Another year of wandering while the Kingdom of Doom and its mad monarch raged in the background. The world outside feels unhinged. Here in Guanajuato, I’m learning a different pace.

I am grateful to live as an expat in a colonial city in Mexico’s central highlands. I write this blog and make films. I also study Spanish because life here demands it. To understand the culture and its stories, I speak with fellow Guanajuatenses in their own tongue.

This year I wrote a book on John Coltrane, whose music and life have long inspired me.

I initially focused on his spiritual journey, which drove his music. I locked myself in my office for three months, using AI for research and editing, which accelerated the process.

Studying The Tibetan Book of the Dead as part of my own spiritual journey inspired stories about Coltrane in the afterlife that would close the book. Imagined, yes, but an authentic extension of his brief time on the planet.

After I finished, Sherrie and I took a memorable three-week trip to Morocco, staying with Tucson friends who have a house in Marrakech. When I returned and reread with fresh eyes, the Bardo stories stood out as particularly compelling so I abandoned the traditional biography. Instead, the book became just Coltrane afterlife stories.

Upon further examination, the stories seemed incomplete, not surprising for a first attempt at spiritual fiction. I needed a different approach to the story I wanted to tell.

I settled on a memoir about the role of Coltrane in my life, a much more personal approach. I went back to work. My goal was to self-publish on September 23rd, Coltrane’s 99th birthday. With a potent social media presence, I offered the ebook version for free for several weeks to get reviews that would spark the Amazon algorithm.

September 23rd arrived. The book went nowhere. Few took advantage of a free download. My expectations were unrealistic. The meager results depressed me.

I had forgotten the current reality of book publishing. Books are no longer prominently positioned in our culture. They’re just one option in the non-stop content parade that tries to capture our attention. Two thousand new titles appear daily on Amazon. Add to that the fractured attention of today’s readers. Fewer people now commit to reading a book.

Those who have actually read my book are enthusiastic in their praise. The majority of Amazon reviews and feedback I’ve had from friends and just ordinary readers, has been very very positive. But even good reviews don’t sell a book.

When you create, rejection is always part of the game. Sometimes, you can ignore it, or laugh about it, and sometimes it puts a stone in your shoe.

Because of concerns about my reaction to the book’s publication, I stepped into short-term therapy. My therapist listened and told me I was grieving and needed to focus on that, suggesting I find a local support group. But with the language barrier, I couldn’t put that together.

However, I did remember a curandera I’d visited years earlier as a birthday gift from Sherrie. During her ritual fire ceremony, something had shifted.

This time, before the fire cleansing, I wrote about my grief and brought that with me.

Carolina began with traditional medicines. Rapé burned through my nostrils, sharp and clarifying. Ambil grounded me with bitterness. Mambe sharpened my focus.

Then the fire. I sat wrapped in blankets as she placed damp cloths over my body and poured alcohol across my stomach. She struck a match. Blue flames moved inches from my skin while she sang in Nahuatl. The heat went deeper than flesh.

When the fire faded, her powerful hands released every place holding tension.

At the end, she burned my paper.

“Love stays,” she said. “Paths diverge. Your words will reach those who need them. The rest is not yours to carry.”

On the street afterward, the world looked cleaner somehow, as if someone had wiped dust from glass I’d been looking through. I felt as if I’d set down baggage I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

Since the ritual, I’ve felt different. Not fixed but transformed. The sharp edges of loss have softened into something I can hold without bleeding.

Then I had cataract surgery. The change felt immediate. Someone switched on the lights and the world snapped into high definition.

Not long after, I watched the documentary series, Mr. Scorsese. Marty was my favorite teacher at NYU Film School, starting in 1968. His love of film and his command of precise filmmaking detail revealed a life of intense cinematic study that he was anxious to share. Just a few years later came Mean Streets and Taxi Driver. He was ascending, and soon recognized as a master filmmaker. Even so, he’s been up and down throughout his career. The doc reminded me that creative work rarely moves in a straight line. You stumble, reassess, and return to the work, only to stumble again somewhere down the line.

As 2025 beats a decidedly frenzied gambol toward 2026, I’m pleased to report I have returned to filmmaking with a short film about Coltrane’s final days, a video to help to promote my book. I have finished writing the script for that film, scheduled for release in 2026, marking the centennial of John Coltrane’s birth. And I’ve started doing interviews.

This approach differs completely from my usual filmmaking process. Typically, I begin with a loose idea, conduct interviews, and discover the structure organically as I assemble the material. This time, I already have a script in place, and the interviews serve to illuminate and reinforce what’s already written rather than generate the framework itself.

And I’m back at the Hacienda Spanish School with Luis García, my first Mexican friend. Guanajuato is where I’m spending my remaining chapters. I thrive on the stories of my Mexican brothers and sisters so I’m working to improve my Spanish. Before I relocated, I thought that would take three to five years. No, it’s going to take between eight and ten. But for me every encounter here, which is sometimes limited by my fluency, is gratifying.

At 76, I’m living in a fascinating culture and embracing a different lifestyle. I could have never imagined where I’d be now just a few years ago, or even somewhere in the distant past during my three decades in New York. Life is unpredictable.

Two very Mexican things guiding me.

Paciencia. One needs deep patience to settle into the flow of life in a different culture.

Poco a poco. A little bit at a time. That’s the only way for me to learn Spanish. And that’s the best way to move through what time remains, with joy and gratitude.

Happy holidays! Let’s hope for a safe, saner 2026.

The persistent targeting of Mexican people by the United States isn’t random, recent, or really about law and order. Behind the political rhetoric and enforcement campaigns lies a complex web of economic interests, historical precedents, and profitable systems that have made Mexican communities the primary target of immigration enforcement for generations.

America’s relationship with Mexican people didn’t begin at a modern border wall. The roots of this targeting stretch back to the 1800s, when the United States seized half of Mexico’s territory following the Mexican-American War. In an instant, Mexican families who had been citizens of Mexico found themselves designated as foreigners in their ancestral homes.

This pivotal moment established a dangerous precedent: Mexicans were not seen as equals or neighbors, but as intruders in communities where their families had lived for generations. The psychological framework was set—Mexicans didn’t belong, even on lands that had once been theirs.

By the late 1800s and early 1900s, systematic discrimination had intensified dramatically. Mexicans faced relegation to the most undesirable jobs with significantly lower wages, exclusion from public schools and businesses where signs reading “No Dogs, No Mexicans” were common, and brutal violence including a wave of lynchings across the Southwest that some historians label a “forgotten genocide.”

This entrenched racism shaped legislation, education, and residential patterns across the entire United States. Once established as villains in the collective consciousness, Mexicans became easy targets for repeated persecution.

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of this targeting is the fundamental contradiction at its heart: the United States has consistently relied on Mexican labor while simultaneously criminalizing Mexican workers. During World War II, the US government implemented the Bracero Program in 1942, bringing millions of Mexican men to work American fields and maintain the nation’s food supply. The program appeared mutually beneficial until it officially ended in 1964.

But here’s the crucial point: when the program terminated, the agricultural sector’s demand for inexpensive labor didn’t disappear. Farmers, construction companies, hotels, and restaurants continued relying on this workforce. Mexican workers kept coming to fill these essential roles. The US didn’t stop using their labor—it had become dependent on it. Instead, it imposed the label of “illegal” upon the same workers performing the same jobs. The hands remained the same, the work remained the same, but suddenly these essential workers were reclassified as criminals.

For decades, television and newspapers have fed the American public a singular narrative: Mexicans equal crime, drugs, and danger. This wasn’t accidental—it was systematic conditioning. Throughout the 80s and 90s, action movies consistently featured Mexican drug runners as stock villains. This cultural programming was so effective that when politicians later spoke of “bad hombres,” the concept felt believable because the stereotype was already firmly planted in American minds.

Television news created a continuous stream of fear-mongering reports, with anchors warning of “illegal aliens flooding the border” accompanied by dramatic footage that framed immigration as a crisis. This media feedback loop accomplished its goal: to the average American viewer, Mexicans weren’t neighbors—they were the problem.

Every election cycle, politicians resort to a time-tested strategy: blame Mexicans for the nation’s problems. This playbook is simple and devastatingly effective. Struggling economy? Focus on the border. Need to energize a crowd? Deploy rhetoric about “illegals stealing our jobs.” Justifying increased police funding? Connect it to Mexican immigration.

From Reagan in the 1980s to Trump in the 2010s, across different decades and political parties, the scapegoat has remained the same. This approach is low-risk, high-reward for politicians—it garners applause without requiring complex explanations about outsourcing, automation, or corporate greed.

Several practical factors make Mexicans the most convenient target for any administration wanting to demonstrate immigration enforcement. As the largest immigrant group in the US with over 37 million people, they represent the most accessible target for arrests and deportations. The shared 2,000-mile border simplifies logistics—deporting someone to Mexico requires a bus ride, not a costly international flight to China or Nigeria. A large portion of the Mexican population occupies the lowest economic rungs, making them simultaneously essential to the economy and highly exploitable. They can be paid below minimum wage and silenced with deportation threats.

The targeting of Mexicans has created a massive profit-driven industry. ICE operates with an annual budget exceeding $8 billion and employs tens of thousands of agents. With every expansion of operations, a network of private contractors, tech companies, and security firms reaps substantial financial rewards.

Private prison companies earn billions from government contracts for immigrant detention centers. These contracts often guarantee that a certain number of beds remain filled, creating powerful financial incentives to arrest and detain as many people as possible. Each detained immigrant generates hundreds of dollars per day in government payments to private operators. It functions as a hotel business where guests have no choice but to stay and taxpayers foot the bill.

Politicians receive significant donations from prison corporations, border security contractors, and industries dependent on cheap labor. When leaders use tough rhetoric about Mexicans, they’re not just securing votes—they’re keeping the money pipeline open.

The legal frameworks built to police Mexicans create precedents affecting all Americans. “Show me your papers” laws sanction racial profiling of any person of color. Border surveillance technology gets repurposed for domestic policing. Community trust breaks down when residents fear any police interaction could lead to deportation. These tools forged to control one population inevitably get turned against others, diminishing privacy and due process for everyone.

All these factors converge on a single truth: Mexicans are targeted because it’s immensely profitable. The entire system is lubricated by money flowing to ICE’s massive budget and operations, private detention centers earning per-bed contracts, politicians receiving campaign donations from enforcement industries, and corporations benefiting from exploitable labor.

This isn’t about national security or border control—it’s about a machine that converts human beings into profit. Mexicans aren’t pursued because they’re dangerous; they’re pursued because targeting them generates money.

Understanding this system is the first step toward dismantling it. The targeting of Mexican people represents one of America’s most persistent and profitable forms of discrimination—one that serves powerful interests while devastating working families.

The question isn’t whether this targeting will continue, but whether Americans will recognize it for what it truly is: not law enforcement, but a business model built on human suffering. Only by exposing these economic motivations can we begin to build a more just and rational approach to immigration—one based on human dignity rather than corporate profits.

The cycle will only end when it becomes more expensive politically and economically to maintain this system than to abandon it. That change starts with understanding exactly how much money is being made from the fear and persecution of Mexican families.

Good morning from Mexico, land of the Aztecs.

Forget your juice cleanses and gratitude journals. The Aztecs weren’t sipping oat milk in the morning and journaling about their chakras. These people built pyramids with bare hands, stared death in the face daily, and still had time to philosophize about how to live well in a world that was trying to kill them.

So here it is — a wild ride through 10 lessons ripped from the obsidian heart of Aztec wisdom, dipped in chile, and slammed onto your 21st-century mental altar.

1. You’re Not Chasing Happiness — You’re Chasing Soil

The Aztecs didn’t give a damn about “being happy.” Happiness was seen for what it is — a fickle little imp, here one minute, gone the next, usually leaving you hungover and bloated.

They said you don’t need joy — you need rootedness. As in, get grounded: in your body, your community, your damn planet.

So no, buying another dumbbell-shaped water bottle won’t fix your existential void. But planting a garden, feeding your neighbors, and showing up when your friend’s mom dies? That might.

2. Fragility Is the Price of Meaning

You want invulnerability? Get a helmet.

You want a life that matters? Prepare to bleed.

The Aztecs didn’t pretend love, justice, or dignity were safe. They embraced the burn. Their heroes died young, poetic deaths with names that echoed in pyramids. Zapata knew this. He didn’t bend, and they shot him in the back for it.

Living well means dancing barefoot through a minefield. The Aztecs laced up.

3. Smart People Ask for Help. Idiots Build Empires Alone.

You think wisdom comes from solo hikes and deep thoughts in the shower?

Aztec wisdom came from council. Circles. Community. The old ones spoke, the young ones listened — then questioned everything.

If you’re “figuring it out on your own,” congrats: you’ve chosen the slowest, dumbest possible route to clarity.

Get a squad. Get honest. Sharpen your mind in the fire of shared thought.

4. Want to Be Brave? Start Sweeping Floors

Courage doesn’t show up in war paint with a drumbeat.

It shows up at 4:30 AM with a broom.

