The house is slowly disappearing.

The pictures are off the walls. The kitchen cabinets echo. Every day another box is taped shut, another corner emptied.

In less than two weeks, Yunki, Fluffie and I will begin the long drive back to the United States after nearly two and a half years in Mérida.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what we’re taking with us.

Furniture.

Clothes.

Keepsakes.

Kitchen gadgets I probably didn’t need.

But lately I’ve been thinking about everything that can’t be packed.

Because the most valuable things I’m bringing home aren’t things at all.

They're the lessons I never expected this chapter to teach me.

The Confidence to Learn

When I moved to Mexico, I knew little more than hola, gracias and how to order tortas.

Today, I still wouldn’t call myself fluent.

If someone speaks too quickly, I’m lost within seconds.

But if they slow down, I can usually follow the conversation. I can read menus, grocery labels, WhatsApp messages and signs. I can make doctor’s appointments, chat with a cashier and navigate daily life without panicking.

Speaking is still my biggest challenge. My brain often knows exactly what it wants to say, but my mouth hasn’t quite caught up. Google Translate has become one of my most faithful companions.

For a long time I measured success by fluency.

Now I measure it by courage.

Every awkward conversation reminded me that curiosity doesn't retire just because we do.

I’m especially grateful to Expat Spanish Lessons. Their online classes gave me confidence, structure and plenty of laughs along the way.

I may be leaving Mexico without perfect Spanish.

But I’m leaving knowing I’m still capable of learning something completely new at 64.

That’s a pretty wonderful feeling.

A New Kind of Purpose

If someone had asked me before retirement what would bring me the greatest joy, I never would have answered “mentoring.”

It found me when I wasn’t looking for it.

Through the University of Yucatán, I began helping students prepare for interviews, improve their English, polish their résumés and LinkedIn profiles, and build confidence.

Later, through the Global Mentorship Initiative, that circle expanded beyond Mexico to students around the world.

Every conversation reminded me how exciting it is to watch someone begin believing in themselves.

Watching their confidence grow somehow rebuilt a little of my own.

The funny thing is, I thought I had left my career behind.

Instead, I discovered that everything I’d learned over twenty-five years still had value.

Just in a different way.

Even outside formal mentoring, friends began asking if I’d help their son, daughter, neighbor or colleague with a résumé or LinkedIn profile. More recently, I’ve enjoyed helping people closer to my own age reinvent themselves after leaving the workforce.

Apparently, this has become my thing.

When we move to Pennsylvania, I’d love to continue that journey—whether through a university career center, a nonprofit helping women return to work, or wherever someone could use a little encouragement.

Purpose, I’ve learned, doesn’t always arrive wearing the clothes you expected.

Creativity Was Waiting

For most of my adult life, creativity had a job.

It wrote marketing campaigns.

Designed promotions.

Solved business problems.

Met deadlines.

Measured results.

Somewhere between earning my business degree, completing my MBA and climbing the corporate ladder, I convinced myself that creativity only counted if someone paid me for it.

Retirement gave me permission to rediscover the creative person I’d almost forgotten.

I’ve painted.

Made jewelry.

Taken art history classes.

Experimented with photography.

And perhaps most surprisingly...

I started writing again.

Not marketing copy.

My own stories.

I loved writing in high school, but that part of me slowly disappeared beneath meetings, airports, presentations and deadlines.

Being made redundant gave me something unexpected.

Time.

Time to think.

Time to notice.

Time to tell stories.

Without that difficult phone call, I honestly don’t think Retired. Rewired. Relocated. would exist today.

It’s strange how one of the hardest moments in your life can quietly become one of the greatest gifts.

Permission to Let Go

When we first arrived in Mexico, launching my own consulting business seemed like the obvious next chapter.

After all, I’d spent more than twenty-five years in marketing, including fourteen wonderful years with Marriott International.

Surely consulting was what someone with my résumé was supposed to do.

The problem was...

I didn’t enjoy it.

I wanted to.

I wanted another income stream.

I wanted to prove I still had it.

Instead, I found myself stressed over client deadlines and campaigns that no longer excited me.

Eventually I admitted something that was surprisingly difficult to say out loud.

I didn’t want my old career back.

Not even a smaller version of it.

Closing Maya Blue Marketing wasn’t failure.

It was the first time I chose the life I wanted instead of the one I thought I was supposed to want.

Sometimes the bravest decision isn’t starting something new.

It’s giving yourself permission to stop chasing a life that no longer fits.

A Smaller Bucket List

This one surprises people.

After all, I’ve been fortunate enough to visit 70 countries and live on three continents.

Travel shaped both my career and my life.

But somewhere along the way, my bucket list became smaller.

Not because I’m less curious.

Because I’m more content.

Unlike many retirement bloggers, I don’t dream of becoming a full-time slow traveler.

I’ve already lived through countless airports, jet lag, hotel rooms, visa renewals and long-haul flights.

Today, what I crave isn’t more stamps in my passport.

I’ve already collected countries.

Now I’m collecting moments.

It’s deeper experiences.

Long conversations.

Neighborhood cafés where people recognize you.

Returning to places that feel familiar.

Travel hasn’t become less important.

It’s simply become more meaningful.

I Found Home in the People

When we arrived in Mérida, we didn’t know a single person.

Today we’re leaving friendships I’ll treasure forever.

Some came through mentoring.

Others through Spanish classes.

Neighbors.

Coffee meetups.

Art history.

And then there’s Faby, my neighbor across the street.

Our conversations have often been a wonderful mix of beginner Spanish, a little English, hand gestures, smiles and Google Translate.

Somehow, we always understood each other.

She celebrated our little victories, checked in on us, and reminded me that kindness doesn’t need a shared language.

One of the biggest surprises of living abroad wasn’t learning another language.

It was learning that home isn’t created by a house or a city.

It’s created by the people who welcome you into their lives.

Beyond My Business Card

Perhaps the biggest lesson of all...

I am not my job title.

When I was made redundant, I honestly didn’t know who I was without my career.

For decades, introductions began with where I worked.

My title.

My responsibilities.

The countries I oversaw.

Somewhere along the way, my career quietly became my identity.

Retirement forced me to ask a question I’d been avoiding.

Who am I when no one needs my résumé?

Today my answer sounds very different.

I’m a writer.

A mentor.

A lifelong learner.

A traveler.

A wife.

A dog mom.

A woman still taking Spanish classes.

Someone who's still becoming.

For a long time I was almost embarrassed to say I was retired.

Not anymore.

Retirement didn’t end my story.

It gave me permission to write a different one.

The Best Souvenir of All

People often ask what I’ll miss most about Mexico.

Of course I’ll miss the sunshine.

The food.

The colors.

The rhythm of life.

The friendships.

The familiar walk to the neighborhood panadería.

The sound of “¡Buenas Dias!” drifting through an open doorway.

But if I’m honest...

What I’ll miss most isn’t something I can photograph.

Mexico didn't make me someone new.

It revealed parts of me that had been buried beneath deadlines, job titles, meetings and airport lounges.

The mentor was always there.

The writer was always there.

The curious learner was always there.

Mexico simply gave them room to breathe.

Maybe that’s what the best chapters of our lives do.

They don’t end by giving us all the answers.

They end by introducing us to a version of ourselves we hadn’t met yet.

As I tape up the last few moving boxes, I realize the best souvenir I’m bringing home isn’t something I bought in a market or tucked into my suitcase.

It’s the person I became while living here.

And that one doesn’t need bubble wrap.

This may be the end of my Mexico chapter, but it isn’t the end of the story. In the weeks ahead I’ll be writing about our cross-country drive back to the U.S., settling into Pennsylvania, and discovering what reinvention looks like in yet another new place.

I’d love to have you along for the ride.

Subscribe now

Our living room currently consists of patio furniture.

Our La-Z-Boy chair and sofa have found new homes.

Our dining room chairs are gone.

The shoes, however, seem to be multiplying.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, my subconscious has apparently decided now would be an excellent time to start producing the strangest dreams I’ve had in years.

My parents, my brother and I were together in a house that somehow felt like ours, even though it wasn’t.

An official-looking investigator took my parents into another room, leaving my brother and me waiting outside.

When he came back, he looked directly at me and said,

“This is much more serious than any case I’ve ever seen. You need to physically distance yourself from your parents for your own safety.”

That was it.

I woke up shaken.

Not because I thought the dream meant anything was going to happen, but because it felt so incredibly real.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized the dream probably wasn’t about my parents at all.

It was about what happens to our minds when life is in the middle of a massive transition.

I thought this move would be hard on my back.

Turns out it’s much harder on my brain.

My Apple Watch has become my newest critic.

Night after night it cheerfully informs me that my sleep score has dropped into the 60s and 70s, as though it’s disappointed in me personally.

Thanks, Apple.

Very supportive.

To be fair, we have a lot going on.

I’m writing two Substack articles every week.

Fluffie is recovering from leg surgery and has physical therapy three times a week.

We’re saying goodbye to friends we’ve made over the past two years.

And somehow, in between all that, we’re packing up our entire life in Mexico.

By ourselves.

That last word is important.

Because this move feels completely different from our last three international moves.

Those were company relocations for my career.

Professional movers arrived like a small army.

One team wrapped dishes.

Another dismantled furniture.

Boxes were labeled with military precision.

I don’t remember thinking very much.

I just pointed.

This time?

The professional movers have been replaced by Yunki, me, and what feels like the entire cardboard inventory of Yucatán.

We’re the packing crew.

We’re quality control.

We’re inventory management.

We’re also the people asking,

“Did you pack the scissors?”

Apparently yes.

Every single time.

There’s another reason this move feels different.

Our last three international moves happened because of my career.

This one is because of Yunki’s.

After following me around the world for years, it’s finally his turn.

Fair is fair.

Although I don’t think my subconscious has fully embraced that concept yet.

People assume that because we’ve moved so many times, we’re experts.

Maybe.

There was even a stretch where we moved seven times in seven years around New Jersey and New York.

You’d think I’d have this down by now.

Instead, every move seems to invent entirely new ways to humble me.

Every evening I feel like someone should bring me a frozen margarita.

Instead, I’m looking at towers of cardboard boxes.

My kitchen has entered that strange in-between stage where it still functions...barely.

We can still make coffee.

We can still cook dinner.

But every meal begins with,

“Did we already pack that?”

Then there’s the packing tape.

Yunki bought what I can only describe as the discount version.

Or maybe it’s simply losing its battle with the Mérida heat.

Every morning another box has quietly peeled itself open overnight.

Meanwhile, Yunki refuses to put the air conditioning on in his office, where most of our boxes now reside. He doesn't seem bothered by the heat. The packing tape, on the other hand, is peeling off the boxes like it's trying to escape Mexico before we do.

I’m beginning to think my husband has adapted to life in Yucatán better than office supplies.

The other day it hit me that pieces of our life are now scattered all over Mérida.

A neighbor has some of our furniture.

Another friend’s backyard has a few of our things.

A beach house now contains decorations that once lived in ours.

It’s actually comforting.

I like imagining little bits of our life continuing long after we’ve gone.

Although walking into our own house now feels a bit like touring the final day of an estate sale.

Then there’s the five-day drive to Pennsylvania.

We’re not driving ourselves.

We’ll be traveling in a van with two drivers and a trailer full of everything we still own.

My brain has developed an impressive list of questions.

What if we get a flat tire somewhere in the middle of nowhere Mexico?

What if the trailer decides to part ways with the van?

Will Fluffie decide she’s done with road trips by Day Two?

Will we arrive in Pennsylvania looking like experienced international travelers?

Or three zombies who haven’t seen a proper bed in five days?

People keep asking if we’re excited.

Absolutely.

They ask if we’re nervous.

Also absolutely.

Apparently those two emotions are perfectly capable of riding in the same van.

Maybe that’s what my dream was trying to tell me.

Not that something terrible was going to happen.

Just that my brain had already started leaving before the rest of me was ready.

Because the truth is, I’m not just packing boxes.

I’m packing up the life that welcomed us after my redundancy.

The life where I discovered mentoring.

Where I found writing.

Where I made friends who became family.

Where Mexico became home.

No wonder my subconscious is putting in overtime.

Maybe that’s the real weight we’re carrying. Not what’s inside the boxes, but everything they represent.

Besides...

If you’ve ever wondered what controlled chaos looks like...

You’re welcome to stop by.

Just don’t lean against any boxes.

The tape probably won’t hold.

Thankfully, Yunki and I still do.

If you grew up in the 60s or 70s, you probably didn’t need a pediatrician very often.

Your mother had it covered.

She knew exactly what caused every ache, every sniffle, every bump, every scrape, every strange smell, every bad haircut, every stomach ache, and apparently every future medical condition.

The source of this knowledge was never questioned.

It came from your mother.

Or the neighbor.

Or a woman at church.

Or someone who “knew these things.”

As children, we accepted every word as fact.

Not because any of it made sense.

Because Mom said so.

Looking back now, I realize my childhood was held together by five magical cures, a handful of terrifying warnings, and enough Vicks VapoRub to fumigate an entire neighborhood.

1. Water on the Knee

There was one warning that absolutely terrified me.

Not broken bones.

Not stitches.

Water on the knee.

I loved kickball.

Unfortunately, kickball involved falling.

Falling meant scraped knees.

Scraped knees apparently meant...

water on the knee.

I had absolutely no idea what that meant.

Did my kneecaps fill like water balloons?

Would I slosh when I walked?

Would I explode?

My imagination handled the details.

Every time I scraped a knee, I waited.

Certain the swelling would begin any minute.

I was convinced I’d be the first kid in history to inflate from the knees down.

Thankfully...

it never did.

2. Vicks VapoRub

I honestly believe Vicks was considered a miracle drug in our house.

Cold?

Vicks.

Cough?

Vicks.

Sore throat?

Vicks.

Congestion?

Vicks.

Growing pains?

Probably Vicks.

The directions on the jar said one thing.

Mothers had their own version.

Rub it on your chest.

Behind your ears.

On your feet.

Wear socks.

Sleep.

Wake up cured.

Whether it actually worked remains open for debate.

What I do know...

you could smell a kid with Vicks from three houses away.

Looking back, I think Vicks wasn’t just medicine.

