It was a dark and stormy night. Isn’t that how most suspense dramas begin?
Only this night -- the one I’m writing about -- was only dark. Not just dark but pitch black. The kind of black that sets your nerves on edge because you can’t see anything.
Missing the turnoff
        We were driving ‘home’-- that is, to Valladolid from Mérida in the Yucatán -- at night. A two-hour drive along the toll (cuota) road that used to be easy with a divided expressway but no longer. With the ongoing construction of the new Maya train route that parallels the toll road, the once fairly fast and smooth highway is now an obstacle course by separating the traffic lanes with orange barrel dividers embellished with  other roadwork materials, equipment and machinery. All with flashing lights.
        Mind you, we didn’t do ourselves any favours. Darkness comes early this time of year even in the Yucatán; we didn’t give ourselves enough time to drive back to Valladolid in the light.

        As darkness descended, so did our uneasiness. One of the first cardinal rules in Mexico for foreigners is: never drive at night. Thundering trucks pulling double trailers (remolques dobles) suddenly emerge from behind portions of highway cement barriers that separate two-way traffic, headlights blazing, roaring inches by our car.      Said car is our neighbour’s Kia that he rented to us. Right now, he is probably wondering about the safety of his vehicle in the hands of a couple of foreigners.
        “Watch for the sign to Valladolid,” cautions Norm, my husband, hunched over the steering wheel squinting through the windshield “…I’ll concentrate on the road.”
        Of course, we (I) can’t see any signage. Double trailer trucks ahead of us, beside us, around us, make peering into the blackness difficult, almost dangerous. Especially with their blinding headlights/tail-lights/side panel lights.

The Blue Dot is moving
        Since we can’t see any landmarks, I follow our progress via the GPS on our cell. The blue dot (us) is moving. But I still can’t determine the exit to Valladolid except that we are moving towards it.
       Suddenly, Norm utters a low groan. Between clenched teeth, he mutters, “I think we just missed the exit.” As we stream past the truck that veered off to the right, I barely catch sight of a  mini sign:‘Valladolid’ inconveniently stuck on the off ramp.
        “Aaaagh!” I reply in anguish. “You’re right. Only saw it after the truck pulled ahead!”

The Blue Dot is Not Moving
        Something wrong with our GPS? I should have seen the exit coming. Glancing at the blue dot on our cell GPS, I see no movement. “No connection,” I mumble. “We must be out of range.”
        Meanwhile, Norm continues to fight ongoing night blindness from oncoming truck headlights. Beyond their brightness, blackness covers the land and sky like a dark blanket. No visible stars.

        Getting off the next exit to return in the opposite direction is impossible. There are no exits. Just one continuous black ribbon of narrow asphalt with oncoming traffic on one side and construction barriers on the other.
        Glancing at our cell, I see the blue dot moving again but it shows we are far past our turnoff. We are heading towards Cancun, a two hour drive away.
        “Um,” I venture. “We’re going to Cancun.”
        Prolonged silence.
        “Maybe we should spend the night there?” I suggest, “instead of driving back on this dangerous road?”
        “That’s ridiculous. I’d turn around but there’s nowhere to do that,” he says, as we continue to hurtle along the highway in the dark: orange fluorescent construction barrels on one side and oncoming blinding lights on the other. “Can’t believe there aren’t any exits or a place to turn around….I’ll keep watching…”

        Abruptly, hands on the wheel ready to turn, he says: “Here’s a place. No oncoming traffic….”
        “NO!” I panic scream. “BIG drop on this side!”
        And so our hellish night drive continues towards Cancun, farther and farther away from Valladolid. No place to exit. No place to pull a u-turn.
        And, like a heavy velvet curtain covering a window, the sky remains black.
The Blue Dot is closer
        Once more, I glance at the cell…watch the moving blue dot as it continues its progress to Cancun. The resort city is closer now than if we turn around and drive back to Valladolid.
        Suddenly, without warning, Norm pulls a u-turn in the middle of a wider, semi-lit construction zone with no oncoming or following traffic.
        I hold my breath.
        He did it! We are now heading back to Valladolid…despite the night blindness and the distance!

        I follow the blue dot now like a cat watching a mouse. It inches closer and closer to Valladolid. So we strain our eyes watching for the exit. We must not miss it this time.
       “Here!” we both shout.
       At last, we are on the overpass, only visible from the highway below by headlights on the bridge.
       Finally…we are on familiar roads.  And then, back in our Valladolid casa. And it’s only 7 p.m.!
      Much later, exhausted, we sit outside on a bench in front of our casa under the canopy of a starlit sky. Someone must have punched holes in that black velvet curtain.
       No matter. We are safely back, sipping a smooth mezcal and solemnly swearing to follow our own advice: foreigners should never drive at night in Mexico.

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       The airport in Mérida, Mexico, is small, not too crowded, and arriving international passengers are quickly processed. In contrast, the Cancun airport (10th busiest airport in the world) is larger, more crowded, and often agonizingly slow to handle arriving passengers who wait in long lines.
          Our destination is Valladolid, an inland historical city of the Yucatán Peninsula, that sits halfway – two hours -- between Mérida and Cancun. Comparing both airports, it makes sense for us to fly into Mérida: we even save a few hundred dollars on airfare.
          To save even more money, we want to use a taxi driver familiar with Valladolid. We know a few taxi-drivers in that area and they know us. They are fair and helpful, and in return, we support them.

          However, using a Valladolid taxi in a Mérida airport is not a reasonable solution. Licensed airport taxi owners have paid high fees for the privilege of driving you to wherever. Their costs are passed along to the customer of course. (Just this week an altercation broke out in Cancun between irate taxi drivers and an Uber driver regarding transportation services.)
          To circumvent this problem, my husband Norm texted his Valladolid taxi driver before leaving Canada to discuss another airport pick-up possibility. Our man on the ground recommended -- and put us in touch with -- Julio, his compatriot taxi-driver in Mérida. It is agreed. Julio will pick us up at the airport. He will also charge a more reasonable fee, and transport us to our destination in Valladolid.