The Aztecs trained grit through grind. Kids hauled logs, fasted, sang while working, and didn’t flinch at cold baths or harsh lessons.

They weren’t building trauma — they were building resilience.

So next time you’re whining about a 10-minute delay in your Uber Eats order, ask yourself: “Would I have survived the first day of Aztec preschool?”

5. Let People See You Sweat (and Cry, and Fail, and Try Again)

Aztecs got this thing right: shame is a trap. Not because it’s evil — because it’s fake.

One father bragged not about riches, but about never stealing a grain of corn. That’s flexing with moral abs.

To gain freedom, you have to walk naked in the storm of public opinion. Try it:

Tell the truth when it hurts. Admit when you suck. Be raw. You’ll either grow or combust. Either way, you’ll evolve.

6. Willpower Isn’t One Muscle — It’s Three Mean Bastards

Aztecs didn’t say “just will your way through.”

They knew better.

Willpower splits into three:

• Drive: action under pressure

• Durability: stamina through the long haul

• Discipline: restraint against candy, chaos, and clout-chasing

You train each with different weapons. So no, running 5 miles won’t help you resist texting your ex. That’s a different monster. Sharpen the right blade.

7. Build Momentum or Die in the Mud

Aztec students swept floors before sunrise. Every. Damn. Day. Not because the floor needed it — because they did.

Habit stacks. Sweep your floor, then write your novel. Make your bed, then overthrow a colonial regime.

The path is made by walking. Daily. Drudgery is the forge of gods.

8. Fast Today So You Can Feast Tomorrow (Without Losing Your Mind)

The Aztecs didn’t fast to feel holy. They did it to train their cravings.

They knew hunger comes in waves, not tsunamis. Ride the wave, and you realize the monster is just a ripple.

So fast. Not for weight loss. Not for likes. Fast to teach your brain who’s boss.

And when the feast comes, devour it with reverence, not addiction.

9. Every Word You Say Is a Spell. Don’t Cast Crap.

The Aztecs taught their children to speak with intention — because words weren’t just noise, they were ritual.

Gossip rotted the mind. Boasting warped the soul. Truth bent the world into shape.

Say dumb stuff, and you start thinking dumb thoughts. Say wise stuff, and you start becoming someone worth quoting.

Modern science agrees. So don’t speak mindlessly. Speak like a shaman.

10. Clean the Temple Before You Pray

Buddhists say go inward. The Stoics say check your reactions. The Aztecs?

They say start with your damn room.

You want wisdom? Clean your surroundings.

Eat like a grown-up.

Speak with grace.

Move with discipline.

They believed that the sacred grows from the soil upward — not from the soul downward.

So mop the floor. Sharpen your tongue. Sing while you suffer.

And maybe, just maybe, the gods will nod your way.

The Aztecs didn’t have Twitter threads or TED Talks. They had jaguar warriors, hummingbird gods, and a moral philosophy carved into stone and ritual.

Their outward path wasn’t soft. It was brutal, beautiful, and grounded in dirt, blood, and shared struggle.

But it worked.

You don’t need to go full obsidian blade on your psyche.

Just try living like life matters.

Show up. Speak true. Sacrifice.

Clean your damn house and love your people.

The rest will follow.

—_ _ _ _ —

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.

Alright, listen up, amigos. Mexicans are some of the kindest, most polite people you’ll ever meet, but they’re not going to tell you when you’re being a clueless foreigner. That’s where I come in. I’ve spent the past three years stumbling my way through Mexico, making mistakes so you don’t have to. Here’s what I’ve learned the hard way—wrapped in a layer of Gonzo wisdom.

Stop Calling Yourself “American”

Yeah, I said it. “American.” It rolls off the tongue so casually, doesn’t it? Except, here’s the deal: the term doesn’t just belong to folks from the United States. The Americas are massive—two whole continents of diverse countries, from Mexico to Argentina to Canada. By waltzing in and claiming “American” as your exclusive identity, you’re essentially erasing the rest of the hemisphere.

In Spanish, “americano” refers to anyone from the Americas. If you’re trying to be specific about being from the U.S., the proper term is estadounidense. Not exactly a word that trips off the tongue, I know. It took me weeks to stop butchering it. Break it down: estado (state), unido (united), and -ense (like “ish” in English). Boom, you’re now a geographically respectful human being. You’re welcome.

Ease Up on the Bluntness

Mexicans are polite—charmingly so. They’re the masters of subtlety and tact, while we from the U.S. are like bulls in china shops with our directness. Asking a question without so much as a “hello”? Faux pas. Criticizing food to someone’s face? Double faux pas.

Case in point: A friend was explaining the cherished local tradition in that part of Mexico of eating pozole on Thursdays. I, in all my gringo glory, blurted out, “I don’t like hominy.” Cue awkward silence. Was that little opinion necessary? No. Did it make me sound like an ungrateful oaf? Absolutely.

When in doubt, layer on the niceties. Start with “Buenos días” or “Buenas tardes,” and toss in some polite language before diving into your point. If you don’t like something, try a soft “Lo pensaré” (“I’ll think about it”) instead of a blunt “Nope.” Trust me, it’ll save you from a few awkward moments.

Speak the Language, Or At Least Try

Look, I get it. English is the lingua franca of the world, blah blah blah. But expecting everyone in Mexico to cater to you in English? That’s some next-level entitlement. Spanish is the language here, and Mexicans are rightly proud of it. The least you can do is make an effort.

I’ve been working on my Spanish, and while I’ve made every mistake in the book, locals have been nothing but kind. Even a basic hola or buenos días goes a long way. It’s not about fluency; it’s about respect. And if you butcher a word or two, they’ll appreciate the effort more than you think.

Pro tip: Don’t get offended if people in touristy areas default to English with you. They’re just trying to make your life easier. But if you’re like me and want to immerse yourself in the culture, start conversations in Spanish. It’s amazing how far a little linguistic humility can take you.

Mexico Isn’t Here to Change for You

Ah, the eternal irony of tourists who visit another country and then complain it’s not like their own. Noise too loud? Fireworks at odd hours? Welcome to Mexico, where celebrations are part of the lifeblood. Weddings, religious festivals, holidays—they all come with music, firecrackers, and the kind of joyous chaos that might rattle an unprepared foreigner.

At my place in a rural village, there’s always something happening. Chickens crowing, mariachi bands playing, dogs barking—it’s a symphony of life. And honestly? It’s beautiful. If you’re thinking of coming to Mexico for a serene, silent retreat, adjust your expectations—or maybe just pack some earplugs.

Imagine this: A group of foreigners arrives in the U.S. for the Fourth of July, then complains about the fireworks. They petition the city council to ban them for the sake of “peace.” You’d laugh them out of the room, right? Now flip the script—that’s how Mexicans feel when outsiders gripe about their traditions. Don’t be that person.

Forget the Stereotypes

If your mental image of Mexico is all tequila, tacos, and dusty adobe villages, you need to get out more. This country is staggeringly diverse—in its people, its landscapes, its cuisine, and its culture.

Mexican food isn’t just tacos and burritos (which, by the way, are more Tex-Mex than traditional Mexican). It’s mole, tamales, cochinita pibil, and chiles en nogada. And while media often portrays Mexicans as a monolithic group with dark skin and sombreros, the reality is a kaleidoscope of indigenous, Afro-Mexican, European, and Asian influences. Cities like Mexico City, Monterrey, and Guadalajara are cosmopolitan hubs, blending history with modernity.

Let go of the clichés and open your eyes to the real Mexico—it’s so much richer than the stereotypes.

Stop Calling It “Cheap”

This one grinds my gears. Sure, the cost of living in Mexico is lower than in the U.S., but walking around proclaiming “Mexico is so cheap!” isn’t just tone-deaf—it’s insulting. Many Mexicans work hard for much less than what you might earn back home, and calling their country “cheap” can come off as dismissive of their challenges.

Worse, this kind of attitude fuels gentrification in cities like San Miguel, Puerto Vallarta, and Oaxaca. Foreigners flock in, snap up properties, and drive up rents, displacing locals. If you’re planning to stay for a while, do your part: pay fair prices, support local businesses, and avoid exploiting Airbnb at the expense of long-term residents.

Remember, it’s not about how cheap something is—it’s about the value and the pride behind it. Respect that, and you’ll get much more out of your experience.

Final Thoughts

Cultural faux pas are part of the learning curve when you travel, but the trick is to learn from them and adapt. Mexico is an incredible place, full of warmth, color, and history, but it’s not here to mold itself around you. Be the kind of traveler—or expat—that enriches the culture, not one that disrupts it.

As I sit here at the end of summer in Guanajuato, enjoying the golden sun and the quiet hum of village life, I can’t help but feel grateful. Several years ago, my life was on a completely different trajectory. Now, I’m here, immersed in this vibrant country, learning its rhythms and traditions. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth it.

So take these lessons, pack your bags, come visit and get ready for an adventure. Just remember to tread lightly, speak kindly, and leave your assumptions at the border. Mexico will thank you for it—and so will I.

Last week, I turned 76 — three-quarters of a century plus one. The number feels both weightless and heavy, morning mist that carries the scent of all the years behind it. We usually celebrate my birthday in Mexico City, and once again, we found excellent food, electric energy, and a city whose scale still staggers the mind — but this time, something deeper stirred.

Big cities tend to energize me, especially those rich in culture and humanity. But at this stage of my life, I prefer a short immersion rather than an extended stay in the chaos. Time has taught me the difference between stimulation and overwhelm, between adventure and exhaustion. At 76, I choose my battles more carefully — not from fear, but from wisdom earned through decades of beautiful mistakes.

Guanajuato, where I now live, sits tucked in the mountains of central Mexico, just four hours from the capital — and it feels another world entirely. Greater Mexico City holds around 21 million people. Guanajuato? About 190,000. That difference feels less than a gap and more the space between a whisper and a shout, between solitude and cacophony.

What keeps me grounded here stems not only from the calm, but also from the people. Kindness shows up everywhere, but here it arrives with joy, grit, and a natural warmth — extended to both friends and strangers. At my age, I recognize this kindness as precious as water in the desert. Each gentle gesture reminds me that humanity endures, that connection transcends language, that growing older can mean growing into grace.

Every visit to Mexico City brings a new adventure. Over time, I've learned to welcome the unpredictable rhythm of this vast, pulsing metropolis. Mexico City doesn't invite control — it dares you to surrender. And at 76, surrender feels less than defeat and more coming home to yourself.

Especially true during Mercury in retrograde, which, of course, coincided with our trip. For those unfamiliar, Mercury retrograde refers to an astrological season that skeptics love to mock — until their phones glitch, their hotel "forgets" their reservation, or their plans fall apart as wet tissue. During this period, the universe seems to toss banana peels beneath your feet just to see if you'll laugh or curse. I've learned to laugh. Life's too short, and too long, for anything else.

This marked our fourth return since moving to Mexico, and despite our urban experience, this time we received the full Mercury-in-retrograde experience. A quick ten-minute Uber turned into a one-hour still life. Not a slow crawl — a full stop. The driver sighed, shrugged, and delivered the gospel: in Mexico City, weekday traffic doesn't ebb and flow. It simply remains — constant, omnipresent, a metaphysical black hole that devours time as a hungry god.

But that frozen hour turned out to contain quiet magic. Our driver spoke some English. We spoke some Spanish. Grammar took a backseat to curiosity, laughter, and shared humanity. In those trapped moments, I felt something I'd forgotten in my hurried younger years — the profound intimacy of strangers connecting across the void of difference.

We traded stories about life. He spoke of his family and his daughter's graduation, his voice softening with pride that needs no translation. We spoke of Guanajuato — its mountain air, its calm spirit, the gratitude we feel for living there. I watched his eyes light up when we mentioned the sunset views from our terrace, and I realized that beauty shared multiplies, love divided among children.

Time softened. Outside the car, honking and gridlock continued. Inside, we no longer felt strangers — just people sharing a moment, sincere and surprising. At 76, these moments matter more. They feel gifts from a universe that rarely slows down long enough to unwrap.

Mexico has a way of delivering those moments. Even in gridlock, even when words fumble and directions blur, connection still finds a way in. And when it does, it lingers as perfume on an old sweater, laughter echoing in empty rooms.

Mexico City forces you to slow down. It shows you details you might otherwise miss — a mural on a peeling wall that tells stories of revolution and hope, a grandmother's weathered hands placing a tamal in a child's eager palms, a patch of sky floating between towers as a promise of something larger than concrete and steel. The chaos clears space for clarity, if you pay attention. If you remember that paying attention might be life's most underrated skill.

Then there's the metro. Fast. Affordable. Safe — mostly. We've used it before. It works. But navigating the tangle feels trying to read sheet music in a foreign key, solving a puzzle where the pieces keep shifting shape. Signs appear in Spanish (as they should), and while locals move with fluid grace born of daily practice, visitors hesitate, squint, guess, and eventually follow someone who looks confident. Humbling, yes — and part of the experience that teaches us how little we truly control.

