with my friend and stepping inside La Parroquia (born in 1926) has taken me further away than the few hours of airplane ride to get there.

The voices of the waiters, dressed in long white aprons and black bow ties, calling out to each other - but not too loudly - the towering, shiny espresso machine hissing at the hands of someone who seems more like its lover than a barista. The smell of coffee, the sight of one “Lechera” after the next being poured into tiny cups from way up high on the tables all around us.

Veracruz worships coffee and even though I don’t drink it, I am ready to worship its Essence too (a few days later I am hiking in the countryside and learn that coffee bushes grow wild along the path, just like blackberries do in Washington).

I sink into my chair. Exhale. Smile, take it all in. I feel as though I am in Cuba even though I have never been to Cuba. And if I squint my eyes just right, I erase all the cell phones in people’s hands and I am, for sure, back 100 years.

We order, slowly. The meal arrives. The spell persists.

The fans, all the same, and beautiful in their simplicity are whirring, sparkling clean, and efficient. The temperature is perfect.

And this is when I turn around and catch it.

On the whole back wall of the coffee house, is an enormous mural. A life-size black and white photo of this place decades and decades ago. The tables, the walls, the ceiling, and the waiters. I don’t need to squint my eyes to get the mural to blend into the shop, for the yesteryear to merge into today. I hold my breath. Two waiters are sitting at small tables in front of the mural. Dressed in black and white, only their skin color distinguishes them from their long-gone colleagues. My phone is in my purse and I am afraid to move. I barely pivot in my chair, reach for my friend’s camera, and take one single photo.

I know that I will want to wait to be back home to really, really look at it, and when I do, I plunge into it. Gratitude, Legacy, Belonging, … there is a story here that I am still savoring. A moment.

Maybe it was a Gift, maybe it was a marketing plan. Maybe it was just for me and maybe thousands of people have taken this same photo and will again. Maybe the new waiters are asked to sit in front of the old waiters throughout the day. I know that it does not matter because Magic does not lose its power when it is shared, it is not exclusive.

And this for me was Magic.

Days later I had the photo printed and it now lives in my kitchen, with me in my barely 2-year-old home, feeding me tiny cupfuls of timelessness, tradition, and of That Era. It is precious.