         But wait! Julio’s taxi is NOT authorized to enter the airport. However, he explains via a Spanish language text, we need only walk one kilometre and he will meet us outside the airport.
           Norm texts back (thank goodness for Google Translate) that this plan will not work for us. We have too much luggage to drag for 1 km.
           Okay, texts back Julio in Spanglish, not to worry. He will drive another car into the airport visitor parking lot, pick us up with our luggage, drive to a designated spot outside the airport where we will change cars, jump into his taxi, and be on our way.
            We agree to this plan of action.
          The time is at hand. We land on schedule. Quickly processed, we claim our luggage, use the washroom (a two hour car drive awaits us) and proceed to the exit. All the while, Norm is in text touch with Julio.
            Outside the terminal now, we must find Julio. Lots of folks are standing around and they all look the same. How do we find Julio? Where to look? Norm hears the familiar ping of his cell. He reads a single command from Julio: llámame. Call me.
Immediately Norm does so. I hear two loud and brief exchanges. Suddenly there is a friendly wave in the crowd. And a wave back from us.
            “Julio!” we grin.
           “Welcome! Bienvenidos!” grins Julio, his arms outstretched in a warm greeting. “Let’s get your bags into the car now!” He is a muscular man with thick black curly hair, a generous grin, and the air of a man in a hurry.
           Together, Julio – and we – drag our luggage across the road under the watchful and suspicious eyes of waiting authorized taxi drivers.
           He stops at the first row of parked cars. A sad-looking clunker of indeterminate colour, with junk shoved inside the trunk and piled on the back seat, greets us. Lest we show any concern, Julio is on top of it. “Don’t worry,” he says in broken English. “This is only until we get to my taxi.” We smile conspiratorially.

           And so we are off. Driving out of the airport like smug schoolchildren who think they have fooled a teacher whose back is turned.
           Exiting the airport, we proceed along a wide avenue. Tall palm trees, uneven pavement, barbed wire-cement walled businesses greet our eyes. No other taxi is in sight.
           “Do not worry!” he assures in Spanglish. “My taxi is not far on a side street with my friend.” He must have seen us glance surreptitiously at each other.
             Finally, he turns a corner, stops behind another car.
From the front car jumps a younger man, Fernando, who rushes to shake our hands.  We have never seen him before.
           “I have business I must tend to,” explains the friendly Julio as he turns to us. “Fernando works for me. He will drive you to Valladolid at our agreed price. However, it is best not to take the cuota (toll) road because it is closed. Fernando will take you via the little towns and you will come safely to Valladolid but it may take a little longer.”
           After our luggage has been moved to the bona fide taxi, Julio enthusiastically pumps our hands, welcomes us again, addresses Fernando in Spanish and waves goodbye.
           We have no choice. Fernando is now our driver. He speaks no English. We speak minimal Spanish. It would be easy for us to suspect something was amiss.
And so, we are off to Valladolid.

            When we hit the main highway, we understand what Julio means about the toll road. It is a mess. Torn up so badly that at times a previously 4 lane divided freeway shrinks to two undivided lanes one each for coming and going traffic. All this in preparation for the Maya Train, a government initiative expected to transport multitudes of tourists. On completion this will be a 1,525-kilometre (948 mi) intercity railway in Mexico that will traverse the Yucatán Peninsula with stops along the way at the many Maya archeological ruins.
           Despite Julio’s instructions to drive through the small towns, Norm directs Fernando to take the toll road with the understanding we will pay the toll. Neither of us relishes the thought of driving through small Yucatecan towns of winding roads liberally sprinkled with topes (speed bumps).
            It was a good decision. We arrive at our destination in approximately two hours, as planned.
               So, we ask ourselves, did we outfox those high-priced airport taxi-drivers?
               Well, it’s all about the thrill of finding a great deal. Isn’t it?

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        This is no fairy tale, dear readers. This actually happened.
Looking for two kittens
       Two of our grandchildren expressed interest in owning two kittens, one for each. Easy. Let’s look in the community newspaper. Hopefully someone wants to give them away. Or maybe drive along a country road looking for the familiar sign: kittens looking for a good home.

Welcome to the new world of pet adoption
            Not so fast. Our son and daughter (-in-law) discovered this once simple quest has morphed into a complicated affair.
            Wanting to help a couple of poor helpless bundles of fur, they decided the best route was to go online and apply to a cat rescue agency. Surely this would be an effective and healthy approach.
Not.
            To their surprise, they had to fill out a 5-page application form PLUS provide 3-character references.

Telephone interview
            Next, our son was interviewed on the phone for half an hour. Ground rules for adopting the kittens were spelled out, including signing a document stating the kittens would not be allowed ‘outside’.
           Some of the questions appeared disturbingly personal. Like “do you own your own house?” “Do you both work full-time?”
            “I wasn’t applying for a mortgage!” he complained.
Reference check
            The agency called all three references. Some of the questions put to these folks bordered on unbelievable: would our son and family have the financial resources to deal with a $10,000 veterinarian bill?

Approval process and meeting with kittens
            Finally, after their application was approved – this took 10 days -- our son and family asked to personally meet the kittens. A reasonable request.
The agency insisted on a virtual meet and greet first!
            At last, following the virtual session, the family was permitted to ‘enjoy’ an in-person meeting.
            The visit was not a success. 
           12 cats roamed inside the agency home. Our son, who had spent considerable upfront time and money to ensure no-one in the family was allergic to cat fur, was forced to leave the home. Sneezing, coughing, breathing difficulties had beset him. He waited in the car.