Mexico City demands presence. You don't drift through it. You navigate it actively, with every sense awakened. You look up at architecture that spans centuries. You listen to the symphony of vendors calling, children laughing, life insisting on itself. You adapt to rhythms older than your understanding. You embrace the delays, the detours, the unsanded edges that make a place real rather than perfect. In doing so, you feel the heartbeat of the place — relentless, sprawling, vibrant, magnificently imperfect.

And strangely, that chaos brings you back to yourself. To the person who learned, somewhere along the way, that fighting the current only exhausts you, while floating with it might carry you somewhere beautiful.

The word that captures this lesson: paciencia. Patience. Not passive waiting, but active acceptance of life's refusal to follow our schedules.

Even with GPS, Mexico City unfolds as a dream dreamt by a slightly disoriented but well-meaning god. Streets bend, double, disappear as memories you can't quite grasp. One wrong digit or an autocorrected address, and suddenly you find yourself not at the café in Roma Norte, but outside a tire warehouse in a neighborhood filled with barking dogs and street names missing vowels, as a poem written by someone who forgot the rules of grammar but remembered the music of words.

You probably won't feel unsafe. Just… displaced. Temporarily misplaced in the grand library of human experience. And if you start walking with false confidence — "It's only a few blocks, I'll figure it out"— welcome to your Fellini phase, your personal magical realism. The buildings stretch taller, reaching toward secrets only they understand. Shadows lean longer, whispering stories of all who walked here before. Every turn reveals another oddity: a half-finished mariachi rehearsal that sounds joy learning its name, a man selling one shoe (and somehow this makes perfect sense), a parade no one scheduled but everyone needs. You no longer walk — you drift through a surrealist film laced with exhaust fumes and unexpected poetry.

The city's layout contributes to this dream logic. Its colonias (neighborhoods) each possess a distinct personality — some echo Brooklyn's artistic rebellion, others Blade Runner's neon-lit future, still others the colonial past's elegant ghosts. A few feel untouched since time began, holding secrets in their cobblestones. When lost, they blur into a shuffled tarot deck of urban archetypes, each one asking: Who do you become when you don't know where you're going?

But always, there's help. Mexicans, without exaggeration, rank among the world's friendliest people. So friendly, in fact, they'd rather confidently give you the wrong directions than admit uncertainty. It doesn't stem from deception — but hope, the beautiful human hope that maybe, somehow, they can make your journey easier. "Sí señor, dos cuadras y a la izquierda" ("two blocks and to the left") feels better than "no tengo ni idea." Even if your destination lies five miles in the opposite direction. Even if they're sending you toward adventure instead of your intended lunch.

So you follow their optimism, say thanks with a heart full of gratitude for the attempt, and twenty minutes later you find yourself locking eyes again with the same churro vendor, who now greets you as an old friend returning from a brief but necessary pilgrimage through confusion.

Eventually, you get where you intended. Maybe by fate, maybe by ride-share, maybe by a stranger's kindness that reminds you why faith in humanity persists despite everything. And when you finally sit down with your matcha, your mole, or your mezcal, a strange satisfaction settles in — deeper than relief, richer than accomplishment. You didn't simply arrive — you earned your arrival through surrender, through accepting help, through allowing yourself to become briefly lost in order to be found. And that makes the flavor sweeter, honey earned from your own bees.

Speaking of flavor, the sidewalk might contain Mexico's truest cathedral: street food. Here lies worship without ceremony, communion without ritual — just the sacred act of nourishment shared among strangers who understand hunger as humanity's great equalizer.

This joy doesn't come wrapped in linens or plated on porcelain. It rises from fire, smoke, and instinct passed down through generations of hands that knew how to transform simple ingredients into miracles. It announces itself in the air — charred meat carrying stories of celebration, citrus bright as childhood laughter, chilies that wake sleeping senses, grease that forgives all dietary sins, cilantro fresh as morning hope. It doesn't whisper politely. It sings boldly, demanding attention as love, as life itself.

A proper taco doesn't resemble the ground beef-and-crunchy shell myth of American childhoods. This taco starts with a handmade corn tortilla, warm and soft as a mother's embrace, cupping carnitas that surrendered slowly to fire, or carne asada that knew one perfect moment on the grill, or al pastor sliced from a spinning tower beneath a caramelized pineapple — the whole scene a ballet of flame and knife and timing learned through years of daily practice.

At the salsa bar — the altar where pilgrims compose their prayers — you create your flavor ritual: fiery chile de árbol that burns with passion, soothing avocado green as hope, crunchy radish sharp as truth, lime that brightens everything it touches through forgiveness. Salsa drips. Joy follows. Stains happen. No one minds because beauty often leaves marks.

Elotes come grilled and slathered with mayo, cheese, chili, and lime — each ear a celebration of corn's ancient promise to sustain us. Esquites bring the same corn to a cup, ready to eat with a spoon and a smile while standing among strangers who share your temporary happiness. Tostadas, sopes, huaraches — each a sculpture of indulgence, proof that poverty never stopped creativity, that limitation often births innovation. Tamales steamed in leaves as gifts from the earth itself, quesadillas filled with squash blossoms delicate as sunset or huitlacoche — Mexico's earthy, funky, revered corn fungus that teaches us to find treasure in what others discard.

And the drinks? Horchata with cinnamon that tastes comfort distilled into liquid. Jamaica the color of sunset and twice as beautiful. Tepache, fermented pineapple kissed with funk and mystery, reminding you that time transforms everything, usually for the better.

You eat standing up, elbow to elbow with strangers who stop being strangers somewhere between the first bite and the last drop of lime. You talk in broken languages that somehow communicate perfectly. You laugh at jokes you don't understand but feel in your bones. You stain your shirt with salsa and stories. No one minds because everyone understands that good food, good love, leaves evidence.

In that moment, you exist in communion — not religious, but human. Sacred because shared. At 76, I recognize these moments as life's true currency, worth more than any achievement, any accumulation, any anxious plan for tomorrow.

Maybe turning 76 means more than candles and cake. Maybe it means learning — again and again — to let life unfold as a flower that blooms in its own time. To get lost and keep walking, trusting that all paths lead somewhere worth being. To not understand everything and keep laughing anyway, because laughter might be prayer by another name. To try new things without needing names for them, because wonder doesn't require vocabulary.

To stay curious when the world insists on cynicism. To stay open when experience counsels protection. To stay human when humanity feels hard.

In Mexico City, nothing follows the plan — and somehow, that becomes the best plan of all. Everything happens exactly as it should, in ways you never could have imagined, better than anything you might have controlled. You leave full in ways that have nothing to do with food. Changed in ways that have everything to do with remembering who you've always been beneath the accumulated years. If you're lucky, you leave with salsa on your shirt and a story worth telling — but more than that, you leave with proof that at any age, adventure awaits those brave enough to get beautifully lost.

At 76, I understand that getting lost might be the only way to find what you didn't know you were looking for.

Hasta la próxima, CDMX. Gracias por todo — for the chaos and the calm, for the confusion and the clarity, for reminding an old man that wonder never expires, that every day offers chances to fall in love again with this strange, magnificent, utterly unpredictable gift called life.

+____+

Yesterday, I wrote a post about weaning myself off American products. It was satire—light-hearted, exaggerated, the literary equivalent of a wink. But judging by the comments, you’d think I had staged a dramatic breakup with Costco in the rain.

Let me clarify: I’m not going full anti-American hermit. I’m not burning my passport in a clay fire pit while chanting in Nahuatl. Relax.

One thing’s for certain: I’m not giving up Apple. I’d sooner give up oxygen. If Steve Jobs rose from the grave and asked me to plug myself directly into an iPhone, I’d say, “Lightning cable or USB-C?”

Also, yes—I will absolutely visit the U.S. again once the current chaos simmers down. Airports still exist, I still like bagels, and my Netflix keeps switching back to English anyway. But Mexico is home now. The tacos are better, the sunsets are more poetic, and nobody here gets mad if I take a siesta.

So don’t worry. I haven’t gone rogue—I’ve just gone remote.

Let me tell you about a Tuesday afternoon where reality folded in on itself like a cheap lawn chair at a Florida swap meet.

I was perched in a café in Guanajuato, sipping a dark roast strong enough to give a dead man flashbacks, scrolling through the news on my cracked phone screen. I read three stories in a row: one about a congressman proposing we arm elementary school teachers with flamethrowers, another about a startup offering DNA-enhanced emotional support pets, and a third about a dog elected mayor of a small town in Alaska.

Only one of those was satire.

But here’s the kicker: I couldn’t tell which one.

That, my friends, is where we are now. We’ve reached the slippery edge of the cognitive map, where satire and truth are indistinguishable and everyone’s driving off cliffs with Wile E. Coyote confidence. Buckle up. This ride’s got no brakes.

The Death of Discernment

Back in the Paleolithic age of the internet—somewhere around 2007—there was still a faint cultural muscle called “critical thinking.” You remember it. That twitch in your skull that said, “Hmm, maybe I should verify this before screaming about it online.” It’s been atrophied by algorithmic dopamine and left for dead in a ditch behind your uncle’s Facebook rants.

We don’t read anymore—we react. We scan. We skim. We scroll with greasy thumbs, grazing headlines like digital livestock. And the system is designed for that: clickable outrage, emotional whiplash, shareable hysteria. The more sensational it sounds, the more real it feels. No time for nuance, no appetite for ambiguity.

So when a satirical headline reads, “Elon Musk Declares Himself Pharaoh, Demands Pyramid on Mars,” people click, nod, and say, “Yeah, sounds about right.” Because reality has already jumped the shark, done a somersault, and landed in the uncanny valley.

Why People Believe Everything They Read

Let’s break this down like it’s a late-night infomercial selling you common sense.

1. Confirmation Bias is a Hell of a Drug.

If it fits your worldview, it must be true. Liberals see satire about conservatives and hit “Share” with unholy glee. Conservatives see satire about liberals and do the same, both assuming it’s straight journalism. We don’t question stories that validate our emotional truth. We only scrutinize the ones that challenge it.

2. Digital Literacy is a Myth.

They taught us to type, but not to think. Schools still hand out diplomas to kids who can’t distinguish The Atlantic from The Babylon Bee. There’s no crash course in satirical semiotics. And Google is only useful if you ask it the right questions—which most people don’t, because they’re too busy rage-commenting under a meme.

3. The News is a Circus, So Everything Looks Like a Clown.

Twenty-four-hour news cycles and entertainment media have cannibalized each other into a Frankenstein monster of hysterical factoids and emotionally manipulative scripts. When CNN sounds like The Onion, and The Onion sounds like prophecy, how are you supposed to tell them apart?

The Algorithm Doesn’t Care About Truth

Let’s talk about the real puppet master: the algorithm.

It’s not evil. It’s not sentient. It’s not some mustachioed villain tying truth to train tracks. It’s just… indifferent. The algorithm wants engagement. That’s all. It wants you scrolling. Laughing. Crying. Screaming. Sharing. Rinse, repeat.

Truth is boring. Satire has punchlines. Outrage is rocket fuel. You think the system cares whether you understand what you’re reading? Hell no. It just wants your click. And it’s willing to serve up the most believable lie or the most absurd truth—whichever gets the dopamine flowing.

So here we are: millions of people chain-smoking content with no filters. There’s no warning label. No parental advisory. Just a continuous feed of outrage and absurdity, lovingly optimized for maximum brain melt.

Satire as a Mirror—And Sometimes a Weapon

Satire isn’t new. We’ve had court jesters since medieval times. Mark Twain was doing it before Twitter. George Carlin weaponized it. Lenny Bruce died for it. But what makes satire powerful is what now makes it dangerous: it exaggerates the truth to expose its absurdity.

But today’s truth is already absurd. Reality itself has adopted the style of satire. Politicians tweet like comedians. Billionaires meme themselves. The very people satire once mocked now embrace it like armor—“Ha ha, you’re just mad because I’m trolling you.”

What happens when satire loses its bite because real life is indistinguishable from parody?

It becomes background noise. People stop noticing. The message gets lost in the miasma of memes and madness.

And worse—people start believing the satire is real. Not because they’re stupid, but because it doesn’t sound any crazier than what is real.

The Death of Irony: When Everything’s Played Straight

Irony used to be a survival tool. A way to navigate the surreal. But now irony itself has been weaponized, commodified, stripped of subtlety. It’s all surface-level sarcasm now—winking emojis, hashtags, and TikTokers performing existential dread with a dance beat.

In this hellscape of hyperreality, earnestness is radical. Try explaining that to someone who thinks everything is a joke—including the news.

Meanwhile, satire, robbed of its sacred ambiguity, just becomes another flavor of content. Like diet truth.

Case Study: The Babylon Bee and The Onion

Once upon a time, The Onion was the gold standard of satire. Sharp, witty, savage. You knew it was fake, but you wanted to believe it because it rang true in a way the news couldn’t. It was catharsis.

Then came The Babylon Bee, riding in with a cross around its neck and a smirk on its lips. It’s conservative, sure—but satire is satire, right? Not quite. In the age of ideological tribalism, satire became a cudgel. People stopped laughing with the joke and started using it as proof.