It was my mother’s security blanket.

If she rubbed enough of it on me, somehow everything was going to be okay.

3. Mercurochrome

If Vicks smelled unforgettable...

Mercurochrome looked unforgettable.

That tiny bottle of bright red liquid somehow managed to make every scraped knee look dramatically worse.

The scrape wasn’t the memorable part.

The burning was.

It stung.

It stained.

It made every scraped knee look like a scene from a horror movie.

And somehow...

Mom would smile and say,

“There. All better.”

Really?

Because it certainly didn’t feel better.

4. Vinegar Hair Rinse

My mother insisted vinegar made your hair shiny.

Maybe it did.

But there was one unfortunate side effect.

School.

One day another kid leaned over and asked,

“Why does your hair smell like salad?”

That was the exact moment I began questioning family beauty treatments.

I eventually switched to conditioner—or what we called cream rinse back then.

My classmates appreciated it.

5. Shaving Makes Hair Grow Back Thicker

This one haunted my teenage years.

Don’t shave your legs too early.

It’ll grow back thicker.

Thicker?

How much thicker?

Were we talking...

slightly darker?

Or...

gorilla?

My imagination skipped right past “a little thicker” and landed squarely on gorilla.

I delayed shaving my legs far longer than my friends because I was convinced I’d wake up looking like Bigfoot.

Spoiler alert.

I didn’t.

My mother was wrong.

The funny thing is...

I don’t remember questioning any of these remedies.

Not once.

Children simply trusted.

Today we Google everything.

Symptoms.

Reviews.

Ingredients.

Second opinions.

Back then...

our mothers were Google.

Their search engine was generations of advice passed from kitchen to kitchen.

Some of it worked.

Some of it absolutely didn’t.

But every remedy came from the same place.

Love.

They were trying to fix whatever hurt.

The only way they knew how.

Funny how, decades later, I can’t remember every birthday present or every school lesson.

But I remember the smell of Vicks.

The sting of Mercurochrome.

The vinegar in my hair.

And a mother who was absolutely certain she knew exactly how to make everything better.

Most of the time...she did.

❤️ Share this story.

Did your mom have remedies that would never survive Google?

Tell me in the comments.

And if this brought back memories of your own childhood, I’d love it if you’d share it with a sibling, cousin, or friend who grew up believing the exact same things.

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Take another trip down memory lane…

You might enjoy these other stories from Retired. Rewired. Relocated.

The first thing I said in Ardmore surprised even me.

“This feels like England.”

Not London itself, but Richmond and Guildford, the two towns where Yunki and I spent some of our happiest years while living in the UK. Those places quietly changed the way we thought about everyday life.

Life happened on foot.

Weekends weren't about driving from one shopping center to another. We'd stroll the High Street, stop at Waitrose, browse stores, have lunch at a favorite pub, then walk our dogs through the park. In Richmond we could walk to Kew Gardens and the Thames. In Guildford, Guildford Castle, Stoke Park and the nature reserve were all part of everyday life. If we wanted London, we'd simply hop on a train.

Life felt wonderfully connected.

We haven’t owned a car since leaving the United States nine years ago. My driver’s license actually expired more than seven years ago, which still makes me laugh. Yunki has an international driver’s license, but for years we’ve happily relied on trains, buses, walking, Ubers and the occasional dash through the rain.

Somewhere along the way, that stopped feeling unusual.

It simply became the life we wanted.

So when we flew to Pennsylvania this spring to explore Ardmore before our move back to the United States, I wasn’t just evaluating apartments.

I was asking myself a different question.

Could I picture us living here?

Within an hour, I had my answer.

There were people walking everywhere.

Downtown wasn’t simply a place to run errands. It was a place to linger. Benches and Adirondack chairs invited people to sit and talk. Independent restaurants spilled onto the sidewalks. We found a terrific Korean restaurant that earned Yunki’s enthusiastic approval, which is saying something.

There was live music, a wonderful farmers market, Trader Joe's, coffee shops and independent businesses. It wasn't one thing that charmed us. It was the feeling that people actually lived downtown instead of simply shopping there.

Just a short walk away, Haverford College immediately took me back to England. The towering trees, stone walls, lush lawns and quiet beauty felt remarkably familiar. It wasn't the buildings that transported me. It was the feeling.

Then we did something that probably sounds a little nerdy.

We took a practice train ride from Ardmore into Philadelphia.

Then back again.

It couldn’t have been easier.

Almost immediately we found ourselves imagining ordinary Tuesdays and spontaneous Saturdays. Taking the train into Philadelphia for dinner or a concert. Riding one stop to another Main Line town just because we’d heard about a great restaurant. Yunki can already ride SEPTA free, and next year, when I turn 65, I will too.

But if I’m honest...

None of those things completely won me over.

What did?

The smell.

Fresh-cut grass.

Towering old trees arching over quiet streets.

Lush green lawns.

Stately homes.

After years living in Qatar’s desert landscape and then Mérida’s tropical climate, I’d forgotten what a Pennsylvania summer smelled like.

One deep breath transported me right back to England.

That evening I started reading about Ardmore.

Suddenly everything made sense.

If you’re not from southeastern Pennsylvania, “the Main Line” isn’t actually a road.

It’s a collection of historic towns that grew up along the Pennsylvania Railroad’s original main rail line west of Philadelphia. As the railroad expanded during the nineteenth century, communities developed around each station, creating walkable town centers where people could shop, gather and catch the train into the city.

Ardmore wasn’t designed to imitate England.

Yet it evolved around many of the same ideas that shaped the railway towns surrounding London: build around the station, create places people can walk, and connect communities by rail.

No wonder it felt so familiar.

Then I discovered something else.

Ardmore has spent generations reinventing itself.

Originally known as Athensville, it became Ardmore in 1873 after the railroad station adopted the new name. Later, the opening of Suburban Square transformed it once again into one of America’s earliest planned suburban shopping centers. Instead of losing its identity as the decades passed, Ardmore continued evolving while holding onto the character that made people want to live there.

That fascinated me.

Ardmore hadn’t preserved itself in amber. It had adapted, evolved and reinvented itself while somehow holding onto the qualities that made people want to live there in the first place.

Maybe that’s why it resonated with me.

Over the past nine years, every place we’ve lived has changed us.

England taught us that we value walkability, trains, green space and community.

Qatar taught us resilience.

Mexico taught us that it’s never too late to begin again.

As we wandered Ardmore’s streets, I realized we weren’t making a list of nearby attractions.

We were imagining a way of life.

A walk to Haverford Reserve on a beautiful afternoon.

A concert or dinner in Philadelphia.

A Broadway show and great food in New York City.

Summer weekends back at the Jersey Shore or besides a lake in the Poconos.

None of those places would have to be annual vacations.

They could simply become part of ordinary life again.

That’s when it finally hit me.

What I missed most wasn’t England.

It was the lifestyle England helped us discover.

A life where nature, history, good food, public transportation and community aren’t things you save for vacations.

They’re simply woven into everyday life.

I thought we were flying to Pennsylvania to look at apartments.

Instead, we found something much more valuable.

We found a place that reflects the people we’ve become over the past nine years.

Will Ardmore be our forever home?

I honestly don’t know.

Life has surprised us too many times to make that prediction.

But it feels exactly right for this chapter.

And after everything we’ve learned over the past nine years, perhaps that’s the better question anyway.

Not, “Where will we live forever?”

But, “Where can we build a life that feels right today?”

For us, that answer just might be Ardmore.

New to Retired. Rewired. Relocated.?

This story is part of a larger journey that began with an unexpected phone call that changed everything. If you’d like to start at the beginning, you can read The Call That Changed Everything.

Every move begins with good intentions.

This time, I promised myself I’d finally be ruthless.

Donate.

Sell.

Recycle.

Throw away.

After all, Yunki and I are packing up our home in Mérida and moving back to Pennsylvania. We don’t need to haul around stuff that we’ve carried across half the world.

Then I reached the photo albums and scrapbooks.

That was my first mistake.

Those innocent-looking boxes have followed me from New Jersey to Maryland, then to London, Qatar, Mexico, and now…back to Pennsylvania.

They’re also incredibly heavy.

Mental note for when I arrive: Scan everything.

I’ve apparently been making this same promise for about twenty years.

As I lifted one scrapbook into a moving box, a stack of yellowed papers slipped onto the floor.

Suddenly, I wasn’t packing anymore.

I was back in high school.

Within minutes I’d rediscovered Elton John tickets I was never allowed to use, proof that I’d once appeared on television for roughly three seconds, fan mail from a teen idol, celebrity autographs I have no memory of collecting, and a short story about a Sears rug salesman who had no idea he was the love of my seventeen-year-old life.

As a teenager, I had a hobby that would make absolutely no sense to anyone under forty.

I entered radio contests.

Constantly.

Albums.

Concert tickets.

Television appearances.

If a DJ said, “Caller number nine,” I was already dialing our rotary phone like my life depended on it.

And somehow…

I actually won.

A lot.

I even won a windsurfer.

Considering I lived in central New Jersey and had never been windsurfing in my life, this seemed like an odd prize.

So I sold it for around $3,000.

The buyer also asked me out.

I declined.

Looking back, selling the windsurfer may have been my smartest financial decision.

Declining the date was probably my second.

Then I found the Elton John concert tickets for the Spectrum in Philadelphia on July 6, 1976.

Not just the tickets.

The letter announcing I’d won them.

I had completely forgotten.

This was Elton John at peak Elton John.

Sequins.

Outrageous glasses.

Duck costumes.

The whole glorious spectacle.

I was beyond excited.

My parents…

were less enthusiastic.

Their answer was simple.

“No.”

Today I probably could have sold the tickets online in about thirty seconds.

Back then?

You’d have to place a newspaper classified ad, find a buyer, arrange to meet them…

None of that was happening.

So somewhere inside Philadelphia’s Spectrum sat two empty seats.

I’ve often wondered if anyone looked over during the concert and thought,

“Who on earth skips Elton John?”

Apparently…

me.

The Bee Gees were another story.

This time I paid with money I’d earned working part-time in the record department at Sears.

I still have the newspaper advertisement for the concert.

The Madison Square Garden letter.

The ticket stub for September 11, 1979.

Even the souvenir program.

I was convinced this was going to be one of the greatest nights of my young life.

It was.

Mostly.

The only tiny issue was my seat.

Let’s just say Barry Gibb looked fantastic.

I assume.

From where I was sitting, the Bee Gees resembled three exceptionally well-dressed ants.

There were no giant video screens.

No livestream.

No zoom lens on your phone.

Just faith…

And a very active imagination.

The scrapbook kept giving.

There was a letter from Michael Lembeck, better known to my teenage self as Kaptain Kool, the impossibly cool frontman of the Saturday morning TV group Kaptain Kool and the Kongs, years before he became an actor and later a successful television director.

I’d written him a fan letter, and to my amazement, he actually wrote back.

There was even a poem tucked inside.

Imagine that happening today.

Then I uncovered the invitation to appear on Philadelphia’s Steel Pier Show.

Basically, Atlantic City’s budget version of American Bandstand.

My friend Patty and I were thrilled.

Until we arrived at the show filming.

We had packed exactly…

two tops.

Apparently everyone else had packed the wardrobe department from Saturday Night Fever.

Even worse, they guarded their spots on the dance floor like Olympic athletes defending a gold medal.

Every time we danced toward the camera…

we somehow danced away from it again.

Our episode finally aired a couple weeks later. The episode was co-hosted by singer Melba Moore, and one of the musical guests was Sister Sledge, just before they became international stars.

I believe my left arm made a brief appearance.

Maybe half my hair.

The local dancers had done an excellent job of making sure the tourists from New Jersey stayed well out of camera range.

Just when I thought the scrapbook couldn’t surprise me again…

Out fell my high school creative writing assignments.

Including one unforgettable masterpiece.

An ode to the Sears rug salesman.

His name was Rich.

In my teenage imagination, he was basically a cross between Al Pacino and Frankie Valli.

My English teacher loved it.

She wrote that it showed maturity and creativity.

Apparently she chose not to comment on my highly questionable muse.

Mixed among everything else were celebrity autographs.

Frank Stallone.

Yes…that Frank Stallone. Sylvester’s younger brother, who scored a hit with “Far From Over” from Staying Alive and appeared in several movies alongside his brother.

Why do I have his autograph?

I honestly have no idea.

More autographs…

Peter Benchley, author of Jaws.

Robert Fuller, the hunky actor from the hit TV show Emergency!

To this day, I honestly can’t remember how I acquired half of them.

Teenage JoAnne apparently had a much more exciting social calendar than adult JoAnne remembers.

As I sat on the floor surrounded by fading ticket stubs, fan letters, newspaper clippings and celebrity crushes, I realized something.

None of these things are particularly valuable.

Most people would probably throw them away without a second thought.

But together…

they tell the story of a teenage girl who loved music, wrote fan letters, entered every contest she could find, believed celebrities might actually write back, and apparently thought the rug department at Sears was the most romantic place on earth.

Honestly…

teenage JoAnne was delightfully weird.

She was also apparently incapable of throwing away a single piece of paper.

I carefully slid the brittle scrapbook back into its box.

No, I still haven’t scanned it.

Apparently it’s making one more international move.

I’ve since realized that packing isn’t really about deciding what to keep.

It’s about deciding which version of yourself you’re ready to carry into the next chapter.

Maybe that’s what packing really is.

Not saying goodbye to the past.

Just introducing your younger self to the person you’ve become.

And realizing they all still get to come along.

Well...

I didn’t see that one coming.

Two and a half years ago, after I was made redundant from Marriott International, I had pretty much written Philadelphia off as our next home.

When Yunki and I packed up our lives and moved to Mérida, Mexico, we weren’t looking for another American city.

We were looking for a place to catch our breath.

A place with a lower cost of living.

A place where we could regroup after one career ended and before we knew what came next.

Mérida gave us all of that.

And much more.

It gave me time to rediscover who I was beyond my job title. It introduced us to wonderful friends. It led me to mentoring university students, learning Spanish, and eventually, writing this blog.

Looking back, though, I realize something else.

At the time, every move felt like a separate chapter.

Now I can see they were all telling the same story.

The Reset

My American life gave me a familiar script.