Another reasonable request
            Still, he was willing to continue with the adoption on the basis of one final request. He asked the agency if it was possible to bring home two of the favoured kittens on a trial basis. To see how they fit in with his family and whether there really were any allergies.
            His request was denied.
Final straw
            If an adoption took place, cost would be $300 per kitten, along with the signing of a specific contract, presumably denying the furry bundles access to fresh air.
Cat-astrophe?
            Anyone know of a farm cat with available kittens?

        You can’t go back, murmur the pundits. You can learn from the past but you can’t go back.
        One of my sisters and I don’t follow rules very well. We did go back. To our childhood home in SmallTown, Ontario. Where gossip and wild spaces and fresh garden vegetables and yes, even sexual innuendos, educated us city slickers in a way no other place could.

Chimney Fire
        Like, I still hear the fire sirens in my brain. I was in Grade 5, Marlane in Grade 1. We shared a second-floor bedroom in a heritage brick home on Main Street: complete with a multi-angled ceiling, one small window, and a long no-door closet with steeple-shape interior.
        It was 6 a.m. on a freezing morning. My father was up already, stoking coal into the basement furnace, before heading to his job via commuter car to the Big City.
        Suddenly he burst into our bedroom where we were still sleeping. “Get up! Get out! Chimney fire! Forget dressing! Just get out!” Then he headed for our brother’s bedroom next to us.
        That’s when I realized the fire sirens were heading to our house!
        Marlane and Bro shot out of bed. Disappeared down the stairs.
        But, me, well, I had rollers in my hair. Good grief, I couldn’t go outside with rollers in my hair! What if people saw me like this? I quickly crouched before the mirror whipping out the curling rollers, styling my hair into some sort of presentable shape.
        “Good GAWD!” yelled my father as he tore back into my bedroom. (Fire engines stopped outside now. Sirens still howling. Firefighters scrambling out. Hoses unloaded. Hordes of spectators.)
        “But…!”
        Yanking my arm, he tore me away from the mirror. I stumbled down the stairs with him, out into the cold, onto the street before the searching eyes of curious onlookers.
        Ah, but at least, I sighed within, there were no curlers in my hair.

School Days
        Smalltown introduced me, Marlane, Bro and L’il Bro, to an entirely new world of life experiences.
        Marlane’s blonde hair was fine and wispy when she was in Grade One. Yet she insisted my mother pull her strands into a ponytail. Except by the time we had walked to her Grade One class in the Old Town Hall, her wisps had escaped to fly around her cherub face. She never realized her pony tail had disappeared among dozens of bobby pins and coloured barrettes.
        My Bro and I had to walk 5 km to and from the only elementary school in town on the other side of the railroad tracks. (“You live on the wrong side,” came the taunt). Bro, small for his age, was constantly bullied and taunted by a couple of local boys. He lived in terror each school day. My Bro is a big guy now. No-one would dare assault him.

School discipline
        I distinctly remember our Grade Five teacher. A tall, imposing man. Male teachers were most unusual at that time. His voice boomed like the wrath of God and his eagle eyes scanned the room for truant behaviour.
        During one of our many tests, most of the class -- except for goodie-goodies -- cheated. We wrote the answers on a small piece of paper, placed it beside us on our desk seats, our heads down so we could scan our cheat sheet at the same time we were writing.
        Suddenly there was a mighty whack as Man Teacher smacked his book down atop his desk. We all stopped writing immediately, terrified at the Judgement Day explosion.
        He called up shivering Jamie, a small piglet of a boy who sat behind me. I could hear him whimpering as he slithered to the front of the class.
        “CHEATER!” yelled Man Teacher, pointing to Piggy Jamie.
        At once there was a quiet rustle of cheat sheets shoved into desks. There was also a collective increase in heartbeats.
        Then Man Teacher ordered poor Jamie to open his hands. Each hand quivered.
        Man Teacher whacked Piggy five times on each open palm; with each whack tears sprang into Piggy’s eyes.
        At the expense of this poor kid, we all learned never to cheat again. 

Little People
        Little Lucy down the street was a child of incest. Her mother was her sister. It took me awhile to figure that one out but my best friend, Gayle, told me this was so.
        Dumb Dougie, as we (cruelly) called him, sat on the front cement steps of his family’s frame home, rocking his body, his arms wrapped around his torso, singing to himself.  Other kids nonchalantly called him ‘strange’ because of family in-breeding.

More than just a cornfield
        The tall cornfield across and behind the street homes was the perfect place to sexually explore yourself or your boyfriend. Deep in the heart of the patch was a flattened area with overhead intertwined cornstalks. The perfect hiding place. All kids knew about it. Today, I wonder whether the farmer suspected any improper shenanigans. He always left that patch fort intact.

A Mill and Blacksmith shop 
        The abandoned old Mill by the river was haunted. No-one dared venture inside this vacant decrepit building. Through its broken windows we could see massive cobwebs connecting strange shapes among abandoned machines. We thought about the serious size of those spiders. And other crimes that must have taken place there.
        At a major corner on our side of the tracks was the blacksmith’s shop. Now long gone, his was the best place to hang around on a cold winter day. Especially when he let you get close to his fire to thaw frozen fingers.

Back to the past         
        On the way back to our past, Marlane and I easily found our Main Street home. It still stood as we remembered it, minus the barn and loft where we often jumped into piles of hay below. My bro’s rabbit hutch, built by my father and located next to the barn, contained one adorable black-spotted rabbit that thrived on excess greens from my mother’s garden.
        My mother’s vegetable garden, once the pride of the neighbourhood, thrived in nutrient-rich soil. Unfortunately – and a sign of today’s world ­-- the present homeowners told us the soil in that spot is ‘absolutely no good’ for growing anything.

Saturday night dinner
        Marlane and I fondly recalled the old wood stove in the large kitchen on which my mother created from scratch her traditional Saturday evening meal: homemade baked beans, homemade brown bread, homemade ice cream whipped with the cream that rose to the top of the bottled milk.
        Fresh milk was delivered each day from neighbouring farms via the milk wagon; the wagon was drawn by an aging nag with bony growths on his joints, his mouth covered with a feed bag of oats so he could munch while lumbering numbly through the same route each day.