Now both sites get fact-checked. Google downranks them. Facebook slaps warnings on their headlines. Why? Because too many people believe the satire. Or worse—pretend to, to score points.

And just like that, satire becomes a liability. The absurd becomes dangerous. The parody becomes propaganda.

Is There Any Hope?

Let me be clear: I’m not nostalgic for some golden age of media literacy that never existed. We’ve always been suckers for snake oil. We fell for phrenology, bloodletting, and reality TV. The difference now is speed and scale. Misinformation spreads faster than a sneeze in a subway car.

But there’s a flicker of hope if you squint through the smoke.

1. Teach Digital Skepticism Like It’s CPR.

Every school should have a class called How to Not Be a Gullible Idiot Online. Teach kids to check sources, recognize satire, and understand how algorithms manipulate attention. And maybe teach adults, too—starting with Uncle Bob.

2. Make Satire Smarter Again.

The best satire doesn’t just mock—it enlightens. It invites reflection. It punches up. Let’s bring back the nuance, the subtle burn, the long con. Let’s write satire that doesn’t scream “I’M A JOKE” in bold caps, but instead whispers truth through a crooked grin.

3. Reward Truth-Tellers.

Support independent journalists. Pay for news. Share content that informs, not just inflames. Truth doesn’t trend—but it should.

4. Embrace the Uncomfortable.

We need to get comfortable with uncertainty. Learn to say, “I don’t know if this is real. Let me check.” The internet doesn’t demand instant opinion. You’re allowed to pause. To verify. To breathe.

Final Note from the Bardo

Somewhere out there, Oscar Wilde is chain-smoking in the afterlife, watching us scroll ourselves into oblivion and muttering, “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.”

He’s right.

Satire now wears the same clothes as truth. They swap hats in the night. They dance together on your news feed. And unless you sharpen your eyes, unless you train your brain, you’ll wake up in the funhouse thinking it’s a mirror.

So here’s the takeaway:

If something feels too good, too infuriating, or too perfectly dumb to be real—pause. Check. Ask.

Don’t be a pawn in the content casino.

Don’t be a parrot in a satire echo chamber.

Read widely. Think deeply. Laugh wisely.

And for the love of language, if you see a headline that says, “Florida Man Marries Alligator in Vegan Ceremony Sponsored by Elon Musk”—

Don’t share it.

Unless it’s true.

In which case… we’re already doomed.

Reporting live from the intersection of Fiction and Faith, where the Wi-Fi’s strong, but the facts are weak, your humble correspondent.

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.

I’m not going back. Not now, not next Christmas, not when “Not Like Us” wins a Pulitzer. Maybe not ever. The U.S. of A.—once the land of Elvis, cosmic diners, and baseline decency—is now a twitching monster of rage, paranoia, and fascist cosplay. As Robert Reich asked, why reward Trump’s America with tourist dollars? I won’t. And to be honest, I wasn’t planning to anyway. The BoycottUSA movement arrived like pozole on a hangover: right on time.

But me? I’m going deeper. Not just avoiding travel to the U.S., but surgically removing every last sliver of Americana from my life. I’m talking cultural exorcism. A great, holy cleanse. No more Netflix. No more Heinz. No more Seinfeld reruns whispering from my devices like corporate ghosts. This is total de-Yankification. I’m swapping cheeseburgers for cochinita pibil, Irving Berlin for Lila Downs, Apple for any damn thing that isn’t designed in Cupertino.

THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT (EN INGLES, POR FAVOR)

Rule 1. No American product or service shall enter my life.

Not one. Not Apple. Not Amazon. Not even Ben & Jerry’s. There are “good Americans,” sure—but if they’re so good, why can’t they fix their own country?

Rule 2. Legacy gringo gear can stay ‘til it dies.

I can still use my old iPhone… but once it croaks, that’s it. No more replacements from the land of mass shootings and Super Bowl commercials. And yes, current American friends are allowed. But new American friends? Lo siento, prohibited under the boycott. Make your peace with it.

Rule 3. American culture is now cultural contraband.

Marvin, Aretha, Otis? Into the vault. Streaming a Bruce Springsteen song in 2025 is the same as pouring a Big Gulp on the altar of freedom. Binge-watching Breaking Bad? Treason.

Rule 4. It’s not a real principle unless it hurts.

And baby, this one’s gonna sting.

PHASE ONE: ADIÓS, BIG TECH

The iPhone will die and be reborn as a Mexican Phoenix: a Lanix Ilium, made in Hermosillo. The laptop? Replaced by a Meebox, Mexico’s proudly homegrown line of computers. Say what you will about performance—it’s got heart. For every crash, it offers a little more soul.

My Apple Watch is out. In comes a Xiaomi Band—yes, Chinese, but bought from a street vendor in León after a long chat about AMLO, cactus, and the rising price of tortillas. Local vibes, global survival.

Google and Apple Maps? Dead to me. I’m navigating Guanajuato’s labyrinthine callejones with Karta GPS (made by a Brazilian team and loaded with Mexican offline maps). My emails now run through TutaNota—German-born, Mexican-loved, and fully encrypted so no one knows I’m still writing Coltrane fan mail at 2am.

PHASE TWO: A DIGITAL LIFE, SIN GRINGOS

Forget Zoom and Google Meet. My video calls now happen through Jitsi Meet, hosted locally on a server run by a crypto anarchist in Oaxaca. Gmail? Replaced by Correo Webmail de Telmex. Don’t laugh—it works, most of the time.

Word processing? LibreOffice, sí… but wrapped in a skin of Mexican folk art thanks to a modding forum I found run by a guy named Edgar in Puebla.

My cloud storage is no longer with iCloud. It’s now on a dusty external hard drive I bought in the Mercado Hidalgo, wrapped in a San Judas Tadeo sticker, protected not by encryption, but by faith and duct tape.

PHASE THREE: BYE BYE BINGE CULTURE

Netflix? Gone. Disney+? Exiled. Amazon Prime? Torched like Hernán Cortés’s boats. But I’m not deprived. Oh no.

I’ve got Canal Once, Mexico’s national educational channel, featuring documentaries, telenovelas, and surreal late-night puppetry. I’ve got TV UNAM for brainy content, and Claro Video, which always seems like it’s buffering in 1998 but bless its corazón, it tries.

Music? Spotify (Swedish) survives, but the playlist’s been overhauled. Out: Johnny Cash. In: Chavela Vargas, Caifanes, Natalie Lafourcade, Maldita Vecindad, and the ghost of José José sipping a Tecate in the moonlight. I’ve even blocked Los Tigres del Norte—too many U.S. tours. Principles, people.

PHASE FOUR: KITCHEN CLEANSE

Out go the products of PepsiCo, Kraft, and General Mills like rats from a mole-infested pantry. In come Doña María mole, Herdez salsa verde, and those crumbly bouillon cubes from Knorr Suiza, which despite the name, is practically a Mexican civil servant.

Forget Oreos—give me Galletas Marías and cajeta. Out with peanut butter. In with mazapán. Coca-Cola is a tricky one—but I’ve made peace with the fact that Mexican Coke in glass bottles is a different beast entirely. It’s practically a religious artifact.

PHASE FIVE: LA CASA DESAMERICANIZADA

No more Colgate. I brush with DentoFresh. No Tide. I wash with Foca, the detergent with a smiling seal on the label and a libertarian attitude toward fragrance. Shampoo? A bar of Savia Natural soap bought at a Sunday tianguis from a woman with three teeth and infinite wisdom.

Clothing? No Levi’s. No Nike. No Patagonia fleece vest worn while sipping kombucha. I’m in Coppel denim, Zara knockoffs from Guadalajara, and handwoven huaraches made by a maestro in Michoacán who probably doesn’t own a phone but can tell the time by the sun and the corn.

PHASE SIX: MODERN LIFE’S MEXICAN HACKS

Banking? Banorte and BBVA (even if Spanish-owned) keep me far from Chase. Yes, my credit card runs on Mastercard, and yes, I weep when I see the logo. But I try to pay cash, always in pesos, folded around a handwritten note that says No al imperialismo.

Books? No Amazon. I get mine from Librerías Gandhi, where the staff recommend radical poetry and don’t ask if I want to “bundle with Audible.”

Streaming? I’ve discovered Pulsocinema, an indie platform run by a couple in San Luis Potosí who stream old Mexican noir and surreal arthouse flicks with subtitles in Nahuatl. I’ve never been more confused—or more alive.

THE FINAL SACRIFICES

Yes, my pension still holds U.S. assets. Yes, my baseball team is still owned by some crypto-libertarian hedge fund in Miami. And yes, I still talk to my American family… on WhatsApp. I know. Shameful. One day I’ll switch us all to Bridgefy, the offline Mexican-built mesh-messaging app born in protest.

But for now…this is my stand. This is my hill.

So pour me a Raicilla neat. Hand me a chapulín taco and a copy of La Jornada, and let me stream reruns of El Chavo del Ocho in peace. I’m done with America. I’m building something new. Something with cumbia, street dogs, poetry, and 4am tamales.

Life outside the Empire is messier. But it’s honest. And spicy. And mine.

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.

Mexico, the perpetual underdog of North America, has had its share of crap slung its way, much of it courtesy of Donald J. Trump. Remember the threats of tariffs which have returned, mass deportations, and “sending the military to take care of the cartels”? It was a four-year blitz of bombast and bullying. But here’s the thing: Mexico isn’t losing sleep over the prospect of Trump 2.0. Nope. This nation’s got its eyes firmly set on the prize—its own unstoppable rise.

The secret sauce? A mix of grit, strategy, and knowing how to play the long game. The lessons from Trump’s first presidential circus weren’t lost on Mexico. President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO) and now Claudia Sheinbaum has been methodically preparing for the what ifs. Trump’s antics? Been there, done that. This time, Mexico’s not ducking—it’s leaning in.

Claudia is the only world leader who has stood up to Trump. Excellente!

Trump’s presidency gave Mexico a masterclass in geopolitical jujitsu. Back then, threats of tariffs and trade wars loomed large, but Mexico flexed its muscles as the U.S.’s second-largest trade partner. Today, that leverage is stronger than ever. American manufacturers are locked into Mexico’s supply chains tighter than a snare drum. Tesla, for instance, is setting up shop south of the border. Why? Because Mexico’s skilled labor and efficient supply chains make it indispensable.

And let’s not forget, Trump’s trade saber-rattling has its limits. Going after Canada, China and Mexico at the same time? A logistical and economic nightmare for the U.S. Mexico knows this and is positioning itself as the savvy partner who’s too valuable to alienate.

Now Trump wants to annex Canada, Greenland and Panama. Notice how he hasn’t mentioned Mexico, because he knows that won’t play here.

Ah, immigration—the centerpiece of Trump’s greatest hits. The wall, the “Remain in Mexico” policy, mass deportations—it’s all coming back as Trump regains the throne. But Mexico isn’t sweating it. The López Obrador administration proved adept at managing migration crises during Trump’s first term, keeping the peace while ensuring remittances—a lifeline for millions—kept flowing. They’ve got the playbook, and it’s ready to go. Claudia’s initial statements to Trump demonstrate she’s fearless.

Trump’s rhetoric about cartels is his favorite broken record, but Mexico isn’t fazed. The government has been balancing security concerns with economic priorities for years. Officials are ready to address U.S. demands with precision-targeted operations while ensuring the broader economy stays stable. After all, even the U.S. knows it can’t afford to see Mexico destabilized.

While Trump and the U.S. grapple with their political soap opera, Mexico’s been quietly stacking wins. By 2035, some experts say, Mexico might even surpass the U.S. in key areas like innovation and economic growth.

Mexico’s median age is a youthful 28, compared to the aging, healthcare-strapped U.S. workforce. This demographic dividend is fueling a wave of tech innovation and economic vitality.

Guadalajara and Monterrey are emerging as global tech hubs, outpacing Silicon Valley in affordability and fostering an ecosystem of homegrown talent. Startups are thriving, bolstered by a tech-savvy workforce and government initiatives.

Mexico’s ambitious renewable energy goals—50% sustainable energy by 2030—aren’t just about saving the planet. They’re about selling power to their energy-hungry northern neighbor. While the U.S. bickers about pipelines, Mexico’s gearing up to dominate the green export market.

Mexico has diversified far beyond oil, investing in tech, sustainable agriculture, and education. The result? Faster GDP growth and lower national debt than the states. Mexico’s emerging as a true economic heavyweight.

While the U.S. is mired in a swamp of division and polarization, Mexico thrives on community and cohesion. It’s a cultural superpower that binds the nation through thick and thin, fostering stability that attracts foreign investors and drives domestic growth. Where the U.S. sees chaos, Mexico sees opportunity.

Trump may still loom large, but Mexico’s no longer playing the part of the bullied neighbor. It’s the scrappy upstart with a killer game plan, a nation that’s learned to thrive under pressure. The days of being a punching bag are over. Mexico’s future isn’t just bright—it’s blinding.