I grew up in New Jersey and later lived in New York and Maryland. Like many Americans, we eventually found ourselves with a big house, a big yard, two cars, and far more possessions than we actually needed.

On paper, we were doing everything right.

But something was missing.

Then Marriott International moved us to England.

Suddenly our world became smaller.

And somehow, our lives became bigger.

We owned less.

We walked more.

Instead of hopping into the car, we wandered down high streets, caught trains into London, explored centuries of history, and discovered that an afternoon didn’t need to involve a parking lot.

I realized I didn’t miss the bigger house nearly as much as I loved the bigger life.

Qatar taught me something entirely different.

It challenged assumptions I didn’t even realize I had. Living in the Middle East gave me a deeper appreciation for tradition, hospitality, and the long, layered history of an ancient region. It also forced me to confront some of my own preconceived ideas.

And it showed me that extravagance and luxury don’t automatically create happiness.

Then came Mexico.

If England taught me to simplify, Mexico taught me to slow down.

To say yes to invitations.

To build community.

To spend more time in parks than shopping malls.

To appreciate conversations that lasted longer than errands.

By the time Yunki accepted his new job in the United States...

Something had changed.

I had changed.

Each move quietly rewrote my definition of home.

The Surprise

When he looked across the table one evening and said,

“What about Philadelphia?”

I surprised myself by smiling.

I’d spent nearly twenty years working in New York City, and I loved its energy.

The skyscrapers.

The theater.

The hustle.

The feeling that anything could happen before lunch.

But Philadelphia had always been the city that pulled me back.

It felt more human.

Less polished.

More authentic.

A city that seemed more interested in feeding you than impressing you.

I still remember visiting the Franklin Institute on elementary school field trips and walking through the giant beating heart was the coolest thing ever.

It’s still there.

I ran up the Rocky Steps at the Art Museum whenever I had the chance because... honestly... how could you not?

And then there was the food.

Soft pretzels with mustard.

Cheesesteaks.

Dim sum in Chinatown.

Spaghetti and meatballs at Ralph’s, the oldest family-owned Italian restaurant in the U.S.

Doughnuts from Beiler’s in Reading Terminal Market.

Philadelphia had quietly been collecting happy memories my entire life.

But this time...

I wasn’t looking at it through the eyes of a tourist.

I was looking at it through the eyes of someone who finally knew what mattered.

The Choice

I wasn’t looking for the biggest apartment.

Or the newest building.

Or even the lowest rent.

I was looking for mornings I could walk to a coffee shop.

A neighborhood where I knew the shopkeepers.

A train instead of another highway.

History.

Community.

Walkability.

I was looking for a way of life.

The kind of everyday life I had fallen in love with abroad in the UK and hoped to carry into this next chapter.

That’s when Ardmore appeared on my radar.

Neither of us had ever heard of it.

Within hours, I was doing what I always do when researching destinations.

Watching YouTube videos.

Interrogating ChatGPT.

Comparing neighborhoods.

Poor Yunki hadn’t even started his new job, and I had found our apartment, grilled the leasing office with questions, and convinced us to sign a lease based on nothing more than a virtual tour.

I’m beginning to think apartment hunting should be an Olympic sport.

If it is, I’d like to collect my gold medal now.

But somehow...

It all made perfect sense.

It took living in four countries to realize I wasn’t searching for a city anymore.

I was searching for a way of living.

Funny thing is...

I had to leave home to discover what home really meant.

Philadelphia wasn’t taking me backward.

It was bringing me full circle.

I’m coming home again.

Only this time, I know what home means.

Back in April, I was beginning to feel restless.

Not unhappy.

Not ready to pack up and leave Mexico.

Just... restless.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong.

At the time, I blamed the heat.

The heat hadn’t fully arrived yet, but I knew what was coming.

Another long stretch of humidity.

Another season of planning my walks around the weather.

Another season of looking at the forecast and wondering if I could possibly sweat any more than I already was.

At the same time, I was frustrated with myself.

I had stopped attending my online Spanish classes for a few weeks.

My motivation seemed to be slipping.

Projects that normally excited me felt more like obligations.

I just knew something felt off.

Looking back, I think I was also getting a little too comfortable.

Apparently, life noticed.

And decided to intervene.

Then, almost out of nowhere, Yunki mentioned something during one of our daily conversations.

His boss had casually floated the idea that a U.S.-based position with full benefits might become available.

Might.

Not a job offer.

Not an interview.

Not even a formal discussion.

Just a possibility.

The kind of possibility most rational people would acknowledge and then promptly forget about until it became real.

I am not one of those people.

The Gumby Philosophy

The possibility of another move didn’t scare me nearly as much as it might have a few years ago.

After all, this wouldn’t be our first relocation.

Or our second.

Or even our third.

At some point, I developed what I call my Gumby Philosophy.

Stay flexible.

Bend when life bends.

Try not to snap.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing in forever destinations.

Every time I’ve thought, “This is it. This is where we’ll stay,” life has laughed and handed me a moving box.

So while we had no idea whether this job opportunity would materialize, I was open to exploring where it might lead.

Perhaps a little too open.

The Research Spiral Begins

What started as curiosity quickly turned into a full-blown research project.

Within days, my brain had shifted into relocation mode.

If there was even a small chance we might move, I wanted to understand our options.

What cities offered walkability?

Good healthcare?

Culture?

Restaurants?

Dog-friendly neighborhoods?

Four seasons?

And most importantly for me, significantly less heat and humidity.

Yunki’s requirements were considerably simpler.

Walkability.

Good Asian food.

Minimal snow.

Honestly, the man could probably be happy living inside a server room as long as it had decent noodles nearby.

My list was a bit longer.

Surprisingly, those requirements narrowed the field pretty quickly.

Cities like Tucson and Santa Fe rose to the top because they seemed to offer what both of us wanted: walkability, relatively mild winters, culture, recreation, and climates that looked far more appealing than another Yucatán summer.

At least on paper.

I, on the other hand, launched a research project that quickly took on a life of its own.

I became obsessed.

I studied climate charts.

Compared average summer temperatures.

Counted the number of days cities exceeded 100 degrees.

Researched neighborhoods.

Priced car leases.

Analyzed apartment floor plans.

Located Trader Joe’s stores.

Read restaurant reviews.

Watched relocation videos.

Then watched more relocation videos.

At one point YouTube stopped suggesting videos and simply accepted that relocation was now my entire personality.

At one point I knew more about several cities than people who actually lived there.

If there had been a quiz on Tucson zoning trends, average summer temperatures, or the nearest Trader Joe’s, I was ready.

Enter Tucson

The first city to capture my attention was Tucson.

We had visited Arizona years ago and loved it.

The desert scenery.

The mountains.

The big skies.

The feeling that you could see forever.

On paper, Tucson checked a lot of boxes.

Walkability.

Nature.

Parks.

Golf.

A shorter flight to see my stepson in San Diego.

And a Trader Joe’s.

Never underestimate the importance of a Trader Joe’s.

But Tucson had a lot more going for it than grocery stores.

The food scene was thriving.

The outdoor recreation opportunities seemed endless.

There were bike trails, hiking trails, golf courses, and parks everywhere.

Every video I watched made it seem like people spent half their lives outdoors.

It looked active.

Healthy.

Sunny.

The kind of place where retirement came with a pair of hiking shoes.

Before long, I had become mildly obsessed with Oro Valley.

Actually, let’s be honest.

There was nothing mild about it.

I had selected an apartment complex.

Compared floor plans.

Identified nearby grocery stores.

Located community centers.

Researched restaurants.

Priced car leases.

I was basically living there already.

The only thing missing was an actual address.

And a job.

Meanwhile, the opportunity itself remained entirely hypothetical.

Poor Yunki.

Every evening, I greeted him with another urgent question.

“Do you think we’d use the community center enough to justify paying an extra $200 a month in rent?”

Blank stare.

“What about this floor plan?”

Nod.

“This one has a larger balcony.”

Slight nod.

The kind of nod that says, “I’m listening,” while clearly thinking about something involving data architecture.

I suspect he was hoping the entire opportunity would quietly disappear.

Then I started digging deeper into Tucson’s weather.

And that’s when things became complicated.

Tucson didn’t fail the audition.

I did.

Ten years ago, I would have happily traded snow boots for sunscreen.

Today, after a few Yucatán summers, my relationship with heat has become considerably more complicated.

Let’s just say my body and Tucson’s climate were no longer aligned on long-term goals.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped prioritizing sunshine and started prioritizing comfort.

These days, I’m less interested in working on my tan and more interested in being able to take a walk without feeling like I’m being slow-roasted.

The problem was obvious.

The very thing I was trying to escape in Mérida was still there.

Yes, it was drier.

Yes, it was more manageable.

Yes, people kept reminding me that dry heat is different.

But when I started counting the number of days over 100 degrees, my enthusiasm began fading.

My body had voted.

No more extended summers.

No more planning my life around heat.

No more checking the weather app and feeling personally attacked.

Tucson slowly slipped down the list.

Then Came Santa Fe

If Tucson felt practical, Santa Fe felt romantic.

Suddenly I was looking at four seasons.

Mountains.

Higher elevation.

An incredible arts scene.

Cooler temperatures.

And enough galleries to convince me that I was one gallery opening away from becoming the sort of person who casually discusses sculpture over wine.

I fell down another YouTube rabbit hole.

Neighborhood tours.

Apartment tours.

Restaurant reviews.

Relocation guides.

I watched enough videos that if someone had asked me for directions to the Railyard District, I probably would have tried to help.

Before long, I had selected another apartment.

This one was near the Railyard District.

Walkable.

Charming.

A little funky.

A little upscale.

The kind of neighborhood where I imagined myself casually discussing local artists over coffee despite having absolutely no qualifications to do so.

For a while, Santa Fe sat firmly at the top of the list.

The climate was better.

The culture was stronger.

The pace felt appealing.

I even started researching ski areas despite the fact that neither Yunki nor I had been skiing in more than twenty years.

Apparently this is what happens when you spend too much time planning an imaginary future.

I had also become convinced I was destined to live in a Flintstones house.

Something about the adobe architecture reminded me of Bedrock.

Every real estate video seemed to feature another earth-toned home carved into the landscape.

Fred and Wilma would have fit right in.

I was already mentally arranging the furniture.

But as I dug deeper, questions started creeping in.

Was Santa Fe too isolated?

Would we eventually want more entertainment options?

How much of the population was seasonal?

Would we be building a community or joining one that rotated every few months?

Meanwhile...

While I was comparing floor plans, researching golf courses, and calculating average temperatures, Yunki’s conversations with his boss were becoming more serious.

The possibility was slowly becoming an opportunity.

Salary ranges entered the discussion.

Cost-of-living spreadsheets appeared.

More spreadsheets followed.

By this point, my Gumby Philosophy was being tested again.

Just when I thought I had our future neatly mapped out in Tucson, then Santa Fe, life prepared another plot twist.

One evening, just as I had practically convinced myself that Santa Fe was the answer, Yunki casually said:

“What about Philadelphia?”

Philadelphia?

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Philadelphia wasn’t even on the list.

Not because I hadn’t thought about it.

Truthfully, Philadelphia had always been tucked away in the back of my mind.

For years, I had quietly assumed that if our international adventures ever came to an end, Philadelphia would probably be our landing spot.

The problem was Yunki.

Or more specifically, Yunki’s long-standing dislike of cold weather and snow.

When we first started discussing possible destinations, his requirements had been very clear:

Minimal snow.

Mild winters.

Walkability.

Good Asian food.

Philadelphia failed one of those tests immediately.

Snow.

That’s why Tucson and Santa Fe rose to the top of the list in the first place.

They checked both of our boxes.

Which is why hearing Philadelphia come out of his mouth felt a little like hearing Fluffie announce she wanted to take up scuba diving.

Completely unexpected.

I stared at him.

“Philadelphia?”

“You don’t like snow.”

Yunki shrugged.

“I think I could live with it.”

Now I was really confused.

What happened to the man who wanted sunshine year-round?

What happened to the man who had effectively disqualified half the country because temperatures occasionally dipped below freezing?

Apparently, somewhere along the way, his priorities had changed.

And just like that, the apartment I had mentally leased, the grocery store I had already chosen, and the imaginary ski equipment I had been researching suddenly had competition.

To be continued...

You are probably thinking...

Again?

Are these people crazy?

Well, maybe we are.

Sometimes life throws you lemons. Sometimes it throws you a job offer.

A few weeks ago, my husband Yunki was offered a full-time position in the United States with a U.S. salary and benefits package.

At age 67.

We were stunned.

When we moved to Mérida, Mexico over two years ago, I retired.

Yunki didn’t.

In fact, he has been happily working remotely ever since. And when I say happily, I mean the man can stare at two computer monitors filled with code for twelve straight hours and call it a good day.

I cannot imagine a more terrible way to spend an afternoon.

My boat would sink immediately.

His boat practically has a sail and a captain’s hat.

Most days, I find myself having conversations with the back of his head.

“Do you want chicken or fish for dinner?”

Nod.

“Did you hear what happened to our neighbor?”

Mumble.

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”

Thumbs up.

Apparently this is what marriage looks like when one spouse is a data engineer.

So when his boss floated the possibility of bringing him on full-time in the U.S., I assumed it was one of those conversations people have that never actually lead anywhere.

Then it became real.

Very real.

Soon we found ourselves doing something we swore we were finished doing: building spreadsheets, comparing cities, calculating rent, healthcare costs, insurance, and trying to figure out where our next chapter might take us.

Nothing says “relaxed retirement” quite like opening another spreadsheet.

You may be wondering why we would even consider leaving Mexico.

After all, we moved here on purpose.

We weren’t running away from anything.

We loved the sunshine, the slower pace, the friends we had made, and the life we had built.

So why would we leave?

Or maybe the bigger question:

Why move back to the United States at all?

Inflation.

Political division.

Higher costs.

Winter.

Trust me, we asked ourselves all of those questions too.

And after nearly nine years living abroad in the UK, Qatar, and Mexico, shouldn’t we be professional expats by now?

Maybe.

But there was another side of the equation.

We missed things.

Not just favorite foods, comedy clubs, and theater.

We missed people.

Friends.