And then, there was the DOM with WHT
        No-one warned me. I was the new city slicker girl who had to find out for herself.
        But I quickly learned about the DOM with WHT.
        Subteen girls in our Smalltown avoided this particular shopkeeper of a general store. His reputation had spread. He was the DOM (Dirty Old Man) with WHT (Wandering Hand Trouble)  who was hungry for ‘feeling up’ subteen girls.
DOM with WHT became the mantra among us grade fivers. Our parents could never understand why we refused to go into his store alone.

You can go back
        For Marlane and me, the visit to our past brought back some golden, some haunting, but forever vivid memories.
        We also realized you CAN go back and find the past even more fascinating through adult eyes.

Sure, we see ‘things’ when we travel to a new destination. But we also see people. And it’s the faces of people that make a memorable impression. As an American film director has said: “There is nothing more interesting that the landscape of the human face” *
Let us introduce only some of the Yucatecan faces we met this past winter.

Brother and sister in Uayma
We stopped in a small town called Uayma, famous for its decorative church. I snapped a quick photo of these two beautiful children running and playing along the street. When the boy saw the camera, he stopped his bike and held out his hand for money. Unfortunately, I had none with me so he carried on with his biking. I remember being shocked by his request. I thought, it doesn’t take long before they learn to ask for a handout. But then, in this land of so much poverty, I thought, why not?

Woman with a red top
While exploring our neighbourhood, we strolled by this diminutive woman sitting sedately and quietly on a cement block in front of her casa. Approaching her, I asked permission to take her photo. She nodded. Smiled.
Later, when we returned to give her a print copy, she was not at home. A male neighbour next door watched as we knocked at her gate. Before giving him the photo to give to her, we could see inside her home. Total chaos. Half-completed projects. Cement dust everywhere. Tired looking clothes strung across a cluttered alleyway in her small courtyard. She was probably a grandma but who knows? Everything in disarray. The face of poverty and hopelessness.
We do not have a good feeling about her future.

Surreal House of Art
Meet John Venator, an American who lives with his wife, Dorianne, in a magnificently restored ‘home/museum’ called Casa de Los Venados (House of the Deer) in central Valladolid. This arthouse shows off more than 3000 exquisite pieces of Mexican folk art.
John and his wife were present during our tour of their ‘home’. He told their story of purchasing this abandoned 400-year-old hacienda-style property in 2000, after which they supervised extensive renovations that took 8 1/2 years. All donations from visitors are shared among local charities.
Although the art is magnificent, that was not what hung in my brain. Not far from her husband, Dorianne sat nearby, confined to a wheelchair. She had obviously suffered a severe medical crisis that left her immobile and struggling with her speech.
I thought how tragic that they have worked so hard together to create this magnificent museum for the benefit of others. And now, despite their obvious wealth, she could never enjoy it as much as she should.

A Maya artist
It’s time to introduce Xuol (pronounced Shul), a Maya artist/salesman extraordinaire who is the fastest talking but most lovable scoundrel we encountered at the handicraft market.
What? You don’t want this? Why not? Surely you will like this fine piece over here then.
Sir, I can tell you your exact age from this Maya calendar. I can make you any piece of Maya art you want.
His tongue is fast. His English is good. And if he’s the artist of all the pieces in his booth then he is very good.
Each morning Xuol bikes from outside Valladolid to man his booth at the handicraft market and each evening he bikes back (in the dark). I hope he has a light, or some reflective tape, to protect him. We saw so many riders of bikes without lights or reflective tape at night in Valladolid that we shivered in fear for their safety.

Spanish waiter
While exploring the Gulf of Mexico coast in the small but burgeoning resort town of El Cuyo, we stopped for lunch at a beachside Italian seafood restaurant.      
Enter Franco, our waiter and manager of La Barcaccia (boat). One of the joys in encountering new faces, like Franco, is their story. Fluent in both Spanish and English, Franco gave us an update on what it was like living in this fairly remote vacation spot: how it is very windy three out of four weeks. Not a desirable environment if you want to lie on the beach without blowing sand covering your body.
Franco is from Spain. Young, with no other obvious attachments, he decided to check out Mexico. Settled for awhile in the high tourist area of Tulum, just under 2 hours south of Cancun. He said he also bought a ‘place’ in Valladolid in a good neighbourhood while working there, an area we recognized to be so. Valladolid is still waiting for him.
Owners of this newly-renovated restaurant offered him more responsibilities in a slower beachside economy with fewer tourists. For Franco, the move opened up new possibilities as manager and when needed, as waiter. With 8 months under his belt, he had a ‘good’ feel for the laidback lifestyle of the area, the weather, and the people.
For now, he says, he will remain in El Cuyo. See what happens. Until his feet get itchy again.

Host and Hostess with the Mostest
By some lucky quirk of fate, Norm and I rented a small casa called Villa Lupita in Valladolid. With perfect owners. The first hint of perfection was a welcoming bottle of red Italian wine and a bouquet of local flowers, both waiting on a desk in our bedroom.
Saving the best people for last, let me introduce owners Evelín y Iván, also our next-door neighbours.
For three months we gradually got to know each other, communicating via Spanglish and Google Translate. Any questions about the city or where to find a car rental agency or a fish market were quickly answered.
On occasion they treated us to delicious tidbits of Yucatecan gastronomic specialties:
Starfruit (carambola) – a sweet and sour fruit
Chaya and pineapple juice – highly nutritious drink. Chaya is the Maya spinach only more nutritious than Popeye’s favourite
Sweet potato side dish – tastes as delicious as it sounds
Ceviche - a method to prepare raw fish by covering it with citrus juices
Panuchos and Salbutes – an area specialty snack prepared with a fried tortilla base and topped with chopped turkey, sometimes egg, pickled onion, cabbage, refried beans, avocado.
Mezcal – close relative to tequila but better!
Iván introduced Norm to the proper toast when downing mezcal (or tequila!):
arriba (glasses up); abajo (glasses down); al centro (glasses to the front to wish everyone present good health); pa' dentro (mezcal goes inside, like drink your drink!)
Next year…
            …we hope to see these Yucatecan faces again.
And down our mezcal with the proper toast!