This is a country that knows how to roll with the punches and come out swinging. Its leaders have mastered the art of adapting, pivoting, and capitalizing on the chaos Trump stirs up. Mexico’s not just surviving—it’s rewriting the rules of the game.

So, while Trump dreams of walls and bluster, Mexico’s building bridges—to a future where it leads North America, if not the world. Trump can rant all he wants, but Mexico’s too busy thriving to care. The sun is shining south of the border, and it’s not going to stop anytime soon.

Mexico has its problems, with the Cartels at the top of the list. Let’s give Claudia a chance.

New! Listen to a Deep Dive on this Article.

The 1958 novel The Ugly American didn’t just critique—it fired a direct shot at the bloated egos of Americans abroad, ripping apart their arrogance, cultural insensitivity, and utter lack of clue about the lands they invade with their designer sneakers and boisterous voices. Over the years, the title morphed into a catchall term for any Yankee who strolls into a foreign country with all the charm of a bull in a china shop, blind to local customs and dripping with entitlement.

Guatemala, a jewel of vibrant culture and haunting beauty, wasn’t spared the parade of oblivious tourists. On a recent trip, I encountered a few textbook cases of the “ugly American.” They prowled the cobblestone streets of Antigua, hunting for golden arches instead of soaking in the culinary symphony of black beans, fresh tortillas, and pepian stew. To them, this breathtaking land seemed little more than a budget-friendly Instagram backdrop, its history and culture an inconvenient footnote to their quest for cheap beer and likes.

Of course, not all tourists fit this cringe-worthy mold, but even a handful are enough to stir up thoughts of Guatemala’s darker relationship with the United States—a partnership as lopsided as a three-legged chair. In the mid-20th century, the United Fruit Company, that corporate behemoth with a sweet tooth for bananas and unchecked power, treated Guatemala as its personal plantation. With the CIA acting as enforcer, the company orchestrated a 1954 coup to oust President Jacobo Árbenz, whose bold land reforms dared to challenge the empire of American greed.

The result? Decades of military dictatorships that turned Guatemala into a dystopian chessboard of repression and terror. Entire communities were swept under the iron fist of juntas propped up by Uncle Sam’s Cold War paranoia. But Guatemalans didn’t take this lying down. By 1960, a brutal civil war erupted—a bloody 36-year struggle pitting leftist rebels against a government drenched in U.S.-backed firepower. This wasn’t just war; it was survival against the shadowy puppeteers of global politics.

In 1996, the guns finally fell silent as peace accords were signed, but the scars ran deep. Guatemala stepped out of the war into a new era, shaky but determined. The resilience of its people is a marvel, their culture a defiant flame that refuses to be snuffed out. Yet, the ghost of foreign intervention lingers, a reminder of the high cost of exploitation masked as progress.

So, next time you hear an entitled tourist gripe about “third-world problems” while sipping Starbucks on a picturesque Guatemalan plaza, remember the history etched into those cobblestones. Guatemala’s story isn’t one of pity—it’s a testament to the strength of a people who refuse to let imperial greed define them.

As of 2024, Guatemala is young—really young. The median age is just 23, with a huge chunk of the population still figuring out high school. Nearly half the country wasn’t even born when the political chaos of the late 20th century was tearing through the nation. This wave of youth shapes everything: education, jobs, healthcare—you name it. The country’s future depends on whether it can keep up with the needs of its fresh-faced majority.

The historic Mayan culture continues to profoundly shape the lives of Guatemalans today, influencing their traditions, identity, and daily practices in numerous ways:

Guatemala isn’t just a country—it’s a living, breathing testament to the resilience of Mayan culture, a legacy that refuses to fade into the dust of history. Over twenty Mayan languages still echo through the mountains and markets, spoken by millions who use K’iche’, Q’eqchi’, and Mam not just as words but as lifelines to their identity. These languages, vibrant and alive, are woven into the community like the intricate patterns of a huipil. Bilingual education programs are trying to keep this linguistic magic alive, marrying ancient tongues with Spanish in a dance of preservation.

But the Mayan influence doesn’t stop with words. Their ceremonies still light up the highlands with fire rituals, sacred sites, and offerings that honor ancestors and the cosmic cycles of the universe. This isn’t some relic from a dusty museum; it’s raw, spiritual electricity. Mix this with Catholicism, and you get “Mayan Catholicism,” a kaleidoscope of beliefs where saints share space with ancient deities and rituals honor both Jesus and the maiz god.

Speaking of maiz aka corn, the golden crop isn’t just food—it’s sacred. Ancient Mayan agricultural techniques like terracing and crop rotation still shape the land, and maiz remains the beating heart of Guatemalan meals and traditions. The connection to the land runs deep, fueling modern struggles to reclaim ancestral territories from the grip of exploitative powers. For indigenous communities, the fight for land is the fight for survival.

Guatemalan women carry Mayan culture quite literally on their backs—vibrant, handwoven textiles bursting with colors and patterns that hold symbolic meaning tied to Mayan cosmology. These fabrics are more than clothing; they’re stories worn with pride. And the art! Pottery, sculptures, and paintings channel the gods, nature, and history, keeping ancient narratives alive for a modern world that could use a lesson or two.

Festivals here are a sensory overload of Mayan tradition, with dances, music, and storytelling tied to the agricultural calendar. Then there’s Día de los Muertos, where Guatemalans fly giant, kaleidoscopic kites—barriletes—to commune with their ancestors. The sky becomes a canvas for the living and the dead to reconnect, a tradition so beautiful it almost feels like it belongs in a dream.

Ancient ruins like Tikal, Uxactun, and El Mirador are more than tourist traps; they’re monuments to the architectural genius of Mayan ancestors. Their influence spills into modern architecture, where Mayan motifs sneak into the lines and designs of contemporary buildings, blending past and present into something uniquely Guatemalan.

But the Mayan legacy isn’t just about culture—it’s a rallying cry. Indigenous rights movements are reclaiming space in a country still grappling with inequality, demanding respect, autonomy, and a voice. The resilience of the Mayan people isn’t just a thing of the past; it’s happening right now, shaping Guatemala’s political and social landscape.

Mayan culture isn’t a history lesson—it’s a heartbeat. It shapes the language, art, spirituality, and daily lives of Guatemalans today. Despite centuries of colonization, oppression, and marginalization, Mayan traditions continue to thrive, offering not just a connection to the past but a bridge to the future. It’s alive, it’s fierce, and it’s unapologetically here to stay.

So you’re probably wondering, why did the Mayan civilization collapse? The collapse of the ancient Mayan civilization wasn’t a single “oops” moment—it was a symphony of chaos, a long, drawn-out unraveling of one of history’s most advanced societies. Historians and archaeologists have been piecing together the wreckage for years, and the answers read like a disaster movie script: environmental destruction, power struggles, overpopulation, and a dash of cosmic irony. Here’s why the mighty Maya fell apart.

The Maya loved their land, but they also worked it to death. They cleared forests faster than a suburban developer on steroids, turning lush greenery into fields of maiz. Over time, the soil gave up, and erosion did the rest. Their ingenious water reservoirs and canals? Great until they weren’t. Mismanagement turned once-thriving cities into parched ghost towns when droughts came knocking.

Speaking of droughts, Mother Nature had no chill between the 8th and 10th centuries. Sediment cores and tree rings tell the story of brutal, extended dry spells that turned fertile lands into dust bowls. No rain, no food, no society. Simple math.

The Maya were brilliant, but their growth rate was their Achilles’ heel. Cities swelled, resources shrank, and suddenly, you had a whole lot of people fighting over not enough corn. Add that to the pressure cooker, and you’ve got yourself a civilization on the brink.

The Maya weren’t exactly holding hands and singing kumbaya. City-states like Tikal and Calakmul were at each other’s throats, locked in endless cycles of war. Throw in some internal revolts—peasants tired of the elite hoarding all the chocolate and jade—and you’ve got a recipe for collapse.

The Maya thrived on long-distance trade, moving obsidian, jade, and cacao like pros. But when the trade networks crumbled, so did their economy. Major hubs like Copán and Palenque became shells of their former selves, and the whole system came crashing down.

Mayan kings were supposed to be divine middlemen, keeping the gods happy and the corn flowing. But when droughts, wars, and famines hit, people started doubting their rulers’ cosmic credentials. More sacrifices, bigger temples—nothing worked. Eventually, the faith eroded, and the people had had enough.

Here’s the kicker: the “collapse” wasn’t universal. The southern lowlands—modern-day Guatemala, Belize, and parts of Mexico—saw cities abandoned during the Terminal Classic Period (800–900 CE). Meanwhile, up in the northern Yucatán, places like Chichén Itzá were still throwing epic parties for centuries.

And, the plot twist: the Maya didn’t vanish. Their cities fell, but their people didn’t. Today, millions of Mayan descendants live across Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, and Honduras, speaking their ancestors’ languages, practicing their rituals, and weaving their culture into the modern world. The “collapse” was just a chapter, not the end of the book.

The Maya didn’t fall because of one big mistake—they were crushed by a perfect storm of bad luck, bad decisions, and bad timing. Their story is a cautionary tale about the delicate balance between humans and the environment, power and resources, faith and survival. It’s also a reminder that even the most glorious civilizations can falter, but their legacy can endure.

There’s no shortage of fascinating places to explore in Guatemala. This video, filmed mostly from the backseat of a TukTuk, highlights two must-see destinations: Chichicastenango, famous for its vibrant market, and San Juan, a quaint pueblo on the shores of Lake Atitlán. A TukTuk, a small three-wheeled motorized vehicle, serves as a popular mode of transport in many developing countries and tourist hubs, offering a unique way to navigate these colorful locations.

We spent eight days in Guatemala and look forward to visiting again. Some in Mexico refer to Guatemala as their sister nation, as many Mexicans share Mayan roots. But even though the countries are neighbors, their cultures are quite different. Guatamalan food isn’t as spicy and the clothing is much more colorful.

Clothes shopping is not among my favorites, but Mayan Designs, a shop in Antigua, offers very cool shirts, pants, jackets, etc., on demand, within minutes. I purchased a shirt, pants and a jacket!

After the recent presidential election, many Americans are considering leaving the U.S. to escape the potential turbulence of Trump 2.0. While it’s impossible to predict exactly how things will unfold, Trump’s campaign promises and his previous administration suggest the country may face challenging times. And that is an understatement.

When COVID hit in 2020, Sherrie and I began seriously considering a move from Tucson, where we’d each lived for over two decades. The increasingly polarized political climate in the U.S. was certainly a factor in our decision, along with the desire for a lower cost of living, a moderate climate, a creative and diverse community, and a lively place culturally to start our next chapter.

After exploring our options, we decided on Mexico. Sherrie had visited many times and encouraged me to join her to experience it firsthand. From the moment we arrived in her favorite city, Guanajuato, a charming town in the Central Highlands about five hours north of Mexico City, I felt an immediate connection. By the second day of our visit, I told her, “I don’t want to go back to the U.S.”

We’ve now been here two and a half years and couldn’t be happier. We love the climate, culture, history, and especially the people, who are warm and welcoming. The cost of living is roughly half of what it is in the U.S., although that varies depending on where you live in Mexico. But for us, the bottom line is, it’s refreshing to live somewhere without a constant sense of doom hanging in the air.

We’re part of a community of both Mexicans and expats. Like any place, every community has its own vibe. Guanajuato is arts and education focused, with a vibrant scene of visual artists and musicians of all genres, and a large university. Never a dull moment here, especially during the Day of the Dead celebrations and Cervantino, one of Latin America’s most renowned cultural festivals.

When Americans think about relocating, they often weigh certain factors to make sure the transition will be smooth and satisfying.

Cost is typically a big factor. People want to maintain a comfortable lifestyle with a lower income. Although Mexico’s prices have adjusted for inflation, electronics carry a 10-15% import tariff. Cars that aren’t made in Mexico, also cost more.

Healthcare is a major consideration, especially for retirees. I’d been warned that healthcare in Mexico might not match U.S. standards, but I’ve found it to be just as good, if not better. Compassion is often missing from U.S. healthcare, while in Mexico, my first doctor’s visit lasted nearly ninety minutes as we discussed not only my health but all aspects of my life.  The health insurance companies in the US wouldn’t allow that.

Safety and stability are of course, crucial. While there’s some petty crime in Guanajuato, it’s generally safe as long as you avoid specific neighborhoods. Cartels operate mostly in the surrounding state, and while they may demand protection money, they usually leave uninvolved people alone. Like the Mafia in New York.

Relocating is much smoother when the local culture aligns with your values. Language plays a significant role; for instance, while Guanajuato is home to a university, most locals primarily speak Spanish. This has been a great motivator for me to improve my language skills. Although I studied Spanish in high school and used it occasionally in New York, I underestimated how much time and effort it would take to become fluent. The perfect phrase for this journey is poco a poco—little by little. After all, there’s only so much your brain can absorb at once.

Climate is another important factor. Some people prefer cities, others the beach, and some—like me—the mountains. Guanajuato’s highland climate is temperate, never too hot or cold. Although it lacks nearby beaches or lakes, we visit coastal areas and lakes, a few times a year.