Family.

The ability to jump in the car and see someone we love without crossing an ocean.

As exciting as our adventures abroad have been, there is something to be said for being closer to the people who have known you for decades.

So we started exploring possibilities.

One city became three.

Three became spreadsheets.

Spreadsheets became virtual apartment tours.

And before long, we found ourselves seriously considering a place that neither of us expected would end up at the top of our list.

Meanwhile, we are now surrounded by Facebook Marketplace listings, donation piles, packing supplies, and one very confused dog.

Fluffie has already crossed continents once.

This time, she’s only crossing countries.

She remains deeply suspicious of our life choices.

The funny thing about reinvention is that just when you think you’ve finished reinventing yourself, life taps you on the shoulder and says:

“We’re not done yet.”

More on where we’re headed next week.

Visiting my Korean in-laws in Mahwah, New Jersey, was a regular ritual for most of our marriage.

Before Yunki and I moved abroad, we typically visited twice a year. After that, our visits became annual homecomings whenever we returned to New Jersey.

The drive wasn’t especially long to their place, but stepping through the front door always felt a bit like stepping into another world.

Oddly enough, it reminded me of visiting my Polish grandparents in Trenton when I was a child.

In both cases, I spent hours sitting in a room full of people speaking a language I didn’t understand.

When I was little, everyone was speaking Polish.

As an adult, everyone was speaking Korean.

My mother-in-law spoke a little English. My father-in-law spoke even less. The rest of the conversation flowed around me in Korean while I smiled, nodded, accepted food, and tried to follow along.

Fortunately, I had Yunki.

Unfortunately, Yunki was a terrible translator.

When we arrived, the first order of business was always the same.

Shoes off at the front door.

My mother-in-law was usually already in the kitchen preparing what seemed like enough food to feed a small village. There was rice, bulgogi, kimchi, seaweed soup, and an endless stream of side dishes whose names I couldn’t always remember. Dessert was often sliced fruit served while Korean soap operas played in the background.

One thing that always puzzled me was that my mother-in-law could simultaneously believe I had gained weight and also be deeply concerned that I wasn’t eating enough.

These two ideas apparently coexisted quite comfortably in her mind.

After informing me that I had put on weight, she would promptly encourage me to have another helping of bulgogi.

Or more rice.

Or another piece of fruit.

Declining was not really an option.

Meanwhile, almost without fail, my father-in-law had developed a computer problem that only Yunki could solve.

To this day, I remain convinced that some of those problems may have been intentionally created.

Within thirty minutes of arriving, Yunki would disappear into the back room to diagnose a mysterious printer issue, reconnect something to the internet, or rescue a document that had somehow vanished.

The timing was remarkable.

Every single visit.

Meanwhile, Korean conversations would swirl around me for hours.

People laughed.

People debated things.

Stories were told.

Opinions were shared.

Then we’d get into the car for the drive home.

“So, what were they talking about?” I’d ask.

Yunki would think for a moment.

“Oh. Nothing much.”

Nothing much?

We had just spent five hours there.

Surely more than “nothing much” had been discussed.

Eventually he might elaborate.

“My mom says you work too much.”

Or:

“My mom thinks you’ve gained weight.”

Those seemed to be her two favorite observations.

You work too much.

You’ve gained weight.

Neither was particularly welcome.

At the time, I was deep into a demanding marketing career. I was traveling frequently, managing deadlines, juggling responsibilities, and spending far too much time staring at email.

Like many professionals, I wore being busy almost as a badge of honor.

Looking back, I was working too hard.

But when you’re in the middle of a career, it’s difficult to see that.

You simply keep going.

Years passed.

The visits continued.

The Korean soap operas continued.

The computer emergencies continued.

And every few months, my mother-in-law would deliver her familiar assessment.

You work too hard.

You’ve gained weight.

Then came redundancy.

Retirement.

A move to Mexico.

Morning walks instead of morning meetings.

Less stress. More sunshine. More laughter.

A completely different chapter of life.

Last week, Yunki and I visited my mother-in-law at her assisted living center in New Jersey.

She is now 97 years old.

Her memory isn’t what it once was. Her English is still limited. And our conversations are still a patchwork of smiles, gestures, and translations.

But during our visit, she reached over and held my hand.

Then she looked at me and said, in English:

“You are beautiful.”

Then she added:

“Pretty.”

I nearly fell out of my chair.

No mention of my weight.

No comments about being fat.

Just beautiful.

Just pretty.

It only took 28 years.

Of course, part of me laughed.

But another part of me wondered whether I had misunderstood her all those years.

Maybe the weight comments were never really about weight.

Maybe what she had noticed was stress.

Exhaustion.

The look of someone constantly rushing from one responsibility to the next.

Maybe when she said, “You work too hard,” she wasn’t making an observation.

Maybe she was expressing concern.

And maybe what she saw sitting across from her this time wasn’t someone who had simply lost a few pounds.

Maybe she saw someone who finally looked relaxed.

Someone who had stopped running.

Someone who looked happy.

After nearly three decades of translations, misunderstandings, Korean soap operas, and one-sentence summaries from Yunki, the message I remember most needed no translation at all.

“You are beautiful.”

Sometimes the things we spend years trying to hear finally arrive when we’re ready to understand them.

I wasn’t expecting to feel sad walking through a shopping mall.

Yet there I was this week in New Jersey, standing in the middle of Paramus Park Mall wondering where everybody had gone.

The parking lot was mostly empty.

The corridors were quiet.

The food court had four lonely survivors hanging on, with Chick-fil-A doing most of the heavy lifting.

I knew malls had struggled in recent years. Hundreds of American mall have closed over the past two decades as online shopping changed the way we buy almost everything.

Still, knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

Standing there, looking at the empty storefronts and quiet walkways, I suddenly felt something I wasn’t expecting.

I felt nostalgic.

And just like that, I was sixteen years old again.

Growing up in central New Jersey in the late 1970s, there was one place every teenager seemed to end up on the weekend.

For me, that place was Quakerbridge Mall.

Opened in 1975, it felt enormous. It had four anchor stores: Bamberger’s, Hahnes, JCPenney, and Sears. Back then, malls were the original social network. If you wanted to know what was happening, you didn’t check your phone.

You went to the mall.

I thought I was pretty cool because I worked at Sears in the record department.

This was the era of vinyl records, not Spotify playlists.

When my manager wasn’t looking, I’d put on The Clash, Billy Joel’s Glass Houses, or Pink Floyd. The moment I saw him coming, I’d quickly switch back to something safer and more store-approved.

On my lunch break, I’d head over to McDonald’s, browse DEB Shop for clothes I couldn’t really afford, and catch up with friends working at JCPenney or Bamberger’s.

Weekends were even better.

My girlfriends and I would do what I now realize was absolutely nothing.

We’d walk the entire mall.

Then we’d walk it again.

We’d giggle, people-watch, and scan the crowd for cute guys.

I had a crush on a guy who worked at JCPenney.

As far as I know, he never knew I existed.

Yet somehow, showing up at the mall every weekend felt like a perfectly reasonable strategy.

Years later, my life took me halfway around the world to Qatar.

And there I discovered that malls could be something entirely different.

In Qatar, shopping wasn’t just shopping.

It was performance art.

The malls were bigger, shinier, colder, and more extravagant than anything I had ever seen.

Air conditioning wasn’t simply a comfort.

It was a survival strategy.

One of my favorites was Villaggio Mall in Doha.

Because apparently a regular shopping mall wasn’t ambitious enough.

Instead, someone decided to build a Venetian canal through the middle of it.

Complete with gondolas.

Inside a shopping mall.

In the desert.

You could ride a gondola beneath a painted blue sky while passing luxury stores and restaurants.

It was completely over the top.

And completely wonderful.

Then there was Place Vendôme Mall in Lusail.

This was luxury shopping on another level.

Gucci.

Prada.

YSL.

Brands I mostly admired through the windows.

The mall’s massive dancing fountain show could rival anything I had seen in Las Vegas.

Shopping in Qatar wasn’t merely about buying things.

It was about aspiration.

Presentation.

Status.

The mall wasn’t where people escaped life.

The mall was where people displayed it.

Today, I live in Mérida, Mexico.

And once again, malls mean something entirely different.

When I first arrived, I assumed malls were declining everywhere.

Apparently nobody told Mexico.

Our local malls are thriving.

Not busy.

Thriving.

Parking lots are packed.

Food courts are overflowing.

Finding a seat can feel like winning the lottery.

But what strikes me most isn’t the shopping.

It’s the families.

Grandparents.

Parents.

Teenagers.

Toddlers.

Everyone together.

Not rushing.

Not checking off errands.

Actually spending time with each other.

In Mérida, the mall feels less like a shopping center and more like a community gathering place.

Even the dogs are welcome.

Liverpool, which I often describe as the Macy’s of Mexico, even provides pet-friendly shopping carts.

Because apparently Fluffie deserves a better shopping experience than I do.

And then there is the ice skating rink.

In tropical Yucatán.

Where summer temperatures can make you question every life choice you’ve ever made.

Every time I visit, it makes me smile.

As I left Paramus Park this week and headed to our next stop, I found myself thinking about all three versions of the mall.

The one from my teenage years.

The one from my corporate years.

And the one from my retirement years.

Maybe malls aren’t dying at all.

Maybe they’re simply reflecting what each culture values most.

In 1978, the mall was where I found freedom.

In Qatar, it was where people displayed success.

In Mérida, it’s where families gather.

Standing in Paramus Park, I realized I wasn’t really mourning a shopping mall.

I was mourning a version of life that no longer exists.

The girl working in Sears.

The teenager doing endless laps around Quakerbridge Mall.

The young woman convinced that one day the guy from JCPenney would finally notice her.

Those corridors may be quieter now.

But for a moment, walking through that nearly empty mall, I could still hear the echoes.

And honestly?

I kind of missed them.

Did you have a mall that defined your teenage years? I’d love to hear where you spent your weekends and which stores you couldn’t leave without visiting.

When Marriott International asked me to relocate to Qatar in 2020, my new assignment sounded straightforward enough: oversee marketing for our Gulf, Levant, and Türkiye hotels and help prepare for the FIFA World Cup.

Then COVID happened.

Visa offices shut down. International travel became a giant game of “maybe next month.” The hospitality industry was on life support. By the time my paperwork finally cleared and I arrived in Doha in August 2021, the World Cup countdown clock was still ticking.

Fifteen months.

That’s all we had left.

Our mission was simple on paper: open 11 hotels before the first fans arrived.

In reality, opening a hotel is a bit like staging a Broadway show. Months of auditions, rehearsals, costume fittings, technical checks, and last-minute panic all lead up to opening night. The difference is that once the curtain rises, the audience moves in and starts complaining that the Wi-Fi isn’t working.

My days were filled with recruiting staff, training teams, organizing opening events, reviewing brand standards, solving a thousand unexpected problems, and wondering whether we’d actually get everything finished in time.

And one more thing.

I had never attended a professional soccer match in my life.

Not one.

I had never followed a league, owned a team jersey, or debated a referee’s call. I wasn’t moving to Qatar because I loved football.

I was moving there because I worked in hotels.

As it turned out, that was about to become the best seat in the house.

Long before the first match kicked off, Qatar was already under a microscope.

Every newspaper seemed to have an opinion. Questions about worker welfare, labor conditions, alcohol restrictions, transportation systems, hotel capacity, and whether a country smaller than Connecticut could actually host the world’s largest sporting event dominated headlines.

Reporters were everywhere.

Some were there to cover football.

Others seemed determined to uncover the next scandal.

One journalist reportedly hid a camera in a lapel while documenting worker accommodations. Another incident involved a reporter cornering a hotel worker in a guest room and aggressively interrogating him about living conditions.

The scrutiny became so intense that our hotel training programs expanded far beyond guest service.

We trained employees to identify suspicious behavior, protect guest privacy, request identification when appropriate, avoid sharing information about teams and players, and never post photos of players on social media.

If a national team was staying at your hotel, discretion wasn’t optional.

We also had to train staff on FIFA’s strict branding rules.

Trust me, FIFA protected its trademarks with the enthusiasm of a dragon guarding treasure.

You couldn’t casually toss a FIFA logo into an advertisement or social media post. Every use was controlled.

And then there was FIFA’s room inventory strategy.

Let’s just say FIFA held its cards very close to its chest.

Large blocks of hotel rooms were reserved across the country while hotels and tourism officials tried to forecast demand. Information was shared carefully and often at the last possible moment. Sometimes it felt like the rest of us were trying to solve a puzzle while FIFA was holding half the pieces.

Hospitality people like certainty.

The World Cup offered very little of it.

Yet somehow, amid all the chaos, hotels opened.

One after another.

Just barely.

Then the fans arrived.

And everything changed.

The first thing I noticed wasn’t the football.

It was the flags.

Argentina. Mexico. Morocco. France. Brazil. England. Korea.

The world had suddenly landed in Doha.

One character seemed to be everywhere. La'eeb, the tournament mascot, looked like a floating traditional headscarf with a permanent grin. He appeared on giant sculptures, stadium screens, merchandise, souvenirs, and fan zones across the country. Even someone who knew almost nothing about football quickly learned that La'eeb was impossible to escape.

Our hotels quickly developed opinions about their favorite fans. The overwhelming winner?

The Mexicans.

Warm, friendly, endlessly cheerful, and impossible to miss in their giant sombreros and green jerseys. They embraced every part of the experience and somehow managed to turn every gathering area into a celebration.

If there was music playing somewhere, chances were good a Mexican fan was already dancing.

By then, I figured I should probably attend a match.

After all, I’d spent more than a year helping prepare for this event.

When the ticket lottery opened, I skipped the early rounds and applied for two matches that seemed impossible to miss: the semifinal and the third-place match.

To my surprise, I got both.

No pressure.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being an observer and started becoming part of the experience. I bought a La'eeb hand puppet. Then a plush version. Then a giant La'eeb hat that seemed like a great idea until I discovered how warm it was under the Qatar sun.

The transformation was complete.

Getting to the stadium was an event all by itself.

Qatar’s new metro system became one of the tournament’s unsung heroes.

I used to joke that Washington, D.C.’s Metro was fancy because it had carpeting.