Map Of the Yucatán

To read more about Valladolid, check out our latest travel blog here.
  *quote attributed to Irvin Kershner

We return from this land of tamales and iguanas to our Canadian homeland in a few days. But first, a few postcards from the Yucatán’s Valladolid colonial city where we have lived for three months.

Gentleman Vendor
In the people’s market, a ten-minute walk away, food stalls line the ‘walls’ under a temporary tent structure of wooden pallets and tarpaulin. They stretch at least two long Canadian city blocks. We shop here for local fresh fruit and vegetables. Although we only speak Spanglish, we enjoy the verbal exchanges.
The vendors probably find us --- and other visiting gringos --- amusing. Or a huge bother. They watch with much curiosity. What we buy. How we pinch-test the avocados. Or ask the name of a weird looking food that looks like oversized kiwi fruit. (zapote, they reply, muy dulce…very sweet).
There is one problem with shopping at the market, though. These vendors cannot change large denominations of pesos. Their produce costs small amounts. And often we forget that.

Last week we stopped at the stall of an elderly male vendor --- he with mucho wrinkles, small chocolate-coloured eyes, white strands of hair, and a kind face --- who was selling tomatoes. We chose a few, asked how much. Norm handed him more than the agreed amount because he had no small change. The old man looked at the pesos and shook his head. We understood him to say we were paying too much for what we bought. Said he was sorry but couldn’t make any change.
No problemo, we said, indicating he should keep the extra money.
This would not do for the old fellow. He looked at his table, picking up one tomato after another. Finally, he chose a larger tomato to make up for our overpayment. Handed it to us with a missing tooth smile.
The tomato was heart-shaped.

Beware the Roof Dogs
Lesson One: when walking in many Latino cities, keep your eyes on the ground otherwise you will break a leg: broken sidewalks, sudden sink holes and dips, mysterious liquids, strewn garbage, low hanging signs on which to hit your head. It’s all part of the walking obstacle course.
And then, there are the roof dogs.
In Valladolid, and elsewhere in Mexico, most cement casas are flat-roofed. This in case the owner decides to add another floor when there is enough money to do so. Many people use that flat roof as another ‘living’ room. Some have chairs on the roof. Others have plants. Makes sense to increase your living space when you don’t have much.
However, while concentrating on navigating the broken sidewalk, remember these flat roofs are sometimes home to the owners’ dogs. Recently, while walking, we heard a low menacing growl. Our instincts snapped to attention. Looking up, we gasped in fear at the sight of open canine jaws: the many-fanged mouth of a drooling roof dog! Ready to pounce on us!
He is the Guard Dog from Hell. He follows alongside us from atop the roof --- not far from the street --- and snarls and snaps and pants and bares his fangs, threatening to leap and attack us. A most intimidating, terrifying experience. Especially when this aerial attack is an unexpected shock.
Although excellent guard dogs for their owners, they spell instant heart attack for the unaware pedestrian below. After our breathless recovery, we quickly snapped a photo of the attack dog. Can you find Fang on the roof ? Almost hidden by the blinding sun.

El Escorpión
One particularly groggy, I mean me --- I was groggy --- morning in Valladolid, I struggled to tell my brain it was time to exercise.
The morning was already hot (24 degrees) and I hadn’t slept well because of the heat and well, staying in bed seemed a far better idea than hauling out my exercise mat and attempting half-hearted yoga poses.
In somewhat of a trance, I grabbed my exercise mat to unroll along the tiled floor.
That’s when I did a double-take. It looked like a dead leaf --- a curled rusty-coloured vegetation at first glance --- clinging to my exercise mat.
I went to touch it, fling it off, and proceed with my floor exercises. For some reason, I thought to inspect it more closely.
That’s when I realized that was no plant hanging on my mat.
“Norm,” I clamoured –-- not too hysterically --- “I think there’s a scorpion on my exercise mat.”
He dropped his weights. Hurried over. Confirmed my worst fears. “That’s a red scorpion,” he agreed. (We later learned the red scorpion sting is more severe than the black or brown species.)
Quickly he lifted my rolled-up exercise mat at arm's length, rushed outside, shook the mat until the small but dangerous demon dropped off.  Then he stepped on it with one of his running shoes. Dead.
We watched for signs of life. Nada.
And then, fascinated, we watched at the sudden arrival of an army of tiny red ants. As if practicing military manoeuvres, they surrounded the scorpion carcass and as one, began moving it into the grass where they could munch on their unexpected delicacy.
No more groggy me. Suddenly I was wide awake.
Scorpions on your exercise mat will do that for you. A jolt of instant adrenaline.

And then…there’s Tigré…
We knew we were accepted into this middle-class neighbourhood because of Tigré. So-called because of faint tiger-like stripes lining his black fur coat, Tigré belongs to the family across the street. When we first arrived, he barked lustily and long. At us. And in front of us. We were strangers in his territory. His message was clear: Get Out!
It didn’t take long, though, until he realized we fell under his heading of added responsibilities.
Now he lies along the front of our shaded driveway, surveying his neighbourhood from this vantage point. If anyone --- like the garbageman --- approaches our territory, he barks mercilessly. He does not stop barking until he perceives any danger to us has passed. Or we tell him the visitors are okay (like the pizza delivery man).
Our three-month stay here ends shortly. We are going to miss Tigré. I wish he could understand.
How do you say goodbye to a sweet dawg who’s captured your heart?

