By Madeline Lau Marin-Foucher
The man I married is from a small island in southeastern Mexico, an island so small and out-of-the way it’s unknown by many Mexicans, let alone North Americans. That is, unless you’ve been on a cruise there, in which case Cozumel is probably very memorable but for reasons involving more tequila and cerveza, less cultural enchantment. With a storied and fascinating past that involves pirates, explorers, and Mayan goddesses of fertility, Cozumel is a veritable land of Caribbean lore, chock full of coconuts, tiny, brightly painted houses, and happy people on bicycles. I would call it the Taiwan of the West, or Oregon’s Manzanita meets Hawaii’s Laihaina fishing village; a real gem, and I’m lucky enough to be married into a legitimate Cozumel-dwelling family.
Manuel (remember? I have a husband now) and I were destined to explore this funky paradise for a near three weeks around Christmas. We packed our bags in arctic Chicago full of swimsuits, shorts, and t-shirts, grinning conspiratorially about the balmy fun we were about to have. Manuel’s parents and sister still live on the island, and the family house beckoned to my husband after three long years away from home. Even though it was expensive, even though we knew our trip was a little long, we just had to get on that plane. Feliz navidad everybody!
We arrived in the Mayan Riviera after flying over southern Mexico, an experience worlds away from my past entries to the country, all involving dockings in crowded, hustler-filled Baja beach towns. This part of Mexico was verdant, jungle-filled, and quietly self-contained; as if the only residents were ancient people happily working away making tortillas and carving canoes while the rest of the world moved insistently forward. I felt at peace instantly, and was thrilled to see my husband, normally relegated to speaking his second language all day (even suffering the occasional grammatical correction from his writer wife), flow seamlessly in his native Spanish, negotiating our ride home in the taxi in mere seconds. We were off!
First stop, the family homestead, where my mother-in-law was agonizing over a series of incredibly complicated Spanish holiday dishes, each involving more ingredients and more worry than the last. She stirred huge vats of salted cod seasoned with adobo peppers and various vegetables before preparing a dense chocolate cake made with ground nuts and infinite eggs. I first tried to help, then just tried to understand, as her explanations became more and more vague and hard-to-follow: “This is the special stew we only eat once a year because it is an important tradition! It is the recipe of the most famous hotel in all of Mexico and it requires 5 days cooking on the stove!” Only a novice cook on my best day, I resolved to leave the kitchen work to the professionals and hit the beach.
We drove through dusty neighborhoods filled with smiling people leaning on their stoops to get to the first of many long-beloved tiny restaurants of Manuel’s youth. Places with names like The Golden Shrimp (El Camaron Dorado) where napkins flutter by in the breeze and patrons load up on tacos by the plate full, with faint banda music chugging in the background. I ate with relish (or should I say salsa?) before realizing we still had plans for lunch at the family restaurant on the other side of the island. Mexico, it should be stated, is not a dieter’s destination, and the more fried fish, succulent salsa, and crispy corn tortillas you can pack in, the better. Better for you maybe not, but it’s a sure sign to your host that you appreciate their effort.
The family restaurant, by the way, is an island legend, one of the oldest establishments on “the other side” of Cozumel, which is really saying something, since that side has no electricity and is regularly washed away by hurricanes. My father-in-law’s beach bar, Mezcalito’s, has managed to keep its footing for almost 30 years with just a car battery to provide music on the stereo, and customers come from all over the world for its famous margaritas and fish tacos. The view of the blustery sea is unparalleled, there are hammocks (which Manuel promptly broke after one too many tacos) and a delicate cat named Tequila who eats shrimp tails out of her cupped paw. I fell in love with the place and we visited nearly every day, sometimes fully dressed, sometimes sporting the island no-pants swimsuit look.
While we were visiting the island I kept waiting to feel weirded out by my tropical Christmas, but everywhere I looked there were charming reminders of the reason for the season. Colorful lights covered every square inch of the quaint downtown park where you could buy churros and crepes in the evening hours, holiday music blared from street corners, and huge “Feliz Navidad” signs crossed boulevards to make sure you remembered the season. It was genuinely lovely, and the all-encompassing Mexican family vibes only made me realize that presents can be kind of overrated: one real sign of Chirstmas is a blow up Santa directing traffic in a roundabout, and a bubbling pot of salted cod on the stove.
One day, shortly after Christmas festivities had kind of subsided we had the incredible good fortune to venture out on a fishing expedition with a gnarled, tiny, legendary captain named Gaspar. I am not making this up. Gaspar, a true gentleman of the sea who had been married and widowed three times but was still a hopeful romantic, knew all the secret nooks and crannies where we could find Mayan ruins, tropical birds, and a whole slew of Caribbean fish around the island. At 72 Gaspar had no trouble manning the boat with a long stick when things got mucky, holding his own at the wheel as we crashed through gorgeous blue waters to see Cozumel’s north coast.
Our first stop involved wading through knee high water to reach a tiny island with the remains of a Mayan castle, long since abandoned. From there we cruised through mangrove lagoons spotting chocoloteras, a bright pink bird that resembles a smaller, flying flamingo, and eating homemade sandwiches on the open sea.
After three weeks we loaded up and headed back to frigid Chicago, the sun and sand mere memories. I know Cozumel will always be a part of our lives, and I encourage you to invite it into yours: I’ve been to few places as lovely, charming, and down home. Just like our town.