Qatar’s metro was operating on an entirely different level.

Spotless stations. Seamless Wi-Fi. Driverless trains. Even premium-class carriages with more comfortable seating.

As fans poured into the system wearing jerseys and carrying flags, the train rides became rolling celebrations.

People sang.

People danced.

People chanted.

Complete strangers became temporary teammates.

By the time we emerged from the station escalators, thousands of fans were flowing toward the stadium like rivers joining an ocean.

There were drums.

There were songs.

There were flags everywhere.

For the first time, I understood that the World Cup wasn’t really about football.

It was about people.

My first match was the semifinal between Argentina and Croatia at Lusail Stadium.

I’d never seen Lionel Messi play before.

In fact, I barely understood the sport.

What I did understand was that more than 88,000 people around me seemed convinced they were witnessing history.

The opening ceremony fireworks exploded overhead.

Fans waved flags in every direction.

The noise was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

I spent part of the match trying to understand the rules and another part wondering why pieces of paper kept appearing on the field before realizing they weren’t napkins at all.

The crowd, however, needed no explanation.

Every touch by Messi seemed to generate its own weather system.

By the end of the evening, even I understood why people had crossed oceans to be there.

My favorite memory isn’t a goal.

It isn’t a score.

It isn’t even Lionel Messi.

It’s the atmosphere.

The chanting in the metro.

The dancing in the streets.

The fan zones filled with giant screens and beanbag chairs.

The feeling that for one extraordinary month, the entire world had gathered in one tiny country.

As someone who had spent fifteen exhausting months helping prepare for it, I felt proud.

And relieved.

Against all the predictions, controversies, deadlines, and doubts, Qatar had pulled it off.

All eleven hotels opened.

The trains ran.

The fans arrived.

The matches happened.

And somehow, the woman who had never attended a professional soccer game ended up waving an Argentina flag in a World Cup stadium.

Wearing a La’eeb hat, no less.

Not a bad introduction to football.

Every summer my father would announce that we were going to Sun Valley for vacation.

He’d tell his coworkers.

They’d laugh.

“Sun Valley? Idaho?”

Dad loved this part.

“Nope. Sun Valley Road.”

Specifically, 20 Sun Valley Road.

Our house.

This joke apparently killed at work.

I knew the truth.

The joke became less funny every year.

While my next-door neighbor was loading into her family’s camper and heading to Florida, I was preparing for another exciting summer in our backyard.

Florida seemed impossibly exotic.

To my young New Jersey brain, it might as well have been Europe.

My own travel plans involved a sprinkler, a plastic tub, and a healthy imagination.

I built a backyard water park before backyard water parks existed.

The admission was free.

The attractions were limited.

On ambitious days, I constructed elaborate forts out of those folding aluminum lawn chairs with the woven plastic straps. The ones that squeaked, creaked, clicked, and occasionally threatened to collapse without warning.

For a few hours they became castles, pirate ships, secret hideouts, and faraway destinations.

Anywhere except New Jersey.

My brother had a spinning globe in his room.

I loved that globe.

Sometimes I would sneak into his room, give it a hard spin, close my eyes, and let my finger land wherever it stopped.

Australia.

Brazil.

Japan.

Places I couldn’t pronounce.

Places that seemed impossibly far away from Trenton.

I would stare at those tiny names and wonder what people ate there, what language they spoke, and whether they had ever heard of New Jersey.

At that point in my life, Florida still seemed exotic.

Australia might as well have been another galaxy.

Looking back, that little globe was my first travel agent.

We did occasionally leave home.

There were trips to a local lake.

A visit or two to The Land of Make Believe, a children’s amusement park tucked away in northwest New Jersey.

And every week during the summer, we piled into our station wagon and headed to the drive-in movie theater.

That was my favorite.

For two dollars a carload, we could stay for three movies.

I loved the giant screen.

I loved the dancing popcorn, hot dogs, and soda cups bouncing across it before the movie started.

I loved begging for snacks from the concession stand.

I did not love the answer.

The answer was always no.

Apparently the can of dry pretzel sticks we had brought from home was perfectly adequate.

It was not.

To this day, I still associate dry pretzels with disappointment.

The drive-in also came with audience participation.

Whenever someone walked in front of the projector, hundreds of drivers would immediately start honking their horns.

The offender would sprint across the screen while their giant 1970s hairstyle blocked half the movie.

I thought this was perfectly normal behavior.

Then there were the visits to my grandparents.

If Florida represented freedom, my grandparents' house felt like a life sentence.

My grandparents lived in a tiny row house in Trenton.

It seemed like we were there all the time.

Whether it was every week or not, that’s how I remember it.

I dreaded those visits.

The routine never changed.

My mother would settle into the tiny kitchen with relatives, neighbors, and whoever else happened to stop by.

The tea would come out.

Lipton tea.

Carnation canned milk.

Those giant sugar cubes.

Conversations would begin.

Hours would pass.

Every so often, I would wander into the kitchen.

“Mom, are we leaving yet?”

“In an hour.”

An hour would pass.

I would return.

“Mom, are we leaving yet?”

“Soon.”

Soon turned out to be a very flexible concept.

Another hour would pass.

I would reappear.

This time looking visibly concerned.

“Mom, are we leaving yet?”

“Yes, yes. We’ll be going soon.”

Then the front door would open.

Another neighbor had arrived.

No.

No.

No.

My mother would immediately launch into another conversation.

I was doomed.

At that point I knew we had at least another hour.

Possibly three.

Looking back, I may have learned patience at my grandparents’ house.

Or maybe just despair.

Without fail, my grandmother would look at me and say in broken English:

“Eat, eat. You’re so skinny.”

I wasn’t hungry.

I was bored.

There is a difference.

Most of the adults spoke Polish.

My grandparents spoke Polish.

The neighbors spoke Polish.

The relatives spoke Polish.

For all I knew, they could have been discussing international diplomacy.

I understood almost none of it.

The only words I reliably recognized were “JoAnne” and “eat.”

At the time, I mostly found it annoying.

The food wasn’t helping matters.

The pierogies were excellent.

The fried butterfly cookies dusted with powdered sugar and made with an old iron mold were worth waiting for.

The Polish ham and horseradish?

Not so much.

Back in the living room, my father would eventually fall asleep in a chair after lunch while my grandfather watched Car 54, Where Are You? on a black-and-white television.

The giant furnace grate in the dining room terrified me.

I was convinced I would accidentally fall through it and be incinerated.

I tiptoed across it every single visit.

My brother and I invented ways to survive.

We made up stories.

We impersonated relatives.

There was Mrs. Wistician, whose favorite phrase seemed to be:

“We were laughing and laughing!”

There was Mr. Sanuik, who frightened me because he was missing several fingers.

Every visit featured the same cast of characters and seemed to last approximately three years.

I was being held hostage before I even knew what hostage meant.

Then, just as hope was fading, my grandmother would slip a dollar bill into my hand.

“Shush. Don’t tell anyone.”

I called it the Malinowski Slide.

It was the only reliable payoff for making it through the day.

What I didn’t realize back then was that spending my childhood going almost nowhere would eventually send me almost everywhere.

I wanted to know what existed beyond my neighborhood.

Beyond Trenton.

Beyond New Jersey.

Beyond every place I already knew.

And eventually, I did.

Over the years I lived in England.

I lived in Qatar.

I now live in Mexico.

I’ve stood in places that the little girl spinning that globe could barely pronounce.

Somehow, I got what I spent my childhood dreaming about.

A chance to see the world.

But here’s the funny part.

After all the moves, flights, and passport stamps, I still get excited about New Jersey.

I still miss Jersey pizza.

I still miss a proper hoagie.

And if you put a Philadelphia soft pretzel in front of me, all bets are off.

Apparently you can spend your childhood trying to get away from Sun Valley Road.

Then spend the rest of your life discovering it never really left you.

First came the gallbladder.

Then a kidney stone.

Somewhere in between, one side of my face unexpectedly ballooned during a business trip to Istanbul.

And let’s not forget the ear infection that stubbornly followed me from Qatar all the way to Mexico.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder if my body was trying to tell me something.

At the time, I was still moving at full speed, traveling constantly, managing a demanding international role, and convincing myself that exhaustion was just part of the job.

It would take another year before redundancy forced me to slow down.

My body may have reached that conclusion before I did.

What I didn’t realize then was that these medical adventures would also give me a front-row seat to healthcare systems in four different countries.

I always assumed the United States had the best healthcare in the world.

Then I spent the next nine years seeing doctors in England, Qatar, Mexico, and unexpectedly, an emergency room in Türkiye.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I may have been measuring the wrong things.

Because what patients value isn’t always what healthcare systems measure.

The United States: More Time with Forms Than Physicians

Before moving overseas, my healthcare experiences were entirely U.S.-based.

One of my most memorable was laparoscopic surgery at Hackensack University Medical Center in northern New Jersey.

The hospital honestly felt more like a luxury hotel than a medical facility.

The check-in area resembled a hotel front desk. The facilities were beautiful. The technology was cutting-edge. Everything felt polished, modern, and reassuring.

I even received a greeting card and a balloon while recovering after surgery.

The care itself was excellent.

But over the years, I also had plenty of routine appointments with primary care doctors, gynecologists, and specialists at other practices and that’s where I noticed a different side of the system.

If my appointment was scheduled for 9:00 a.m., there was a decent chance I wouldn’t actually see the doctor until close to 10:00.

And after all that waiting, the appointment itself often lasted only 10 or 15 minutes.

I frequently spent more time checking in, handing over insurance cards, updating paperwork, and checking out than I did actually speaking with the physician.

The facilities were often impressive.

The time spent with the doctor sometimes wasn’t.

England: The Neighborhood Doctor

When Marriott International transferred us to England, healthcare suddenly felt much more local.

Instead of shopping for doctors, we were assigned to a neighborhood National Health Service (NHS) practice.

I simply made an appointment and went to see my doctor.

There were no discussions about insurance, co-pays, deductibles, networks, claims, or bills.

And when the visit was over, I walked out without opening my wallet.

As an American, that took some getting used to.

The appointment was covered through the NHS. The only thing I typically paid for was any prescription medication.

And I was usually seen on time.

Imagine that.

The same was true of my dentist in Richmond.

He didn’t have the fanciest equipment or a gleaming office filled with specialists.

He cleaned my teeth himself.

He knew his patients.

The experience felt personal and refreshingly uncomplicated.

Looking back, what I remember most about healthcare in England wasn’t the facilities.

It was the feeling that the people caring for me were part of my community.

Qatar: More Surprises

When Marriott International moved us again, this time to Qatar, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

I had excellent insurance through work and quickly discovered there was no shortage of medical options.

Small specialist clinics.

Large hospitals.

Medical complexes that felt like mini hospitals.

Appointments were easy to get.

WhatsApp booking was common long before Americans had even heard of using messaging apps for healthcare.

My most memorable experience started with an ear infection.

Actually, “ear infection” doesn’t quite capture it.

My inner ear became so itchy that I scratched it constantly until I made the problem much worse.

Eventually I could barely hear from one side.

The first specialist I visited prescribed eye drops.

For my ear.

I was skeptical.

My ear was apparently skeptical too because nothing improved.

I later upgraded myself to a larger clinic in Doha.

The doctor was bilingual, spent more time with me, and had a much better bedside manner.

But once again...

Eye drops.

I later learned that Qatar has very strict pharmaceutical regulations and that some medications commonly prescribed elsewhere aren't always available there. Whether that explains my endless rounds of eye drops, I still don't know.

The infection proved far more committed to relocating than I was and followed me all the way to Mexico.

Not exactly the souvenir I had hoped to bring home.

Qatar was also where I had my gallbladder removed.

Along with a colonoscopy.

Because apparently once you reach a certain age, this qualifies as multitasking.

The facility was stunning.

Modern.

Spotless.

Efficient.

My doctors spent significant time explaining procedures and answering questions.

Nothing felt rushed.

The pharmacy was located directly inside the facility, so prescriptions could be filled immediately after appointments.

I appreciated that convenience.

My overnight hospital stay was excellent.

The entire experience felt efficient, organized, and surprisingly reassuring.

Türkiye: The Week My Face Exploded

In February 2023, I was still working at full speed.

I was on a two-and-a-half-week business trip to Istanbul packed with hotel meetings, leadership meetings, and digital marketing workshops.

Truthfully, I was exhausted before I even boarded the plane.

Something felt off.

I ignored it.

As many corporate employees do.

During the second week, one side of my face suddenly swelled dramatically.

Not “a little puffy.”

Not “maybe it’s allergies.”

More like “someone inserted a grapefruit into my cheek overnight.”

I attended a meeting anyway.

Because of course I did.

Eventually even I had to admit this wasn’t normal.

One of my colleagues took me to a nearby hospital where I was able to see a bilingual doctor the very same day.

The hospital was modern and efficient.

The diagnosis appeared to be some sort of viral infection. A course of medication brought the swelling down within a few days.

Crisis averted.

My face returned to normal and I went back to pretending I wasn’t completely exhausted.

Looking back now, I wonder if my body was trying to tell me something.

It would be another year before redundancy forced me to slow down.

My body may have reached that conclusion before I did.

Mexico: The Biggest Surprise

When Yunki and I moved to Mérida after my redundancy, I assumed healthcare would be one of the compromises.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My first medical appointment in Mexico was with an ear specialist.

The same ear problem that had followed me from Qatar.

I found the doctor on Doctoralia, a website that allows you to search physicians by specialty, language, reviews, and location.

I booked the appointment through WhatsApp.

Naturally.

Because in Mexico, WhatsApp is used for practically everything.

The doctor was bilingual and practiced at Faro Hospital, one of Mérida’s newest hospitals.

I handed him the ear medication from Qatar.

He looked at it.

Then laughed.

“What is this?” he asked.

“This won’t help you.”

Five minutes later he cleaned my ear, prescribed a medication available over the counter, and an issue I’d struggled with for months disappeared within days.

After months of appointments and eye drops, it felt almost embarrassingly simple.

I have been a fan ever since.

My Christmas gift for 2025.

A kidney stone.

A large one.

Large enough that it wasn’t going anywhere without medical intervention.

After consultations with a gastroenterologist and urologist, surgery was scheduled.