Cenote 1         
        We both saw him at the same time. At the side of this lonely paved road as we passed in our small white rental car.
        Dressed from head to toe in black. Black motorbike. Black helmet. Black visor. Black jacket. Black clothing. He looked menacing.
         It is mid morning in the Yucatán where we are wintering and it’s hot. As in sweating profusely, 30 C degrees hot.

        We are on the search for an off-the-beaten-path cenote. (In the Yucatán, there are no above ground rivers due to the limestone bedrock. A cenote is a natural pit or sinkhole of fresh water, exposed by the collapse of limestone bedrock. During ancient Maya times, cenotes were valuable water sources but also used occasionally for sacrificial offerings. Most Maya cities were founded around a nearby cenote.)

        The Yucatán is peppered with 6,000 cenotes, some groomed with tourist amenities: change rooms, handicraft markets, restaurants. We want to find one that is not crowded with turistas. And our map shows this lonely road –-- meaning no other traffic --- through the dry jungle leads to an area of cenotes (zona de cenotes arqueológicos).
        Which is where we encounter our man in black. Immediately we are on high alert. Is he a policía ready to pounce and ask for our ID papers? (Never give up your original documents, like passports, to the pólice we have been warned. Always carry a copy.)

        I quickly glance at him, then go back to studying the narrow, pot-holed road ahead.
        My husband, Norm, does not. Through the car’s rearview mirror, he watches the man in black on the motorbike begin to follow us. Norm mentally sizes up the situation: two silver-haired gringos in a rental car, driving alone on an isolated road with no other visible signs of habitation. Hmmm.
        After a time, the man in black disappears offroad. Is he taking a shortcut through the jungle to suddenly appear in front of us? How far should we venture along this road into the unknown?
        Suddenly Norm brakes the car. With difficulty we turn around.
        A cenote is not obvious.
        But we are.    

Cenote 2
        Following our map again, we veer off a main highway in the opposite direction. Delighted to notice a crude homemade sign pointing to a cenote. 3 km away claims the sign. At a casual glance, the cenote road looks rough. Sort of a farmer’s wagon trail.
        However, we reason, at least this cenote is marked. Carefully, we navigate the ‘road’ and pass a cluster of stick casas. (These provide air circulation in this climate).   Few people live here. But those who do wave in friendly greeting. We smile and wave.  Then we begin the drive along this rough and bumpy road to the cenote.

        Full disclosure: there was a sign in Spanish at the start directing us to a casa for information. But we ignored it. After all, we had already wasted enough time on our quest.
        Norm carefully, gingerly, repeatedly, braked and accelerated, moving slowly and carefully along this stony, uneven ‘road’ for about one km.
        Me? I was getting antsy. What if we hit something and ruptured the undercarriage?! Who could help? Certainly not CAA. Besides, our cell coverage here was spotty.
        We passed two more Cenote signs pointing further inland. Looking ahead on the ‘trail’, we could see only more twists and turns on an uneven surface that disappeared into the jungle.
        In a melodramatic moment, I insisted we stop. For the sake of car safety.

        Norm braked atop a rough terrain ridge. He was determined to walk the rest of the way to the cenote. With his camera.
        Hmmm. Here we are. In the middle of nowhere on a rutted trail. Surrounded by dry jungle. Hot. Humid.
        “Leave the car keys with me please,” I said.
        After which he set off following the pitted, winding trail until disappearing from view. The silence was deafening. After one minute I texted “Come back!” No service.
        I looked back from whence we had come. Saw two motorbikes with riders slowly bump their way along the trail. As they rattled closer, Norm reappeared complaining the ‘road’ ahead was more of the same.
        Finally, the motorbikes, the first carrying an older fellow, the other two young men, reached us. Stopped.
        “Cenote?” we asked, pointing down the impossible trail.
        “Si,” smiled the old man showing a wide front tooth gap. “Three kilometres.”
        We thought it best to head back. The old man and the young men helped direct Norm’s turnaround.
        As we retraced our track, I muttered, “We should have asked for information first.”
        In reply my husband casually remarked: “We needed motorbikes. Or a 4-wheel drive.”

        Thus, our search continued for an uncrowded cenote.
        We are now driving along the highway towards the next town.
        Then bingo! On our left. We see a large sign beckoning us to Cenote x-cajum. No cars or buses in sight! We turn in and follow a well-kept driveway towards a low-lying building.
        We turn the bend and --- to our horror --- we count six turista buses parked in front. Hordes of people are milling around. Worse, as we silently curse, a seventh turista bus appears.
        We are off on our search again.

        Later that afternoon, we arrive at Ek Balam, a Maya archeological excavation. Next to it is Xcanché cenote. And hurray --- because of our timing --- there are no buses! Only a few people.

        Changing into our bathing suits, we congratulate ourselves on this great find. When we finally ease ourselves into the green-hued water --- after a long descent on water-logged wooden steps --- we notice small black fish dart away immediately.

        As we reclimb the steps next to the cenote stone wall, we disturb a dusty grey-coloured iguana that is obviously not used to two-legged creatures.
        This cenote is 30 m deep and 15 m from ground level to the water’s surface. With a diameter of 50 m, it is surrounded by green vegetation. If you feel like Tarzan or Jane, grab a rope or long vine to swing out over the fresh water before releasing and splashing into the cool pool below.

        We learned access to this cenote’s fresh waters was almost impossible a few years ago, until the local Maya people formed a cooperative with the purpose of providing a source of income for the surrounding population. Over the years, the cenote’s facilities have been upgraded, like placing wooden stairs attached to the stone wall to allow access. There is even a restaurant on site specializing in Maya cuisine prepared by local Maya women.

Finally…
        …we begin the drive back to Valladolid.
        Little did we know we would run into a massive construction zone resulting in a long delay of snarled traffic backed up in long lines.
        But that’s a story for another day.