For those planning to work abroad, factors like job markets, work visas, and economic stability are crucial. There’s a significant disparity in earnings between Mexico and the U.S. For instance, carpenters and home craftsmen in the U.S. would see their income drastically reduced if they relocated here. However, there are plenty of resources available to help navigate the career transition.

As someone who works online, I have the flexibility to live anywhere, and many others here do the same, benefiting from the strong value of U.S. dollars in Mexico. I also know people living comfortably here on their savings and social security income.

For those wanting regular visits to family, proximity and ease of travel can be important. That’s why many Americans choose countries like Canada or Mexico, where they can fly home quickly.

A Mexican friend told me that gringos move here for three main reasons. (I’m not fond of the term “gringo,” but it isn’t always negative.) First is the lower cost of living, second is the appeal of maintaining an American lifestyle here, and lastly, a genuine interest in the country and culture, which includes learning the language and integrating with the community.

Many older Americans move here because it’s financially sustainable. If you avoid luxury lifestyles, you can live comfortably. Some, however, bring their American lifestyle here, never learning Spanish or interacting with locals beyond service workers. They often settle in gated communities and socialize only with fellow Americans.

About an hour from Guanajuato is San Miguel de Allende, which epitomizes this expat lifestyle. It’s more upscale, but still cost effective for Americans. However, financial gentrification has driven up living costs, making it unaffordable for many locals. I’m not particularly fond of San Miguel, but I have friends who enjoy it—it simply has a different vibe than Guanajuato. I could never live in a gated community.

For someone with a political consciousness that makes living in exile feel essential, as I feel here in Mexico, leaving the “land of the free” raises new questions about identity and belonging. I’m an American immigrant in Mexico, a self-imposed exile, yet still connected to my roots through a digital lifeline to friends, family, and work back in the U.S. Though I live in Mexico, I consider myself a citizen of the world.

I’m doing the same work here as I would in the States, working with AI video and writing my blog. But life here is less stressful than in most places, especially the U.S. At seventy-five, I seek less noise and, above all, a community that is anchored in compassion and mutual care.

The deep polarization found in America is absent in Mexico. Here, the importance of family creates a culture where people genuinely care for and support one another. This sense of connection comes naturally, as it is deeply ingrained in daily life and cultural values.

If things were different, would I consider moving back to the US, no.  A big no.

Of course what’s happening in the land of my birth is upsetting. Although I’m not present at the scene of the crime, thanks to the web, it still right in front of me. What I do know is that it’s just something we’re all going to have to endure in some way, no matter where we live on this planet. For how long is anybody’s guess, but its safe to say, at least four years.

If you’re seriously considering becoming an expat or a digital nomad, I recommend exploring countries beyond Mexico where you might find happiness. I know people who have successfully relocated Lisbon, Portugal; Chiang Mai, Thailand; Quito, Ecuador; and, Taipei, Taiwan, all of whom are leading fulfilling lives. Starting a new life abroad is entirely possible, but the ideal destination varies greatly depending on individual preferences and needs.

We’ve recently returned from Huasteca, a lush paradise teeming with countless waterfalls, where we had the incredible privilege of celebrating Día de los Muertos in remote Indigenous communities. The journey itself felt like a tribute to the region’s wild beauty and rich traditions.

We had no roadmap, only the company of Jorge—a friend from Guanajuato and a native of San Luis Potosí. Without cell service or GPS, he navigated the labyrinth of backwater roads purely by instinct, drawing on a deep familiarity with the land. In a place where the midnight sky is as black as obsidian, every wrong turn could have meant hours of delay before finding the right path again. Yet, with his quiet confidence, we arrived.

One night, after exploring various pueblos and their celebrations, we found ourselves in a cemetery alive with candlelight and quiet reverence. Hundreds of people, primarily from Indigenous communities, gathered to honor their departed loved ones. The air carried the rich scent of marigolds and copal, while soft murmurs of remembrance filled the darkness.

Día de los Muertos is celebrated annually on November 1st and 2nd to honor deceased loved ones and ancestors. It draws deeply from Aztec, Toltec, and other Indigenous traditions, where death is not seen as an end but a continuation of life’s journey. Families create vibrant altars (ofrendas), adorned with photos, candles, marigolds (cempasúchil), and items the deceased cherished. Offerings include foods like pan de muerto, tamales, and sugar skulls. Marigolds are thought to guide the spirits back to the world of the living, while candles and incense light their way.

Rather than a time of mourning, Día de los Muertos is a celebration. Families gather at gravesites, sharing stories, laughter, and food to honor those who have passed. This unique perspective on death reflects Mexico’s embrace of it as a natural, even familiar part of life’s cycle.

Unlike Western traditions, which often approach death with fear or sorrow, Mexicans welcome it with humor, acceptance, and celebration. Here, death is not a distant specter but a companion, woven into the fabric of life. Playful skeletons (calaveras) grin from murals and gravestones, as if reminding us that life and death are inseparable partners in an eternal dance.

Standing in that cemetery, surrounded by flickering light and the warmth of community, I felt the stark contrast with Western notions of death as cold and final. Here, there was no sorrow—only love, laughter, and a quiet understanding that, for a few magical days, the souls of the departed return to share in the joy of the living.

This celebration, with its rich traditions and profound sense of connection, left me in awe—not just of the beauty of Huasteca but of the depth of the culture that brings life and death together in such harmony.

Although I’ve been living in Guanajuato for two and a half years, this was my first opportunity to connect with Indigenous people, an experience that left a profound impression on me. Like other Mexicans, they exude warmth, resilience, and an unwavering sense of community, but their connection to tradition and the land brings an even deeper dimension to their identity.

Indigenous cultures in Mexico carry the weight of centuries of history, tradition, and spirituality, which they preserve with remarkable dignity despite the challenges they have faced. Their sense of belonging is not just tied to their families but also to their ancestors, their communities, and the natural world around them. This interconnectedness fosters a profound harmony and strength, even in the face of modern pressures and historical injustices.

What stands out most, though, is the hospitality and kindness they extend to outsiders like me. Despite our differences, they welcomed me with open arms, embodying the generosity that is so characteristic of Mexican people. It’s a reminder that, even amidst their own struggles, they remain rooted in compassion and inclusivity.

This encounter reinforced what I’ve come to deeply appreciate about Mexico as a whole. In a world increasingly fragmented by conflict and division, Mexico feels like a life raft—anchored in the enduring values of family, community, and mutual care. It’s a place where people don’t just survive but thrive together, finding strength in unity and joy in simple, shared moments.

For me, this experience was not only a window into the rich tapestry of Indigenous cultures but also a reaffirmation of why I’ve come to feel at home in this country. It’s a land where humanity is celebrated in its truest sense, offering a refuge of warmth and solidarity in these often troubling times.

And naturally, the food was incredible.

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A few weeks ago, for the first time in two years, I returned to the United States to take care of family matters. Although I’m a baby boomer who grew up in West Hartford, Connecticut, I stayed in Hamden, a suburb of New Haven, during this visit. Most of my time, however, was spent in Wolcott, a suburb of Waterbury.

I left Connecticut in 1967 to attend NYU Film School and spent the next thirty-four years living in and around New York City. After that, I moved to Tucson, Arizona, where I lived for twenty years before finally relocating to Guanajuato, Mexico, in May 2022.

Mexico is a wonderful place to live. I love the culture, our beautiful home in the Central Highlands, and being part of a warm, supportive community of both Mexicans and Americans who, like me, have chosen to make this their new home. While I may live in Mexico today, I’m still very much an American, keeping up with everything happening back home where I have family and friends.

The rise of Donald Trump has been profoundly disturbing. Though he isn't the root of all of America's problems, his divisive influence continues to cast a dark shadow. What's even more troubling is that nearly a hundred million Americans still support him, and the prospect of his return to the presidency remains real. This, in itself, says a great deal about the current state of the nation.

Experience has taught me that change is the only constant in life, and our ability to adapt is crucial. Life isn’t fair, there’s no guarantee of justice, and bad things happen to good people, all the fucking time. At seventy-five, I’m acutely aware that my days are numbered. I’m very grateful for the life I have, and consider myself incredibly fortunate to have lived such a challenging and exciting life. Thankfully, that journey continues—for now. And hopefully for a while. I’m already planning my 80th birthday party, at a Tokyo sushi restaurant.

I’ve also learned that expectations are a double-edged sword, so when I decided to make this trip to the place of my birth, I set aside all fears or concerns. I knew I would mostly be spending time with family and friends, but also engaging with my fellow Americans.

In many ways, I’ve always been an outsider, observing from the fringes. I didn’t deliberately choose this path—it just unfolded that way. As a teenager, I idolized Charlie Parker and Lenny Bruce, setting the course for my life, and in many ways, I haven’t changed. Bebopper, writer, beatnik, hippy, filmmaker, tech wizard, radical—I’ve embraced all these identities and more. Leaving the U.S. for a better life isn’t for everyone, but for me, it was the natural progression of who I’ve always been.

Since this was a last-minute trip, the timing couldn't have been worse. I prefer to avoid traveling when Mercury is in Retrograde, which happens two or three times a year. During this period, communication, technology, travel, and decision-making often get disrupted. People believe it's a time prone to misunderstandings, delays, and technical glitches. It's generally advised to be extra cautious with contracts, travel plans, and communications during these phases.

There’s no direct flight from the Central Highlands of Mexico to New York City, so I had to connect through Dallas before heading to New York. The first part of the trip was smooth, but when I arrived at DFW Airport, I found out my connecting flight had been canceled. It wasn’t a disaster, but definitely an inconvenience.

New York’s weather had caused all flights to be diverted or canceled. I headed to an American Airlines kiosk, hoping to find an alternative, only to find a line of equally frustrated passengers already waiting. I braced for a long delay. Flying these days often brings out the simmering anger in many Americans, who are quick to lash out at anything that makes them feel powerless.

Navigating the soul-sucking maze of corporations and bureaucracy is like being strapped to a slow-moving conveyor belt of existential dread—a relentless reminder of just how small, insignificant, and utterly powerless you really are in the face of the cold, grinding machine.

In that cavernous terminal, eye contact was a lost art. Everyone was trapped in their own private hell, gripping their phones like lifelines, as if one more scroll could save them from the chaos. Flights were canceled left and right, and the tension hung in the air like thick smog. The usual signs of humanity—conversation, a simple smile—had vanished, replaced by a silent, desperate isolation.

When I finally clawed my way to the front of the line, the woman behind the counter didn’t even let me open my mouth. “No more flights to New York tonight,” she barked, “and with all these cancellations, good luck getting out before Wednesday. Hotels are packed too, so you’re stuck.” Stranded in Texas? Hell, no—one of my personal circles of Dante’s Inferno. Then she dangled a faint lifeline: “I could get you to LA, maybe catch a morning flight to New York from there. There’s a 4 AM out of LAX.” Before I could say a word, she slammed the door: “Oops, scratch that. LA’s full too.” Texas purgatory, it was.

I stood there, dazed, like I'd been sucker-punched by the universe. Where the hell was I going to sleep? When would I finally make it to LaGuardia? Meanwhile, the American Airlines agent kept pounding away at her keyboard, hunting for options in the digital void. “What are my rights as a passenger?” I asked, half expecting some corporate salvation. She looked up with a deadpan smile. “Well, since it’s an Act of God, you don’t have any rights.” Ah, God—always reliable.

After what felt like an eternity, she found a single seat on a noon flight to New York the next day. “I’ll take it!” I blurted, like a drowning man spotting a life raft. But, of course, the universe had other plans. “Oh, sorry, it just got booked.” Perfect. “What about another airline?” I asked, desperation creeping in. “They’re all booked,” she said, almost apologetically, like the messenger of doom.

Resigned to my fate, I grabbed my bags and prepared to search for a hotel like a defeated soldier retreating from battle. But just as I turned to walk away, she perked up, “Wait, I can put you on standby for the noon flight.” I lunged at the chance. “I’ll take it,” I said, clinging to hope like a madman. And by some twisted miracle, I managed to snag a spot. She even threw me a bone—a discount coupon for a hotel website. I found a room in the middle of nowhere, Irving, Texas, and booked an Uber to my temporary exile.

The next morning, I showed up at the airport two hours early, only to find out that my alternate flight had been canceled. Classic. Back to the kiosk grind, but this time I struck gold—a ticket for a flight two hours later. Naturally, it was delayed. I finally touched down in New York at 8 PM, rented a car, and made the long drive to Hamden, Connecticut. Welcome back, America.

As I navigated off the highway and through the quiet streets of this New Haven suburb, I was hit by a sea of American flags and Trump signs. Wait—Connecticut’s supposed to be a blue state, right? Apparently not. I was crashing with an old friend, Mark Kaplan, and once we settled in, the conversation inevitably drifted to how much the U.S. had spiraled. Turns out, I’d landed in the heart of Trump country, which seemed to include most small towns around here. Mark mentioned how every public space, especially online, was now drenched in bigotry. On Facebook, any hope of real conversation with friends or neighbors had flatlined—civil discourse was a dead language. But really, can you even have a rational conversation with someone brainwashed by a cult?