The thing that impressed me most wasn’t just the cost.

The surgery cost roughly $3,000 USD.

It was the accessibility.

The doctors spent time explaining everything.

Questions were welcomed.

Appointments were available quickly.

And if I had concerns afterward, I could send a WhatsApp message directly to my doctor.

Directly.

No portal.

No call center.

No three-day wait.

The surgery itself included one final surprise.

A large television in the operating room was playing music videos.

The staff asked if I had any requests.

A few minutes later I drifted off to anesthesia listening to Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer.

I suspect that’s not how most people imagine surgery.

My experience in Mexico has largely been through the private healthcare system, so it’s only fair to mention that Yunki’s experience has been somewhat different.

Because of pre-existing conditions, he relies primarily on Instituto Mexicano del Seguro Social (IMSS), Mexico’s public healthcare system. The care itself has been good, but specialist appointments can sometimes take months to secure.

One thing that has made a huge difference is Health Itinerary, a local healthcare concierge service that helps him schedule appointments, navigate the bureaucracy, accompany him to appointments when needed, and even manage prescription pickups.

Think of them as part healthcare advocate, part translator, and part personal assistant.

Without their help, I suspect our view of the Mexican healthcare system might look a little different.

What Matters Most

After experiencing healthcare in four countries, I don’t have a favorite system.

Every country has strengths.

Every country has frustrations.

No system is perfect.

But what I value has changed.

The older I get, the less impressed I am by marble lobbies, giant hospital complexes, and fancy waiting rooms.

What matters most is time.

Can I get an appointment?

Does the doctor listen?

Do I understand what’s happening?

Can I ask questions?

Do I leave feeling heard?

Living abroad didn’t teach me which country has the best healthcare.

It taught me that some of the best medical experiences I’ve had happened far from home.

And sometimes the best doctor’s office isn’t the fanciest one.

It’s the one where someone takes the time to listen.

And after a gallbladder removal, a kidney stone, an exploding face, and a stubborn ear infection, I've learned that's worth more than the fanciest waiting room in the world.

This June, I’ll be attending a family reunion in New Jersey celebrating the 100-year anniversary of my grandparents arriving in America from Poland.

I’ve affectionately started referring to it as Malinowski Fest.

Somewhere between the pierogies, cousins, old family photos, and inevitable debates over who makes the best stuffed cabbage, my cousin Linda asked if I would speak briefly about my trip to Poland a few years ago.

As far as anyone knows, I am currently the only member of the family who has actually visited Poland.

No pressure.

Growing up, my understanding of Poland came mostly through family stories and stereotypes passed down through generations. My grandparents spoke fluent Polish. My father spoke what I would call “selective Polish.” I, unfortunately, can order pierogies and identify gołąbki, aka stuffed cabbage, and that’s about where my language skills end.

Malinowski was my maiden name, so Poland always felt like a place connected to my family identity, even if I had never seen it for myself.

I also grew up hearing that the name “Malinowski” was connected to raspberries. My father would grin whenever he explained it, and somewhere over the years, the word raspberry became permanently attached in my brain to our family name.

As it turns out, he wasn’t wrong.

The surname Malinowski comes from the Slavic root malina, meaning raspberry. Historically, it likely referred to someone from a village with that name or perhaps an ancestor associated with raspberry cultivation.

Which honestly sounds much more charming than some of the other possible family legacies out there.

In July 2023, my husband Yunki and I traveled to Poland after I attended a regional hospitality conference in Kraków. Since we were already there, we decided to extend the trip and explore the country my father’s family had left behind generations earlier.

I also arrived in Poland with a very specific personal mission: to find a pierogi that tasted as close as possible to the ones my grandmother used to make.

This became an entirely unofficial but very serious research project throughout the trip.

I thought I knew what Poland would feel like.

My image of Poland had been assembled from family stories, holiday meals, old photographs, and this small Polish doll my grandmother gave me when I was a child.

In my mind, Poland was a place of accordion music, embroidered folk costumes, pierogies, cabbage rolls, and elderly relatives speaking a language I couldn’t understand.

My grandfather played the accordion, so naturally I expected to hear accordion music somewhere.

I expected to see people in traditional dress.

I expected pierogies on every street corner.

I expected a country that still felt connected to the Poland my grandparents had left behind.

Part of that expectation may have come from visiting Romania the year before. Romania was beautiful and fascinating, but it still felt like a country working through some of the economic challenges left behind by decades of communist rule.

For some reason, I expected Poland to feel similar.

It didn’t.

Instead, I found sushi restaurants, trendy cafés, young professionals carrying iced coffees, and one of the most modern, energetic countries I had visited in Europe.

My mental image of Poland was decades out of date.

Kraków: The Fairy-Tale City

We stayed at the Sheraton Kraków, walking distance from the historic center of the city. During breaks from the conference, we wandered endlessly through cobblestone streets, churches, cafés, and squares that honestly looked like they belonged inside a storybook.

At times, Kraków felt like stepping into another era.

Horse-drawn carriages rolled through Rynek Główny, the enormous medieval market square. Church towers rose above colorful buildings. Outdoor cafés spilled into winding streets filled with both tourists and locals lingering late into the evening.

What struck me most was how alive the city felt.

Families strolled along the Vistula River beneath Wawel Castle. Teenagers roller-skated along the waterfront paths. Couples sat on benches talking late into the evening while street musicians played nearby.

This wasn’t the Poland I had imagined from old family stories.

This was a country very much living in the present.

At the same time, history was never far away.

One surprise I wasn’t prepared for was how emotional Kraków would be.

Like many Americans, I had always associated the Holocaust primarily with Germany. Years earlier, I had visited Dachau and understood the history intellectually.

Standing in Kraków felt different.

The Jewish Quarter, Ghetto Heroes Square, and Schindler’s Factory Museum brought home just how much suffering, loss, and destruction had taken place here in Poland itself.

It was impossible not to think about the lives that had unfolded on those same streets.

Poland carries its history visibly and honestly. Beauty and tragedy often exist side by side there in a way that is difficult to explain until you experience it yourself.

The experience stayed with me long after we left.

While I attended conference sessions, Yunki took a day tour to Auschwitz, which he described afterward mostly with silence. Sometimes there really aren’t words. He also visited the extraordinary Wieliczka Salt Mine, where chapels carved entirely from salt exist deep underground like something from another world.

And then there was Zakopane.

Zakopane: Where My Polish Roots Started Speaking Through Cheese

One of my favorite days of the entire trip was our journey south from Kraków into the Tatra Mountains to the resort town of Zakopane.

If Kraków felt like a fairy tale, Zakopane somehow took it even further.

The mountain villages looked frozen in another century, with elaborate wooden houses, horse-drawn wagons, carved chapels, shepherd huts, and dramatic mountain scenery everywhere we turned.

On the drive there, we stopped in a tiny mountain town where local vendors were grilling smoked sheep cheese over open coals right in front of us. The cheese, called oscypek, was served hot with cranberry sauce alongside tiny glasses of raspberry liqueur called Malinowa Soplica.

And suddenly it hit me.

Malinowa. Malinowski.

Apparently my Polish roots had decided to communicate with me through alcohol and cheese.

Honestly, there are worse ways to reconnect with your heritage.

The whole experience felt so wonderfully different from my normal New Jersey food references. One minute I was mentally comparing pierogies to my grandmother’s kitchen, and the next I was standing in the Polish mountains eating smoked sheep cheese beside a shepherd’s hut while drinking raspberry liqueur connected to my maiden name.

Naturally, I considered this a sign.

Zakopane itself felt magical. The downtown looked like an alpine storybook village filled with wooden architecture, little shops, mountain cafés, and horse-drawn carriages.

I became fascinated by the traditional wooden homes, many built in what is known as the Zakopane architectural style. What I loved most was learning that Poland intentionally created an architectural identity that felt distinctly its own instead of simply copying Western European styles. Even the buildings told a story about national pride and originality.

We also rode an alpine slide down the mountain at slightly alarming speeds while taking in breathtaking views of the Tatra Mountains.

Of course we did.

And somewhere along the way, I also discovered giant Polish gummy candies that I briefly mistook for some distant relative of Jersey Shore saltwater taffy.

Travel really keeps you humble.

Warsaw: A City Rebuilt

Before visiting Warsaw, I imagined a dark, gray city still carrying the emotional weight of communism and war.

Instead, what I found was one of the most energetic and youthful cities I had experienced in Europe.

Warsaw felt busy, modern, creative, entrepreneurial, and full of life. Outdoor cafés buzzed with activity. Parks overflowed with people relaxing in the summer heat. Young professionals hurried through the streets carrying iced coffees and shopping bags while music drifted from restaurants and public squares.

This was not the Poland I had imagined at all.

And yet, history was everywhere.

What makes Warsaw remarkable is knowing that much of the city had to be rebuilt almost entirely after World War II. Large parts of the historic center were destroyed during the war and later reconstructed piece by piece using paintings, photographs, and historical records.

Walking through the Old Town, you would never know much of it had once been reduced to rubble.

That resilience stayed with me throughout the trip.

One minute we would be eating pierogies in a lively square, and the next we’d find ourselves standing before memorials honoring children who fought during the Warsaw Uprising.

Warsaw seemed to hold joy and sorrow in the in the same frame everywhere we went…

And somehow, instead of feeling weighed down by history, the country felt strengthened by it.

Warsaw especially felt like a city that had learned how to honor the past while still moving confidently forward.

I also realized fairly quickly that Warsaw and I were deeply compatible because two of my favorite foods on earth happen to be pierogies and jelly doughnuts.

Poland, thankfully, excels at both.

The Polish version of jelly doughnuts are called pączki. Pronounced roughly “poonch-kee” and I fully embraced them as an essential cultural experience.

Honestly, I may have approached them with slightly too much enthusiasm.

Somewhere in Warsaw, after what I can only estimate was my fourteenth pierogi tasting of the trip, I finally found it.

The closest thing to my grandmother’s pierogies I had tasted in my entire life.

Unfortunately, in true vacation fashion, I cannot currently remember the restaurant name.

So now I may have to return to Poland for further investigation.

By this point in the trip, I had consumed so many pierogies that when I posed beside a giant stuffed pierogi character in Warsaw, the resemblance felt less amusing and more concerning.

For the record, I regret nothing.

In Warsaw, we stayed at the iconic Warsaw Presidential Hotel, where the enormous Palace of Culture and Science seemed to appear constantly in the skyline around us.

One of the most fascinating symbols of Warsaw’s transformation, it was originally built during the Soviet era as a “gift” from Stalin. For many years it represented communist domination and painful history.

Today, it has evolved into something entirely different — home to theaters, museums, exhibitions, and cultural events.

That transformation somehow felt symbolic of Poland itself.

A country that remembers where it came from without allowing the past to define its future.

Leaving Poland

When Yunki and I first arrived in Poland, I thought I was visiting a place connected mostly to old family stories and inherited images from another generation.

What I discovered instead was a country that felt vibrant, resilient, creative, welcoming, and very much alive.

Yes, there were fairy-tale cities, mountain villages, incredible food, and more varieties of pierogies and pączki than I believed humanly possible.

But what stayed with me most was the spirit of the people.

Poland felt proud of its history without being trapped inside it.

Somewhere along the way, Poland stopped feeling like the place my grandparents came from.

It started feeling like part of my story too.

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Right now I’m sitting barefoot near the Gulf in Chuburná Puerto while Fluffie’s ears flap wildly in the wind like she’s auditioning for a dog food commercial.

There’s sand on my feet. A ceiling fan humming somewhere behind me. Palm trees moving around like they don’t have a single urgent thought in the world.

Two and a half years ago, this exact scene would have looked very different.

I still would have been sitting near a beach somewhere. Hospitality marketing came with plenty of beautiful destinations.

But mentally?

I would have been somewhere else entirely.

Checking emails between walks.

Monitoring my phone during dinner.

Waiting for another late-night WhatsApp that couldn’t wait until morning.

Watching some hotel issue suddenly become “urgent” at 10 PM.

Hospitality marketing trains you to always be “on.”

Even on vacation.

Especially on vacation.

Back then, relaxing never fully felt like relaxing. It felt temporary. Like I was borrowing time from work before eventually being pulled back into it.

And honestly? I got very good at that life.

Airport lounges.

Business class upgrades.

Luxury hotels.

Fast-paced meetings.

Emergency calls.

Crisis management.

Beautiful restaurants where I was technically “having dinner” while simultaneously checking emails under the table.

For years, my calendar basically functioned as my personality.

After spending decades in global hospitality marketing, I think I simply didn’t know how to exist without deadlines, meetings, deliverables, or some vague sense that I should be optimizing something.

Then my job ended.

And suddenly nobody needed me jumping onto a conference call on a random Saturday because a hotel issue somewhere in the world had escalated into an “urgent situation.”

At first, that freedom felt surprisingly uncomfortable.

I thought I would immediately reinvent myself into something productive after leaving Marriott International and moving to Mexico. I assumed that’s what people like me did after corporate life.

Apparently there’s an unwritten rule that after leaving corporate life, you must immediately reinvent yourself into some kind of consultant.

Preferably one with a professionally lit LinkedIn headshot and the words “fractional strategist” somewhere in your bio.

So naturally, within months of moving to Mérida, I bought a domain name.

Built a consultancy website.

Created branding.

Carefully selected fonts and spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing a shade of blue that communicated both “strategic” and “approachable.”

At the time, this all felt incredibly important.

Looking back now, it feels slightly unhinged.

Retirement sounded relaxing in theory.

In reality, I apparently responded by trying to create a smaller, lower-paying version of my former corporate life.

Voluntarily.

Every day LinkedIn informed me another former executive was “excited to announce” their new consultancy.

Suddenly everyone I knew was a founder, advisor, strategist, consultant, or executive coach.

We may have left corporate life, but corporate life clearly hadn’t left us.

To be fair, many people genuinely seem to enjoy consulting. Some are very successful at it. For others, it provides income, purpose, flexibility, or simply a way to keep the skills they’ve spent decades building. And for many, it’s energizing and fulfilling.

But I slowly realized I was trying to force myself down a path that no longer felt authentic to me.

Eventually I took on my first client to test whether I truly wanted this new chapter.