So, we made a run for the Mexican border this month. Desperate to discard the gray and  snow that now envelops our homespace. Craving the sun and hot days. The kind of heat that permeates your bones and injects your weary body with strong doses of natural Vitamin D. 
Welcome to Valladolid, an inland Spanish colonial city in the state of Yucatán in Mexico with a strong Maya history. We are living here for three months with so-so Spanish language skills. And welcome to our impressions of settling into a typical cement casa in a different culture in a middle-class working neighbourhood.

Dogs
They are everywhere. Mostly sleeping on the street. Or hidden behind wrought-iron fences in an enclosed backyard. Dogs here probably wish they were born in North America where they would be pampered, fed organic food, receive shots from expensive veterinarians for optimum health and walked daily by their owners via a special doggie leash.
Not here.
Whoops! Except for this man in the photo who agreed to hold his teeny-tiny dog for me. Despite the heat, the little fellow was shaking.

Mercado
The people’s market is a 15-minute walk from our casa. Most food stalls are tended by Maya women in snow-white huipils, their traditional tunic dress embroidered at the edges with colourful floral designs.          

Produce is plentiful and local. Among many Maya specialties are chaya (a spinach-like leaf reputed to be more nutritious than Popeye’s favourite); nopal, the pad of the pear cactus with thistles removed; discs of Maya bitter chocolate; and a fruit that looks like a large kiwi. Called a zapote, this early-in-the-new-year delicacy reveals a deep amber-coloured flesh when cut open. As the locals say: ‘Dulce! Dulce! Sweet. Sweet!’ And it is!

The market is so much more: meat, handicrafts, flowers, plants, spices, body creams…and fascinating locals.
We are partial to the vendor opposite Stall # 130. She has come to recognize us and we are sure she charges a fair price.

Disinfecting food
When purchasing produce like lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, poblanos, habaneros, we use a disinfectant to sanitize the skins before eating to avoid stomach troubles, like Montezuma’s Revenge.
The product is called microdyne, sold in bodegas (supermarkets, 3 major ones in town). 10 drops per 1 litre for 15 minutes to remove contaminants and pesticides. And
we drink bottled water.
But hey…no problemo with tequila or mezcal!

Anoles
My favourite creatures to watch in our garden. These tiny lizards, like mini-dragons the size of your little finger, dart to and fro, leaping magnificently into the air, landing safely in a nearby bush, as if they have wings. Sometimes puffing out their throats, they remain silently in one spot. Blink and they’re gone.

Our Post Office caper
Something typical happened on the way to the Valladolid post office. Which is in the middle of nowhere.
The P.O. is located on the other side of the city. Norm suggested we wait until after the noon hour crush before taking a taxi. It's that far away.
After our driver wound his way through many pot-holed one-way streets, we arrived at the post office. A desolate location, it was part of a cement building with one lonely agent in a bare, windowless room.
It appears no-one uses the post office anymore. Maybe this is why we rarely see postcards?
We had asked our taxi driver to wait for us while we posted our letters. After our business, we scrambled into his back seat as he started his car. Except no response. The engine had died. He called a friend and while waiting, kept re-trying the ignition. No luck. Finally, his taxi friend appeared and we transferred into his back seat.
But not before our new driver helped his friend push his stalled vehicle. That's all the car needed...a push to get started!
Will our mail ever make it to its destination?

Snow!
When we stopped at a nearby cenote, we chatted (in Spanglish) to the attendants. They were curious to know why we would stay in Valladolid for three months.
So Norm showed them a live video from our doorbell camera at home. It was recording the recent heavy snowfall as the white stuff piled high on our street and driveway.
One attendant gasped in disbelief. Astonished, he beckoned his co-workers to see this extraordinary spectacle---where humans actually lived---of wild blowing snow swirling thickly from the sky.
They all stared in amazement. Wow! they exclaimed.
Then they turned back to us, emphatically nodding their heads. Ahora entendemos! Muy frio en Canada! Now we understand! Much cold in Canada!

So, what am I doing here in the sky…
…clinging to my scruffy looking seat in this small regional (Merpati Airlines, now defunct) propeller driven plane that uses a large Velcro strap to hold fast the exterior cabin door?
And what’s that damp stain… is that rain seeping through the small window pane, sliding down the interior wall beside me?
I am hyperventilating, praying, willing a safe landing on this short flight from the mainland of Indonesia to Kalimantan, the Indonesian section of this giant, rugged island of Borneo. My husband, Norm, seated beside me, is asleep. Calm, relaxed, always ready for an adventure, his head flops back and forth as the plane dipsy doodles up and down. He does not know how close we are to not making our destination, I think.

Gingerly, I glance around at our fellow passengers. Since we are independent travellers, I am always interested in spotting, and studying, others like us.  I spy another twosome, a North American couple judging by their clothing, burrowing into guidebooks on Kalimantan/Borneo. The Indonesian guy across the aisle is reading a magazine. No-one, but me, appears concerned.
Why am I the only one so stressed?

Once, the reluctant traveller
Years ago, I used to be the reluctant traveller. But I’ve changed. Sort of. Sometimes. Partly it’s because my husband and I have had some marvelously life changing --- a charitable word --- adventures on our world travels. Deep down inside, I knew I always wanted to experience my own unadulterated delight in exploring a culture other than my own. But it’s taken me years to get to this acceptance stage. Meaning, I get it now. I can leave for uncharted territory without a bad case of culture shock, jittery nerves, and hysteria.
But I don’t get this current situation we’re in…flying on an out-of-date airplane in an area of the world where safety first does not seem the motto.
We’ve explored Indonesia for six weeks now. This forthcoming Kalimantan excursion is our final destination.