During my week in Connecticut, I got a bitter taste of the madness that’s gripping the Nutmeg State—and the entire nation. The United States is a house divided, split down the middle. For centuries, American democracy functioned on the shaky balance of a two-party system, and somehow, it mostly worked. But now, one of those parties, led by a narcissistic sociopath with a God complex, has mutated into a grotesque collection of fascist bigots, hell-bent on remaking the country into a dystopian nightmare.

Disagreement? Debate? Sure, that’s the lifeblood of democracy. But trying to have a rational conversation with someone deep in the MAGA cult? Forget it. These people have been brainwashed to the point of no return—they swallow every lie their dear leader spews like gospel. And what makes it worse? A lot of them are armed to the teeth and itching for a fight. It’s not a conversation; it’s a powder keg.

Take my friend Mark’s Facebook feed, for example. He dared to respond to a post by someone he knows—someone local, a supposed “neighbor.” The response to his comment? A thinly veiled death threat. Welcome to the new normal, where discourse isn’t just dead—it’s buried, with a bullet in its skull.

Are there really millions of Americans gearing up for a Civil War, with January 6 as their dress rehearsal? God, I hope not, but who’s to say? Trump, during his New York trial, kept blaring that hundreds of his loyal minions would storm the courthouse in protest. And what happened? Over the entire trial, a grand total of six diehards showed up. Six. So much for the revolution.

In my wanderings through Connecticut, I mostly bumped into civilians at diners—always with my two brothers at my side. And every time we walked in, the temperature dropped. Suspicion was thick in the air. "Who the fuck are these guys? And what side are they on?" It was the kind of silent judgment you can feel crawling up your spine.

Fifty years ago, when my hair brushed my shoulders, I felt that same icy stare. Fresh out of college, back in a town that didn't trust the long-haired freaks. Hell, I was even threatened with a beating once at Friendly’s restaurant. A group of us home on spring break got cornered by some clean-cut All-American psychos, full of piss and vinegar, hurling insults and promising to be waiting for us outside. But when we left, they were long gone. Talk is cheap, and so were they.

My recent visit wasn’t quite as extreme as that, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d stumbled into *Invasion of the Body Snatchers*, Don Siegel’s masterpiece of paranoia and identity loss. Set in the sleepy little town of Santa Mira, California, Dr. Miles Bennell starts noticing his patients acting strange, whispering that their loved ones look the same but are somehow... off. Cold. Hollow. Stripped of all the quirks that made them human.

As the nightmare unravels, Bennell and his crew uncover the terrifying reality: alien plant spores have crashed down to Earth, spawning duplicates of people—"pod people"—who look exactly like their human counterparts, but with all the soul drained out. These emotionless impostors sprout from giant seed pods, slipping into human bodies while they sleep, erasing everything that makes them unique.

The film's paranoia, conformity, and fear of invasion mirrored the Cold War jitters and the Red Scare that had America by the throat. At its core, *Invasion of the Body Snatchers* leaves you wondering if humanity stands a chance against such a relentless, creeping threat. Sound familiar? If Trump snags another term, people will be asking the same damn question: can America survive the onslaught of his insidious brand of madness?

Then there’s the sticker shock. A diner breakfast—two eggs, bacon, toast, OJ, and coffee—now sets you back $20. Twenty bucks! For one person. Grocery shopping felt like every price tag was dipped in gold, nearly double what it used to be. Sure, coming from Mexico’s economy, I expected the U.S. to be pricier, but this was absurd. Everything—except gas—had skyrocketed in just two years.

No wonder half the country is losing their minds about the economy. They're getting squeezed from all sides, and it's starting to show.

After this trip, I can’t shake the feeling that America’s in deep trouble. It’s a nation full of wandering souls, wondering how the hell the American Dream got derailed and fearing what’s next. And Trump, the maestro of manipulation, feeds off that fear like a vampire. In a country built by immigrants, he’s somehow turned them into public enemy number one.

The American Dream used to be about upward mobility, working hard, and reaping the rewards—a house, a decent living, and freedom. But now? For so many, it’s a pipe dream. Income inequality is off the charts, wages have flatlined, and the cost of living is climbing like a rocket. The rungs of the ladder—education, healthcare, affordable housing—are either broken or too high to reach. The whole system is rigged, and the Dream? Out of reach for most.

The reality we have to face is that Trump still has a stranglehold on one of the political parties and could very well win again. Whatever happens in November, the future is uncertain at best. As Mel Brooks said, I'm hoping for the best but expecting the worst. That way, no matter what happens, I won't be disappointed.

No place is perfect, but some places are undoubtedly worse than others. North Korea, for example, must be an incredibly challenging place to live—bagels are even illegal there, for crying out loud.

Now, Mexico, on the other hand, has been quite welcoming to me. In a recent post, I gushed about my deep affection for the Mexican people. But today, I need to vent about Mexican bureaucracy, notably its absurdly convoluted administrative procedures.

The bureaucratic nightmare in Mexico can be traced back to several historical, cultural, and systemic factors. The Spanish colonial administration, with its high level of bureaucracy, left a lasting imprint. Many of those practices are still around today. Some things, as they say, never change. Historically, power has been highly centralized in Mexico, which results in layer upon layer of bureaucracy as orders flow down from the top.

Navigating Mexico's complex legal and institutional framework requires a mountain of paperwork and strict adherence to procedures, fostering a bureaucratic culture. Most Mexicans, rather than being overwhelmed by it, just accept it as part of life.

Bureaucracy can also be a fertile ground for corruption and patronage. Excessive processes create opportunities for bribery and favoritism, perpetuating the system. Has any Mexican president ever left office poorer than when they entered?

In some cases, bureaucracy provides employment for a significant chunk of the population, making it tough to streamline processes and reduce layers of red tape. Cultural norms and values can also play a role, with some seeing bureaucratic processes as essential for maintaining order and legitimacy.

Despite efforts to digitalize and streamline procedures, the integration of technology into government operations can be excruciatingly slow. This technological lag keeps traditional bureaucratic practices alive and well. In many ways, Mexico has remained unchanged for centuries. Tackling these deeply rooted issues requires sweeping reforms and a shift in both administrative practices and cultural perceptions. No one really has the time or patience for that.

Bottom line: this is the way it is. If you're hoping for something different, you might want to book the next flight to North Korea—just make sure to have your fill of deli before you leave.

Several months ago, I embarked on the absurd journey of trying to open a bank account in Mexico. I figured my Charles Schwab account would be my lifeline—free cash withdrawals from ATMs worldwide. A simple local bank fee, 25 pesos for a 10,000 peso withdrawal, roughly $1.36 for $545 in cash. Smooth, right? Wrong.

To pay for utilities and other mundane expenses, I needed a Mexican bank account. I found the bank in Guanajuato with the highest interest rate for a checking account. It seemed straightforward. Deposit five thousand pesos, complete the paperwork, and bam, new account. But no, the signatures on my US passport and Mexican temporary residency card didn’t match. Not even close. They needed to be perfect, I was told. Perfect. No exceptions.

The banker suggested getting a Mexican driver’s license with a matching signature. Meanwhile, my deposit would be held hostage. Off I went to get a driver’s license. Thanks to my Arizona license, I only needed to fill out some forms. No driving test, no written test—just a medical exam.

In Mexico, you can consult with a doctor at a pharmacy for four dollars. . The doctor said I needed an eye exam and proof of my blood type. I read the chart without a hitch, but she said I needed glasses. Blood type proof? Not on hand. I had recent test results with my blood type but no certification.

At the eyeglass store, my limited Spanish hit a wall. The staff's disdain was palpable. No slower speech, no patience for my Google Translate attempts. This hostile encounter led me on a quest for an English-speaking optometrist. Sherrie’s optometrist seemed promising, so I trekked thirty minutes to the center of town on a Saturday morning. Their website posted hours their Saturday hours.  But they weren’t open. I waited. And waited. Nothing.

I tried again on a weekday evening. Closed again. I found another eyeglass store nearby. Success, within a week, I had my glasses. Back to the pharmacy doctor, I passed the eye exam. But my blood test results were three months old, and she couldn’t accept them. My blood type wouldn’t change, I argued. Rules were rules. Then I noticed only two months and twenty-nine days had passed. She hadn’t seen that. I got the document.

The Motor Vehicles office was a breeze. In and out in fifteen minutes. With my new license, I returned to the bank. Still, my signature wasn’t perfect. The paperwork went to the main office. They’d let me know within a week. They didn’t. Two weeks later, I returned to the bank to learn that my application was rejected.

Frustration mounted. I demanded my deposit back. It would take a week to ten days. I refused to wait. I threatened to call my attorney. Suddenly, I was the ugly American.

The bank manager returned from lunch. More waiting. He called the main office and started the refund process. More forms, more consistent signatures. Approved! I expected the cash in hand within minutes. Wrong again. I waited another forty-five minutes. My patience was wearing thin.

Another half-hour and my refund was approved. More forms, more signatures. I finally got a check. But to cash it, he cashier required more forms. I signed them and they went for approval to the branch manager. My signature didn’t match. That’s not the signature we have on file, I was told. So I tried again, meticulously matching them.

The teller confirmed my signatures, but more information and forms were needed as to the exact mount of pesos I would recieve and in what denominations. Another half-hour and the process was complete. Cash in hand, I vowed never to return to that bank. I left with a briefcase full of duplicate forms, saved just in case.

What future bureaucratic nightmares awaited? Only time would tell. But I'd learned my lesson: never underestimate the power of a perfect signature in Mexico.

Next time: my dance with the Mexican judicial system.

Perhaps the biggest reason I love living in Mexico is the kindness and friendliness of the Mexican people. Despite our nations' shared history and occasional unfriendly U.S. government policies, I am often surprised by the lack of hostility I encounter here. In the two years I’ve been living in Mexico, I've never experienced any resentment directed towards me. The warmth and generosity of the Mexican people are likely why no expatriats regrets calling Mexico home.

Mexico is a vibrant cocktail of cultural alchemy and social sorcery. Picture this: a sun-drenched land where hospitality isn't just a nicety but a lifeblood. The secret ingredient is a deep-rooted sense of community, a historical tapestry woven with resilience, and a zest for life that defies the grind of daily existence. It’s a cultural symphony where warmth and friendliness are the leading acts in a never-ending performance of human connection.

In the United States, it’s all about money. In Mexico, the most important thing is family.

Mexican culture highly values family, and this emphasis on close-knit family ties extends to how Mexicans interact with others, creating a sense of warmth and hospitality. Traditions and customs, such as fiestas, community gatherings, and religious events, foster a strong sense of community and encourage social interaction and friendliness from the time they are born. Hospitality is deeply ingrained in Mexican culture, with welcoming and kind behavior toward guests and strangers being a fundamental value.

Mexicans often engage in warm and lively social interactions, with common greetings involving a hug or a kiss on the cheek and animated, friendly conversations. Despite economic and social challenges, many Mexicans maintain a positive outlook on life, which translates into a friendly and warm demeanor. Respect for others, including elders, friends, and even strangers, is also emphasized, manifesting in polite and friendly behavior.

When I walk down the streets of Guanajuato, a small city, most people acknowledge me, and I do the same. We smile and exchange greetings. In contrast, smiling at a stranger on an American street in many cities often prompts a wary response: "What does this person want from me?"

These cultural traits create an environment where warmth and friendliness are not only expected but are also integral parts of social interactions.

Living in such a loving and supportive community of Mexicans and American immigrants has greatly improved the quality of my life. Before I moved to Guanajuato, I spent nearly two decades in Tucson, Arizona. I don't like generalizations, so I won't say that everyone in Arizona was a gun-toting bigot who hated Jews. But even living in a university town, a blue oasis in a red state, I still found the people, at least those I encountered to be kind of cold, to be less than friendly. The polarization of America intensified during my time in Tucson, leading me to believe that many Americans today are quite suspicious of anyone outside their immediate circle of friends.

I can't say Mexicans are universally welcoming, but nearly everyone I've encountered in Guanajuato and Mexico City has been incredibly friendly.

About five years ago, while walking my dog in Tucson, I fell in the street. It wasn't serious—I had just tripped over something and needed a moment to collect myself. Several people and cars passed by without stopping. The same thing happened when I first moved to Guanajuato. After I fell, a small crowd gathered, eager to help. A couple of shop owners even came out of their stores, concerned about me, a total stranger and a gringo no less.

What about the cartels? Yes, they're present, but I haven't experienced anything related to them. Just like anywhere else, there are safe areas and places to avoid, which is easy to manage here. Another myth is police shakedowns, especially during traffic stops. Again, this hasn't been my experience.

One more thing before I continue: before I moved here, several people warned me about the quality of medical care. That is total nonsense. I had a life-and-death heart-related emergency a couple of months ago. I quickly found a world-class heart surgeon and can happily report that the man was a miracle worker. My experience with medical care in Mexico has been overwhelmingly positive. Like anyplace else, it’s a matter of finding the right doctor or health professional. What’s really different in that health care costs considerably less here, especially for dental work, and Big Pharma doesn't dominate. You can go to a pharmacy and buy most prescription medicines for a fraction of the price in America without a prescription.