Within weeks there were delayed approvals, advertising account problems, confusing last-minute changes, and enough stress to make me wonder why I was voluntarily recreating corporate life from a rooftop in Mexico.

Somewhere between troubleshooting Facebook ad issues, chasing approvals, and realizing I was doing a surprising amount of unpaid work, I had an uncomfortable thought:

I don’t think I want to do this anymore.

Not because the client was uniquely terrible.

Not because consulting itself is bad.

But because I realized I no longer wanted my life structured around urgency, difficult personalities, constant revisions, and the pressure to always sound enthusiastic and available.

That version of me was exhausted.

The irony is that moving to Mexico was supposed to represent freedom for me. Yet almost immediately, I tried rebuilding a smaller version of the exact same world I had worked so hard to leave behind.

Maybe because slowing down feels uncomfortable when you’ve spent decades being rewarded for speed.

Maybe because high-achieving people often don’t know who they are without work.

Or maybe because modern culture constantly tells us that rest only has value if it eventually becomes productive.

It took me nearly a full year living in Mérida to stop feeling guilty for not constantly “doing.”

Now my life is much smaller in the best possible way.

Morning workouts.

Coffee.

Writing.

Walks with Fluffie.

Lunches with friends.

WhatsApp messages with people I love scattered across the U.S., Europe, and the Middle East.

Watching Gulf sunsets without simultaneously checking notifications.

There’s finally room to think.

To notice things.

To breathe.

Ironically, after spending much of my former career traveling to more than 70 countries, I also no longer feel the same pressure to constantly chase the next destination.

I still love travel. I always will.

But I no longer need airport lounges, luxury suites, or perfectly curated experiences to feel fulfilled. In fact, some of that world now feels strangely performative to me. Beautiful, yes. But often detached from real life.

These days I’d much rather stay in a small locally owned guesthouse somewhere slightly imperfect and actually experience a place instead of simply consuming it.

Maybe that’s one of the unexpected gifts of getting older.

You stop needing your life to look impressive all the time.

You just want it to feel real.

And sitting here near the Gulf Coast of Mexico, barefoot and listening to the wind, I’m slowly learning that it’s perfectly OK if every single minute of my life is no longer scheduled, optimized, monetized, or productive.

Honestly?

That may be the biggest adjustment of all.

A little over two months ago, I nervously hit publish on my first Substack post.

Today, Retired. Rewired. Relocated. reached 100 subscribers.

I considered finding a sophisticated photo to mark the occasion.

Instead, here’s a selfie with a giant chicken.

Somehow this feels more appropriate.

When I started writing Retired. Rewired. Relocated., I wasn’t sure if anyone beyond a few friends and former colleagues would read it.

I simply wanted to tell honest stories about retirement, reinvention, relocation, travel, mentoring, and the occasional unexpected adventure.

What I didn’t expect was how much I would enjoy the conversations that followed.

The comments, emails, recommendations, and stories many of you have shared have become one of my favorite parts of this experience.

Whether you’ve been here since my very first post or subscribed last week, thank you for spending a little of your time with me.

As I look ahead, I’d love to hear from you.

What kinds of stories have resonated most?

• Life in Mexico

• Retirement and reinvention

• Travel experiences

• Career reflections and lessons learned

• Mentoring and community

• Fluffie adventures

Or something else entirely?

Feel free to leave a comment or simply hit reply. I read every message.

Thank you for helping make this little corner of the internet feel welcoming, thoughtful, and fun.

I’m glad you’re here.

— JoAnne

Twenty years ago, a blackout in New York City had me walking across Manhattan in high heels.

Fifteen years ago, a blackout in Maryland had me hand-digging a driveway during Snowmageddon.

Last week, a blackout in coastal Mexico sent me looking for the bed with my phone flashlight.

Apparently, this is what personal growth looks like.

Two nights ago, the power went out in Chuburná before the storm had even arrived.

My husband Yunki and I had just settled in to watch Netflix when everything suddenly went pitch black.

Not regular dark.

Haunted-house dark.

The kind of dark where you can’t see your hand in front of your face.

A few seconds later, water began pouring off the roof of our Airbnb.

Not dripping.

Pouring.

“This doesn’t seem ideal,” I remember thinking.

Then the rain arrived.

Then we discovered water on the bedroom floor.

Excellent.

A blackout and a roof leak.

At one point in my life, this combination would have sent me into full crisis-management mode. I would have been making lists, devising contingency plans, and somehow trying to solve problems that were completely outside my control.

Instead, we found the bed with our phone flashlights and went to sleep.

The entire town was without power.

What exactly was I supposed to do?

Somewhere along the way, I’ve become much more relaxed about these things.

But it wasn’t my first blackout.

Not even close.

The Blackout That Ate Manhattan

Back in 2003, I was working in Manhattan for an email marketing company called Bigfoot Interactive. This was back when email marketing was considered cutting-edge technology and nobody had yet invented a meeting that could have been an email because everything was already an email.

One hot August afternoon, the power suddenly went out.

And stayed out.

The elevators stopped.

The subways stopped.

The PATH trains stopped.

Traffic lights stopped.

Pretty much everything that makes New York City function stopped.

For New Jersey commuters like me, this was not ideal.

Especially because I lived in Rutherford and depended on public transportation to get home.

Walking was no longer one option.

Walking was the only option.

So there I was, dressed for an office, not an emergency evacuation, making my way through Manhattan with thousands of other people.

Women carrying their heels.

Men loosening their ties.

Everyone sweating.

Everyone trying to figure out how they were getting home.

My coworker Jason very kindly stayed with me as we joined what felt like half of Manhattan heading toward the ferries.

The farther we walked, the hotter it got.

The farther we walked, the more ridiculous my high heel shoes became.

By the time I finally reached the ferry terminal, my feet were swollen, blistered, and staging what can only be described as a labor strike.

When we finally arrived, thousands of people were already there.

Lines stretched everywhere.

Police officers were directing crowds.

People were standing shoulder to shoulder in the August heat waiting for ferries that couldn’t possibly move everyone quickly enough.

After walking for what felt like forever, we then stood around for hours longer.

Miraculously, I eventually made it home.

My shoes survived.

Barely.

My feet were less enthusiastic.

At the time, it felt like a disaster.

Today, it feels like a story.

Snowmageddon Has Entered the Chat

Fast forward a few years.

After spending most of my life in the New York/New Jersey area, Yunki and I decided to move to Maryland.

Specifically, Ijamsville.

No, not “I JAMS Ville” like a rapper.

The J is silent.

When we were house hunting, everyone assured us that Maryland winters were mild.

Hardly any snow.

Nothing to worry about.

Coming from northern New Jersey, this sounded fantastic.

Sign us up.

We bought a lovely ranch house on almost an acre of land.

We also inherited a driveway approximately the length of the New Jersey Turnpike.

This becomes important later.

Then came February 2010.

Otherwise known as Snowmageddon.

The snow just kept coming.

And coming.

And coming.

At one point, we literally could not open the front door.

We also did not own a snowblower.

We owned two snow shovels.

That’s it.

Two.

Then the power went out.

The weight of the snow and ice brought down power lines.

Our neighborhood was completely dark.

Not for hours.

For days.

Thankfully, we had a wood-burning stove.

We also had enough groceries to survive.

Although the contents of our refrigerator were becoming increasingly philosophical about their future.

At some point, Yunki and I decided to dig out the driveway ourselves.

With the aforementioned two shovels.

Hours later, exhausted and frozen, we were nearing the end of our driveway when some neighbors finally wandered over and offered to help with their snowblowers.

How thoughtful.

We were basically finished.

To this day, I suspect they were watching us from their windows like it was a reality television show.

I could barely move the next day.

But we survived.

And shortly afterward we purchased a snowblower.

Growth comes in many forms.

The Chuburná Version

Which brings us back to Mexico.

The funny thing is that the blackout itself wasn’t any easier.

The power still went out.

The roof still leaked.

The storm was still dramatic enough to look like something out of an apocalypse movie.

What changed was me.

Different blackouts have different sounds.

Manhattan sounded like sirens, footsteps, and thousands of people trying to get home.

Maryland sounded like tree branches cracking under ice.

Chuburná sounded like barking dogs, distant thunder, and palm trees swaying in the wind.

The blackouts didn’t really change.

I did.

Younger JoAnne treated every disruption like a problem that needed immediate solving.

Current JoAnne understands that sometimes the power simply goes out.

Sometimes the ferry lines are long.

Sometimes the driveway is buried under three feet of snow.

Sometimes the roof leaks.

And sometimes the best solution is to grab your flashlight and go to bed.

In New York, I walked.

In Maryland, I shoveled.

In Mexico, I slept.

Somewhere between Manhattan, Maryland, and Mexico, I stopped expecting life to cooperate all the time.

The power goes out.

Plans change.

Snow keeps falling.

Roofs leak.

And somehow, you get through it.

Usually with a better story afterward.

As I sit on the beach this week in Chuburná, Mexico, watching layers of clouds drift across the sky above the Gulf, I find myself unexpectedly thinking about our years living in the UK.

It’s funny how, through years of traveling for both work and leisure, little loves, habits, and comforts stay with us from each place. I know this probably isn’t unique. But after nearly nine years of living abroad, I’ve realized how much each place settles into your routines and memories.

Maybe that’s what relocation really does to you over time. You don’t completely leave places behind. You carry pieces of them forward and slowly layer them into who you become.

Living in Mexico hasn’t replaced our life in England. And England certainly didn’t replace our life in the U.S. Instead, all of these places now somehow coexist together in our routines, memories, cravings, and even the way we spend our weekends.

In the UK, our weekends often meant long walks with our pups through green parks, rain or shine, usually involving at least a little mud and drizzle.

Those walks belonged to another season of our lives, alongside Callie and Penny, who we later lost to old age during our years living in Qatar before moving to Mexico. Now Fluffie, who we adopted in Qatar, has become part of this newer chapter instead.

In Mérida, those same walks feel completely different. Now they might involve sandy feet in sleepy Gulf fishing villages or carefully navigating the narrow uneven sidewalks of Centro beneath tropical trees and colorful old buildings.

The scenery changed. The ritual stayed.

Over time, I realized how memories carry forward and layer themselves into your life in different ways.

Sometimes they come through culture and entertainment.

When we first moved to London from the United States for my hospitality job, Yunki and I temporarily stayed in London while searching for an apartment in the suburbs. During those first weeks of adjusting to a new country, we discovered British television.

We became completely hooked on The Graham Norton Show, which somehow felt looser, funnier, and more unpredictable than most American late-night television. I loved how all the guests interacted together on the couch. And the famous red chair flip segment never stopped being entertaining.

Then there was Strictly Come Dancing, which Americans may not recognize is the original version of Dancing with the Stars. But somehow it felt warmer and more wholesome. By the end of every season, we found ourselves emotionally invested in contestants we had never heard of before.

And then came Eurovision.

Honestly, I still don’t fully know how to explain Eurovision to those who didn’t grow up with it.

It’s outrageous, glittery, occasionally bizarre, and absolutely wonderful.

Yunki and I stumbled onto Eurovision during those early London weeks and immediately became obsessed. In this singing competition, every country seemed to unleash its wildest possible performance concept onto one stage while Europe collectively took the entire thing both very seriously and not seriously at all.

This is definitely not American Idol.

Looking back, I realize those shows became both entertainment and comfort during our adjustment to life abroad. Even now, years later and now living in Mexico, streaming them still instantly brings us back to that chapter of our lives and always leaves us smiling.

If you’ve ever lived abroad, relocated, or found yourself carrying little pieces of former lives into new places, feel free to subscribe and follow along.

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Other memories stay with us through food.

To this day, I still haven’t found scones anywhere quite like the ones we used to have in England. Add proper clotted cream and a pot of tea and I was perfectly happy for an afternoon, although my waistline probably disagrees.

I also oddly miss shopping at a British supermarket called Waitrose because it changed how we lived. Instead of giant American-style grocery hauls, we started shopping more the European way, picking up smaller amounts more frequently and building meals around whatever looked fresh that day.

I loved the recipe cards scattered throughout the store suggesting ways to use seasonal ingredients.

It was also where I first learned that courgette was simply zucchini with a much fancier name.

But Mexico brought entirely new flavors and rituals into our lives too.

These days I get excited discovering tropical fruits I still can’t identify half the time at local markets. Sometimes we buy them anyway just to discover a new favorite.

History feels different everywhere you live.

The historic Guildford Castle, our neighborhood landmark, was always a joy to wander through or simply sit beside on a park bench watching the changing flowers through the seasons.

In Yucatán, history feels ancient in an entirely different way. Instead of medieval castles and manicured English gardens, we can spend weekends exploring Mayan ruins like Uxmal beneath blazing tropical skies.

Even the landscapes feel like opposite worlds.

England gave us rolling green parks, flower gardens, misty mornings, and muddy walking trails.

Yucatán gives us palm trees, bright bougainvillea, turquoise water, beach sunsets, and heat that makes you rethink every life decision by mid-afternoon in May.

Our South Western Railway train rides through the English countryside have now been replaced with ADO bus rides to explore places around Yucatán like Valladolid, Bacalar, Campeche, Playa del Carmen, and of course Cancún.

The scenery feels entirely different now. Instead of rainy green fields and sleepy English towns passing outside the window, we’re watching jungle roads, roadside taco stands, tiny villages, and flashes of bright turquoise water along the Caribbean coast.

And yet despite all the differences, something underneath still feels familiar.

We’re still exploring. Still collecting small comforts, traditions, and memories from wherever life happens to place us next.

Maybe that’s what living abroad does to you.

Instead, it becomes layers.

A little bit of England.
A little bit of Mexico.
Pieces of the U.S.
Memories from the Middle East.

Somehow, all of it still feels like home.

Thanks for reading!
If you enjoy stories about reinvention, relocation, travel, and building a life across different countries, I’d love to have you along for the journey.

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Looking back, the warning signs were there from the beginning.

Including the name.

Los Rápidos.

At no point did we stop to question why a supposedly relaxing floating experience in nature sounded vaguely like an action movie title.

