What It Cost. The Riviera Maya you know, the highways, the resort corridors, the Instagram cenotes.
That place didn't exist. Yet.
When I got there it was jungle. Sand roads, and one gas station in Playa. One in Tulum. A garbage dump where the Playacar aviary is now. The state of Quintana Roo was younger than my little sister. Everybody was a transplant. People from Mexico City who saw an El Dorado. Mayans who didn’t speak much Spanish saw work, foreigners seeking a better life saw a paradise. People running toward something, people running away from something. All of us figuring it out with whatever was at hand.
I stayed 27 years.
What I saw in that time, people going today will never see. Not because I was special. Because I was early. Because I was stubborn. Because going home meant failure and I was not going to fail.
These are those stories.
Not just Mexico. A life spent in places most people see on a map and wonder about. Smoking shisha in Istanbul. Jane Goodall’s chimps in Tanzania. Schooners in Greenland. A clown suit in Guatemala City. The first internet reservation service on that coast, built before most people knew what the internet was.
I never thought any of it was remarkable. It was just what I did.
My brothers in arms, Jim Coke and Dan Lins, told some of those stories over happy hour. They’re gone now. I watched the rest go with them.
I’m not going to let that happen to mine.
You don’t have to go to the highest mountain or the deepest cave to have an amazing life. But if you’ve ever stood at the edge of something and wondered whether to jump, these stories are for you.
I’m a woman who after all these years is still trying to figure it out.
Welcome.