Is there anything I don’t like? Yes, the bureaucracy. Trying to get anything done, whether it’s opening a bank account or getting a driver’s license, requires the patience of a saint. The rhythm of life here beats to a different drum, one that demands a shift in expectations. Some first-world folks find it maddening. Americans, in particular, always seem to be in a rush, wanting everything yesterday. But here? The pace is slower. Nothing happens quickly. It’s just a fact of life.

And forget about waltzing into a grocery store to choose from fifty thousand items. In the bigger cities, you might find places similar to Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods, but they’re not everywhere. So, you adjust. Not a big deal for me. Whatever I can’t find in the store, I just order from Amazon. Problem solved.

In a smaller city like Guanajuato, the cuisine is generally excellent, ranging from street food to gourmet offerings. Many Americans mistakenly equate Mexican food with Taco Bell, but the reality is vastly different. Although tacos are the national dish, the food here varies greatly depending on the location. It’s a big country so the local food can be quite different from another part of the country.

In smaller cities, it can be challenging to find ethnic food. While Mexico City offers a truly international culinary scene, finding good Chinese food where I live is impossible. As a Jew who grew up enjoying Chinese food and had countless great meals in Manhattan’s Chinatown, I miss it dearly, along with the delis. I have yet to find anything approaching a New York bagel here.

The Japanese food is decent, but still not something I would eat regularly. However, there's a Japanese grocery store in León, about forty-five minutes from where I live. This store exists because of the Nissan factory in the area, which has Japanese management who need a place to shop. I love natto, the fermented soybeans popular in Japan but largely unknown in the U.S. So, I visit this store every two weeks to stock up on natto, udon, real ramen, and Japanese sauces and spices.

Learning Spanish has been my only real challenge living here. I took Spanish in high school but never used it much afterward. Before moving here, I thought it would take three to five years to become fluent. That myth was quickly dispelled upon my arrival. Mastering a new language doesn't happen overnight. Now, I estimate it will take me eight to ten years to build the vocabulary needed for the deep conversations I enjoy. Here, they say "poco a poco," meaning "little by little." In many ways, learning Spanish is similar to learning a musical instrument. It requires daily practice; you can't just cram it all into your brain at once. Plus, I realize that my brain isn't what it used to be, especially now that I'm on the wrong side of seventy. My memory just isn't as sharp as it once was.

Nevertheless, two years in, I can have simple conversations with people. Because my vocabulary is limited, I frequently have to simplify my thoughts. I love speaking with Mexicans, most of whom don’t speak English. It’s obvious they appreciate that I’m trying, as there are some Americans who live here and never learn Spanish. I live in a foreign country when you can’t really speak to the people? For me, conversations with Mexicans are extremely rewarding.

Last night at my favorite street taco stand, I spoke with everyone ordering and waiting for their food, just a couple of sentences each. When I speak with them, I look deeply into their eyes and pick up on something, like their children, and compliment them on how beautiful they are. I can feel their hearts opening when I do this. At parties, I immediately go to the kitchen to speak with the women cooking the food and thank them. At the taco stand, after getting my food, I walk around to the back of the stand to thank the elderly woman whose food is so delicious.

The other day, I needed my shoes shined and stopped at the Jardín, a tree filled plaza in the center of town where many people gather, including the shoeshiners. At first, the man I chose didn’t speak. But that didn’t stop me. I asked him how long he had been shining shoes. Fifty-five years at this one spot! I then said, in Spanish, fifty-five years without stopping? You must be very tired. He laughed, and I could feel his heart opening. After he finished, I paid him, I said “Hasta pronto,” meaning I’ll see you soon. “Eso espero,” he said, I hope so.

I do this all the time. I make it a point to speak with as many people as possible every day. I try to touch the heart and soul of everyone I meet. That is how I live my life. This what matters.

Around the time Sherrie and I moved to Mexico, my friend Jason Miles and his wife Kathy moved to Lisbon, Portugal. Jason is a very talented musician, producer and writer who has recorded a number of his own albums, as well as collaborating with Marcus Miller on several Miles Davis recordings.

Jason has recently published the first volume of his autobiography, The Extraordinary Journey of Jason Miles: A Musical Journey, which I highly recommend. And you can find out more about his music and his recent recordings on his website: Jason Miles Music.

We got together online recently to discuss our lives as Expats, and our perceptions of life in America today, as well as in Mexico and Portugal.

Before March 2020, the thought of leaving the United States had never crossed my mind. Each country has its ups and downs, but lately, the negatives in the US seem to outweigh the positives, particularly with the divisive political climate and growing disagreements. This division has always been a complex issue, but it has reached a point where many are questioning whether the country can find a path to reconciliation.

Sherrie and I, passionate about new experiences, considered moving abroad at the pandemic's start.  We were both disenchanted with what had happened to the US, witnessing its transition to a country so very different than its origins. We certainly couldn’t take the threat of authoritarianism lightly.

We toyed with the geographic possiblities including Portugal, Taiwan and North Korea. Well, maybe not North Korea. And we toyed with the idea of immersing ourselves in a new cultural environment.

Intrigued, we focused on Guanajuato, Mexico, a country I knew little about despite my visits to Nogales. Sherrie's connection to Guanajuato began in 2009 with language study, and then the Cervantino Festival, Latin America’s grandest celebration of the arts.

After months of meticulous research and planning, we agreed that I should experience the city firsthand to see if it would enchant me just as it had her.

Our planned visit in September 2021 was postponed due to my health issues, which thankfully, were resolved after I secured a top-tier cardiac surgeon.  In January 2022, we finally made it to Guanajuato. Initially, my limited Spanish was a challenge, but I quickly saw the potential for a fulfilling life there. The culture, people, and weather were appealing, and after just two days, I told Sherrie that I didn't want to return to the US. We sold our Tucson properties at a market peak and moved to Guanajuato in May 2022, with real estate profits in hand.

This move has been incredibly fulfilling. I've found a deep sense of well-being in our new home, friendships, and a resurgence in my writing after a twenty year interlude devoted exclusively to filmmaking. Each morning I’m greeted with a verdant backyard, feeling that I live in state of perpetual holiday.

Despite this, my connection to the US endures, fueled by a flickering hope for better days. I regularly surf the internet and watch MSNBC videos on YouTube, clear signs that my detachment isn't complete. I've thought about lessening my online footprint and exploring a wider range of content on YouTube. However, my deep-seated roots and aspirations for my homeland continue to hold strong. Still, with every day that passes, the harsh truths I encounter online test this hope ever more strenuously.

The difference between life in Mexico and the US is profound. In Mexico, despite economic challenges, there's a strong sense of contentment focused on family and relationships, rather than the material success often prioritized in the US.  This emphasis on human connection manifests in kindness, generosity, and a love for life among Mexicans. The warmth and respect in everyday interactions here contrasts sharply with the suspicion commonly found in the US.

Social dynamics also differ. In Mexico, the emphasis is on personal identity rather than professional status, creating a sense of community and belonging. Economically, while the US has a larger, more diverse economy, Mexico's growing emphasis on manufacturing and exports, driven by a young, educated workforce, shows real promise.  One can’t help get the feeling that Mexico is ascending. There’s no dark energy hanging over life here, as there is in America. Sadly, most Americans fear the future. Mexicans, who don’t live in a twenty four/seven news cycle, realize the future won’t be perfect, and that life endures.

Despite higher living standards in the US, there's often a heightened sense of dissatisfaction and disillusionment, linked to the death of the American dream. In the US, conspiracy theories abound. Trust in American institutions has collapsed.

The political landscapes and democratic frameworks of the two countries are distinctly different, yet Mexico's simpler way of life offers its own unique form of satisfaction. Life here unfolds at a leisurely pace, where tasks are accomplished without the urgency often seen elsewhere.

Our experience began to crystallize after buying a house in Guanajuato and planning for renovations. When drafting a schedule for the necessary work, I learned quickly that one question is better left unasked: "When will it be finished?" The typical response is simply, "It will be finished when it's done." This highlights the significance of a crucial concept in Mexican culture: patience. It's an essential ingredient for both coping and finding joy in this environment. There’s little in the way of immediate gratification here.

My journey in Mexico has been a tapestry of joy and challenges, shaping my decision to settle here amidst the current global dynamics and my personal circumstances. Despite facing hardships, like a robbery and the heart-wrenching loss of my beloved dog Natto, my affinity for Mexico is a testament to my quest for fulfillment in a rapidly changing world. As I approach my seventy-fifth birthday, I find myself embracing a newfound sense of contentment in this phase of my life. With each day, I strive to embody the Buddhist principle of a 'beginner's mind' - an approach marked by openness, eagerness, and the absence of preconceptions - as I navigate the next chapters of my life, hoping for many more years to come.

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In May 2022, I dove headfirst into the vivid tapestry of Mexico, lured by its sizzling warmth and the soulful embrace of its people. This wasn't just a geographical hop south of the border; it was a leap into a more humane chapter in the twilight years of my seventies, a wild contrast to the cold, creeping changes I'd seen back in the States.

I stepped into a technicolor dream. Mexicans didn't just meet you; they welcomed you into their hearts with the kind of warmth that wraps around you like a sun-soaked blanket. There was a rhythm of connection there, a genuine communal heartbeat that pulsed through the streets.

Back in the U.S., though, the scene was quite different—more like a slow-motion nosedive into societal decay. Suicide rates were up by a staggering thirty percent, and depression was spreading like wildfire. A whopping thirty-six percent of Americans were marooned on Lonely Island, and a gut-wrenching forty-five percent of teens were drowning in despair and hopelessness. Friendships were becoming as rare as honest politicians, with the number of people without close pals quadrupling. Romantic relationships? Down by thirty-six percent. And folks slumped in the lowest happiness bracket had spiked by fifty percent.

The picture was as clear as a tequila sunrise: America was swimming in a sea of discontent. It was like an epidemic of feeling like you're screaming into the void—unheard, unseen, undervalued. This cocktail of insult and injustice was making people lash out, painting society with strokes of sadness and hostility.

A couple of examples which tell the story quite well: These days, New York restauranteurs are playing bouncer every week to boot out rude diners—a scene as rare as a snowball in Cancun just a few years ago. And there’s a crisis in nursing today with many of these much needed, highly prized professionals jumping ship because patients are treating them like punching bags.  No shortage of teachers who feel this way about the parents of their students, as well.

So, what's the deal? Why's the land of the free home to so many trapped in a funk? The usual suspects? Social media and a society that's unplugged from real-world connections, getting cozy in echo chambers. The result? A tricky time relating to fellow Americans, with many feeling more at home in their digital caves than in their actual communities.

It's possible that the increasing sadness and hostility among Americans stems from a lack of genuine consideration and empathy towards one another. At the heart of this issue lies the ability to be openhearted and truly present in our interactions. This deficit in emotional connection and understanding is likely why many struggle in roles that require nurturing qualities, such as being a friend, parent, teacher, or colleague. Central to these roles is the skill of active listening, a trait that proves challenging for those with narcissistic tendencies, who often find it difficult to focus on others' needs and perspectives.

Let's dive headfirst into the heart of Mexico, amigos. This isn't some utopian fantasy land; no such place exists. But, after soaking up the Mexican sun for a year and a half, I can tell you that life here dances to a different rhythm than the America I've left behind. Mexican culture is a warm embrace. Hospitality isn't just a word here; it's a way of life. They've got this thing called "amabilidad" – it's kindness, but deeper, woven into the very DNA of society.

Family here isn't just a unit; it's the cornerstone of everything. Imagine homes buzzing with multiple generations, where grandma's tales blend with the laughter of kids. Family gatherings? They're not just events; they're the anchors of life. There's a palpable sense of duty and support that ties everyone together.

And then, the community vibe. Man, it's something else. You've got festivals and religious feasts that aren't just for show – they're the soul of the community. People here don't just attend; they belong. You feel that shared identity in the air, thick and vibrant.

Respect for elders isn't just a phrase here. It's real. Homes are a tapestry of ages, where the young and old share roofs, stories, and lives. Elders are treasured, not just taken care of.

Traditions? They're not just memories; they're living, breathing parts of Mexican life. From Dia de Muertos to Christmas Posadas, these aren't just dates on a calendar; they're the threads that weave the communal tapestry.

Face-to-face chats over digital pings any day. Business or personal – doesn't matter. Relationships are the real currency here. Trust is earned and cherished.

And this whole collectivist thing? It's not about losing yourself; it's about finding yourself in others. The group, the family, the community – they're the priority, and that changes everything.

Here in Guanajuato, where I've pitched my tent, community and connection aren't just concepts. They're the warm, beating heart of daily life. Way different from many corners of the States.

Living here in Mexico, it's like I've discovered a new color in the spectrum of joy. Something I never quite felt back in the U.S., except in very limited doses. It's a rich, fulfilling part of my life, a treasure I didn't know I was searching for. Welcome to my Mexican chapter.