Last November, Yunki and I traveled to Bacalar in southern Quintana Roo, about seven hours from Mérida by bus. Unlike Cancún and Tulum, Bacalar still feels quieter and less polished. People go there for the stunning freshwater lagoon, nature, sailboats, and slower pace of life.

Bacalar is famous for the “Lagoon of Seven Colors,” named for the incredible shades of blue that shift throughout the water depending on depth and sunlight.

We had heard it was one of the most beautiful places in Mexico.

They were not wrong.

Naturally, one of our “peaceful nature experiences” eventually turned into a survival exercise.

The day at Los Rápidos seemed simple enough. A natural lazy river. A relaxing day floating through turquoise water surrounded by mangroves and jungle.

Peaceful.

We arrived early before the tour buses and crowds. The water shimmered under bright blue skies with giant puffy clouds overhead. We picked out our life jackets, though I remember quietly wondering why we even needed them since the water didn’t appear especially deep.

An attendant gave us quick instructions in Spanish. I vaguely remember hearing something about making sure to exit at a certain point.

No problem.

I had forgotten my waterproof phone case, so instead of taking photos in the river, I took happy little photos beforehand of smiling tourists floating peacefully by.

“That will be us,” I said confidently.

Famous last words.

We climbed into the river and started floating.

The scenery was gorgeous. Mangroves. Tropical plants. Bright blue skies. Birds overhead. Crystal-clear water.

A few people started exiting the river.

“Why are they getting out already?” I thought. “They’re missing the best part.”

So naturally, we kept floating.

And floating.

And floating.

Eventually I noticed a lone attendant farther down the river coordinating floats near a dock. He looked at us strangely.

That’s when I looked around.

No other floaters.

The river was getting wider.

Uh oh.

The attendant pointed back in the direction we had come from.

Apparently we had floated too far.

This is where the movie danger music starts to play.

“Yunki!” I yelled. “We have to go back!”

“What?”

“We missed the exit point!”

What followed was less “lazy river” and more “middle-aged survival challenge.”

The current was much stronger than we realized. The water depth changed constantly. Some areas were shallow enough to stand on slippery rocks while others suddenly dropped lower. Mangrove roots twisted along the edges like jungle trap ropes.

We started trying to pull ourselves backward against the current by grabbing onto mangrove roots.

At some point another unsuspecting couple floated into our disaster behind us.

“We went too far!” we yelled. “You have to turn around!”

Congratulations. We had now accidentally recruited international participants into our rescue mission.

The couple turned out to be from the Netherlands, and the husband immediately shifted into survival mode.

Meanwhile, Yunki had entered full panic mode.

Yunki cannot swim.

Actually, “cannot swim” may be generous. Yunki floats more like a rock. Or possibly an appliance.

To make matters worse, his life jacket kept riding up over his face, making him panic even more. We finally took it off and wrapped it around his arm so he could float without being slowly strangled by the very device designed to save him.

At this point, the Dutch husband organized all of us into some kind of human rescue chain. His wife led the way while he helped drag Yunki through the current as Yunki clung desperately to mangrove roots. I stayed behind Yunki trying to stabilize him while also wondering how exactly our peaceful eco-tourism outing had transformed into an international water rescue operation.

It took us nearly thirty exhausting minutes to make our way back to the exit point where another swimmer finally helped pull us out of the water.

We collapsed onto the dock exhausted, scraped up, embarrassed, and profoundly humbled.

We thanked our Dutch rescuers profusely.

Only then did I suddenly remember the attendant at the beginning saying something about exiting the river at the platform.

Oops.

The truly shocking part?

After resting for a few minutes, Yunki actually wanted to go back into the river.

I, however, had experienced enough excitement for one day and suggested we return to our hotel and quietly survive on dry land for the remainder of the afternoon.

The strange thing is, Los Rápidos wasn’t even our only near-water disaster in Bacalar.

A few days earlier near Buenavista, outside Bacalar, we had taken a peaceful boat tour through another beautiful lagoon far away from the bigger tourist crowds.

The plan sounded lovely.

Birdwatching. Shallow swimming. Relaxing lagoon vibes.

Buenavista itself felt even quieter than Bacalar. Fewer tourists. More jungle. More untouched beauty. The kind of place where you suddenly think, “Why doesn’t everyone know about this?”

The “shallow swimming” part turned out to be slightly misleading.

The bottom of the lagoon wasn’t solid sand at all. It felt more like underwater quicksand.

Before I could fully process this information, Yunki bravely jumped off the boat and immediately began sinking knee-deep into the lagoon floor like a man entering a scene from Jumanji.

“Yunki! Are you OK?”

No answer.

Just a frozen look of panic.

Our poor boat captain thought Yunki was having a heart attack.

Thankfully between the life jacket, the skipper, and eventually Mexican beer and guacamole back onboard, everyone recovered.

Mostly.

Looking back, this pattern probably started years earlier in Aruba during one of our first vacations together with my stepson Jesse.

We decided to go on a banana boat ride.

In hindsight, this feels like an activity specifically designed to test marriages and life insurance policies.

The speedboat pulling us made a sharp turn and all three of us flew into the ocean.

I surfaced and immediately spotted Jesse.

But no Yunki.

Instead, all I saw floating in the water was one lonely flip-flop.

For several horrifying seconds I became convinced I had accidentally killed my husband on a family vacation.

Then Yunki finally surfaced on the other side of the boat looking stunned but alive.

Shortly afterward, he and the flip-flop were reunited.

Years later at a Disney water park, I unknowingly sent Yunki down one of the tallest water slides before realizing it emptied directly into a very deep pool.

I had already gone down first when sudden panic hit me.

“Oh my God,” I thought. “Yunki can’t actually swim.”

Too late.

Seconds later he shot out of the slide like a human torpedo and exploded into the water.

To everyone else this probably looked exciting.

To me it looked like the beginning of another rescue operation.

Thankfully, through a combination of panic and an extremely determined doggie paddle, Yunki once again survived.

It wasn’t until much later that I learned Yunki had almost drowned as a child in Korea.

Suddenly all these vacation memories replayed differently in my mind.

The banana boat.

The Disney slide.

The quicksand lagoon.

Los Rápidos.

The panic I kept seeing in his eyes.

And yet somehow, he always kept saying yes anyway.

That’s when I realized courage isn’t the absence of fear.

Sometimes courage is getting on the banana boat anyway.

There are two seasons in Mérida, Mexico:

1. Hot

2. Why is the sun trying to kill me?

For those unfamiliar, Mérida sits in the Yucatán Peninsula near the Tropic of Cancer, where the climate is tropical, humid, and intensely hot for much of the year. Think Caribbean heat. Cuba heat. Jamaica heat. Add blazing sun, thick humidity, very little breeze in the city, and concrete streets that seem to radiate warmth back at you like a pizza oven.

April and May are when the heat really starts flexing.

And before anyone says, “But it’s a dry heat!” — no. No it is not.

This is the kind of heat where your eyelids sweat.

The kind where you step outside for 12 seconds and suddenly feel like a rotisserie chicken.

The kind where your thighs politely reintroduce themselves to each other.

As I write this, the forecast is basically:

100°.
101°.
102°.
“Good luck, everyone.”

And honestly, with so many places around the world now hitting 100-degree summers, I know Mérida isn’t the only place where people are reorganizing their lives around shade, hydration, and breathable fabrics.

And then there’s the bloating.

Now yes, I am menopausal. But I also seem to develop what I call tropical expansion syndrome every summer.

My feet swell.
My stomach swells.
Even my wedding ring tapped out until November.

Meanwhile my husband Yunki — who is Korean and apparently part camel — remains completely dry and unbothered.

I have only seen this man sweat while eating spicy Korean food.

Me?

I start the day looking human and end it looking lightly steamed.

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The Great Sandal Deaths of Mérida

Let’s talk shoes.

One day I was walking through the mall wearing one of my favorite sandals when the sole literally detached from the shoe and started flapping behind me like a dying fish.

I was chasing after Yunki while trying not to trip over my own footwear.

The sandal had simply given up.

And honestly? I respected it.

This has now happened to multiple pairs of shoes in Mérida. Apparently the heat and humidity slowly dissolve glue until your sandals decide to leave the chat.

Thank God this happened at the mall.

Yesterday another pair of sandals gave up on life outside the mall. Thankfully I was already stepping into an Uber when they surrendered.

Speaking of feet — mine expand at least half a size during Mérida summers.

Instant clown feet.

Shoes that fit perfectly in January suddenly become medieval torture devices by May.

My regular sneakers? Too tight.
My cute sandals? A gamble.
My dignity? Gone.

After doing what all middle-aged women do during a personal crisis, I researched extensively online.

That’s when I discovered roomy New Balance sneakers with a wider toe box.

Are they sleek and sexy?
No.

Do they scream retirement community power walker?
Absolutely.

But they fit my summer hobbit feet and that is what matters.

And Birkenstocks?

Listen.

I used to judge Birkenstock people.

Now I am Birkenstock people.

Comfort changes a woman.

Linen: The Fabric of Surrender

Back in my corporate hospitality marketing days in London and Qatar, I lived in wrinkle-free travel knits.

I traveled constantly. Everything needed to look polished. Structured. Pulled together.

Also, Qatar had air conditioning powerful enough to preserve meat.

You’d go from a scorching parking lot into an office that felt like a Costco freezer section.

But here in Mérida?

Synthetic fabric feels like wearing a casserole lid.

I would actually perish.

Now I live almost exclusively in linen, cotton, flowy dresses, elastic waistbands, and fabrics that allow oxygen to circulate like a medical necessity.

I found one loose linen dress that I loved so much I bought it in two colors.

It has become my official “surviving the apocalypse but still trying to look presentable” dress.

The beauty of this dress is that I can:

• survive 102-degree heat

• eat an entire plate of spaghetti and meatballs

• hide bloating

• still look vaguely artsy and intentional

That, my friends, is range.

Loose Bras Save Lives

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but underwire bras and tropical climates are not compatible.

At this stage of life and heat, I refuse to feel like I’m being restrained by industrial engineering.

I have fully embraced basic Fruit of the Loom cotton bras.

No wires.
No lace.
No suffering.

We are no longer trying to impress anyone in 104-degree weather.

At 64, peace is the priority.

Makeup Meltdown & The Eyebrow Crisis

When I moved to Mérida, I brought all my makeup from Qatar and the UK.

Huge mistake.

My beloved tinted moisturizer suddenly felt like I had spackled my face with pancake batter.

Everything melted.

Now I mostly use lightweight gel moisturizer and a matte mineral tinted sunscreen if I want to look semi-respectable.

And eyebrows.

Ladies.

Nothing prepares you for the horror of accidentally wiping off one eyebrow while sweating.

I learned very quickly that not all eyebrow pencils survive tropical conditions.

Some disappear the second you blot your face with a napkin.

I finally found one that survives both sweat and pool workouts.

Because if I’m going to suffer, I would at least like symmetrical eyebrows.

Enjoying this sweaty descent into tropical survival? Subscribe for more stories about life abroad, humor, travel, midlife reinvention, and the realities nobody puts in the brochures.

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Apparently I Have Wavy Hair?

Who knew?

For most of my life I blow-dried my hair into various bobs and pageboys.

Then I moved to Mérida and the humidity said:

“Absolutely not.”

My hair started frizzing, puffing, and expanding like bread dough.

At first I fought it.

Then my stylist here cut and textured my hair in a way that encouraged natural waves instead of fighting them.

And suddenly I discovered… waves.

Actual waves.

Apparently I’ve had textured hair this entire time and was blow-drying it into submission for decades.

I now air dry most days and occasionally use a diffuser.

I have also embraced letting my gray hair blend naturally with highlights and lowlights.

No more panicking over roots every three weeks.

Honestly?

Freedom.

The Mr. Magoo Sunglasses Era

At my last eye exam, I found out I’m developing early cataracts.

The doctor strongly recommended extra UV protection.

So now I wear giant sunglasses that fit over my prescription glasses.

Do I look slightly like Mr. Magoo on a beach vacation?

Yes.

But my eyeballs are protected and that’s where we are in life now.

Swimsuits for Women Who Intend to Eat Tacos

Pool season in Mérida lasts approximately 11 months.

But finding swimsuits in your 60s becomes less about “Baywatch” and more about:

“Can I bend over without creating an international incident?”

I have fully embraced tankinis, swim shorts, sporty skirts, and higher necklines.

No tugging.
No panic.
No surprise side-boob situations.

I want to swim, do water aerobics, drink a margarita, and emerge with dignity intact.

That’s the goal.

The downside?

The combination of chlorine, brutal sun, and constant pool use means these swimsuits basically have a one-season lifespan.

By the end of summer they look like they fought in combat.

PoolFit TV & Exercising Without Dying

Once the heat gets truly unbearable, I move most workouts into the pool.

I stream PoolFit workouts from my phone and prop it up at the edge of the pool while I do aqua HIIT, stretching, toning, and resistance workouts.

Pool noodles.
Swim gloves.
Hand weights.
Water shoes.

Honestly, it’s fun.

And my knees appreciate not being punished.

Our Annual Escape Plan

Normally we try to escape the worst of the heat in May.

Last year we overcorrected and took a New England/Canada cruise.

We packed for “cool weather.”

Instead we got full-on cold snaps.

Winter hats.
Gloves.
Rain.
The works.

This year we’re staying closer to home with two weeks in Chuburná Puerto on the Gulf Coast.

Technically it’s only about five degrees cooler.

But psychologically, if there’s a breeze and a body of water nearby, I can convince myself I’m thriving.

And next year?

Alaska.

Yes.
It is truly that hot here.

My Heat Survival Favorites

Friends in Mérida ask about the dresses. Women on cruises ask about the swimsuits. So here are a few heat survival favorites.

Heat Survival Favorites

• roomy sneakers for swollen summer feet

• loose linen dresses that forgive both humidity and tacos

• basic cotton bras because underwire and 102 degrees should never meet

• a swimsuit that allows taco consumption with dignity

• makeup that survives humidity better than I do

All of the links above are affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you purchase through them — at no additional cost to you. Mostly it just helps support my ongoing relationship with linen dresses, sunscreen, and heat survival.

If you enjoy honest stories about life abroad, reinvention, travel, aging, humor, and trying to stay cool in every sense of the word, subscribe below.

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