Off to visit People of the Forest
We are heading for Tanjung Puting National Park and Camp Leakey, an Orangutan Recovery Station. Camp Leakey was founded by Canadian orangutan researcher Dr. Biruté Galdikas in 1971. The camp’s name honours famed paleo-anthropologist Louis Leakey, who funded Galdikas' orangutan research. (Leakey also funded Jane Goodall's work with chimpanzees and Dian Fossey's studies with mountain gorillas. The three women became known as The Trimates, or Leakey’s Angels.)
But before we get to meet our orangutan relatives, we hole up in Surabaya, East Java. From this city’s airport we will fly to Kalimantan.
At last --- after a depressing two day stay in our gloomy vintage English-style lodgings--- we arrive at the Surabaya airport, eager to move on, to study the orangutans at Camp Leakey.

Sorry, no room on the flight
But first we must board our flight. The open concept airport is bustling: that familiar humid, sticky smell of the tropics is stifling. Large overhead ceiling fans do little to provide relief. My stomach butterflies are in full flight.
Confirmed tickets in hand, we step to the counter.
“Sorry. No room,” says the airline attendant.
“What? But we have confirmed tickets. Right here….” And we show our printed proof.
“Sorry. No room,” the attendant says again as if we are deaf. “Next please!”
We are unceremoniously given the bum’s rush.
Astonished, we look around in disbelief, and then despair. Our flight to Kalimantan is leaving shortly. Lucky for us (later I think not so lucky), one of our country contacts who drove us to the airport, has not left. He was waiting to make sure we made our flight.
Wide-eyed, we explain our predicament.
He says only one thing. “Do you have a plain white envelope?”
I’m slow to catch on. Norm is not.
“You mean a bribe?” when it finally dawns on me.
“These people do not make much money,” says our contact.
Norm stuffs the equivalent of $20 Cdn in the envelope, seals it, grabs our tickets and me again, says goodbye once more to our man on the ground, surreptitiously slips our white envelope to the same counter attendant. As if we are VIPs, we are whisked through the gate to the waiting plane on the tarmac.

Maybe we shouldn’t have boarded...
One look at the seen-better-days plane and I’m sorry we’ve spent money on a bribe.
So here we are now: me, my husband, and a few other foolish/hardy souls, aboard this flight to the jungle. I continually eyeball the Velcro strap holding closed the exterior door for fear it will release. Praying the Velcro will hold. And, what’s this now? Rain! Well, this is a tropical country. Sudden rainfalls are common. But since when does rainwater seep into, and slide down, the wall of an airplane in flight?
Somehow, after a one-a-half-hour-hold-my-breath flight, we land --- safely --- and find ourselves in a seedy, damp smelling airport, the humidity ramped higher by the passing rainstorm. Our hotel is not far in this coastal jungle town of Pangkalan Bun, gateway to Tanjung Puting National Park and our orangutan venture.
Mishaps begin almost immediately. Our taxi, sputtering along a muddy, pot-holed road to our hotel, breaks down. Our driver is exasperatingly apologetic, waving down prospective replacements as they slosh by. I need to use a washroom in the worst way. Fetid smells mixed with steaming air are upsetting my fragile innards again.

Need mandi
Finally, in an actually operating taxi, we arrive at our top-rated hotel. ‘Top rated’ because each room has an attached mandi (bathroom), a frivolous detail I insist we include when finding accommodation in a jungle town. By this time, I am desperately in need of a mandi.
Bursting into the room, all looks fine…the usual accoutrements, bed, windows, wardrobe, mirror…but where’s the mandi? I spy a door on the far side of the room, race across the bare floor, thrust open the door. And stop suddenly.
To get to the mandi, I must first manoeuvre down a few steps to a lower room. The odour from this area is most foul: sewage mixed with heat, humidity, mildew, tropical rot.

Finally on our way to the Orangutans
The next morning, we begin our two hour --- seems much longer --- journey by motorboat to Tanjung Puting National Park and the Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre at Camp Leakey.
Our young male guide, Bayu (meaning Wind), is effervescent, accommodating, and knowledgeable. He offers us the only meal we will eat that day (although we do not know this at the time). Served cold, the two boxes come from his cache of items stowed beneath his driver’s seat at the stern of the motorboat where potent gasoline fumes are profuse.
Our cuisine is cold fried chicken, rice, gado gado (mix-mix), a traditional Indonesian dish of available vegetables --- bean sprouts, tofu, cucumbers, all mixed in a spicy peanut sauce --- and bottled water. (By the end of this Indonesian adventure, when we lived almost exclusively on fish, rice and gado-gado, I refused any of these foods for months after our return to Canada.)
Bayu proves a knowledgeable English-speaking guide. With a flashing smile that shows off his white teeth, he pronounces proudly: “On this (Sekonyer) river at night, we will see hundreds of monkeys, thousands of fireflies…” It’s a phrase we still use to exaggerate any claims. He also conveniently forgot to mention zillions of mosquitoes.

Monsoon-like rains
Soon after our departure on this muddy river, the menacing sky launches its monsoon-like rains.
We are drenched by this torrential downpour in the open speedboat. Bayu smiles and nods as he skillfully manoeuvres the boat through tangled jungle growth in the heavy deluge. At times there is no open water path, so, like Jungle Jim, he takes his machete and cuts a swathe through the overgrowth. Nonchalantly, he weaves his boat through this thick maze of wilderness. I keep watch for coiled snakes to drop in on us.

Camp Leakey
Finally, we arrive at Camp Leakey. Like a lucky omen, the hot tropical sun suddenly emerges to beat down and greet us. Now we are drenching in sweat.
As soon as Bayu docks, my husband, eager to finally see these People of the Forest, leaps from the boat to the long wooden boardwalk. I lag behind to take in a wider view of a low building at the end of the boardwalk surrounded by dense verdant bush. Then I hoist myself onto the walk.
That’s when I notice a reddish-brown, life-size, lumbering orangutan. A female from the look of her (Adult females weigh between 30 to 50 kg (66 to 110 lb.) and stand about one m (3.3 ft.) in height), she appears on the boardwalk from the surrounding jungle. Like a shy bride --- and studying us creatures with curiosity --- she cautiously approaches Norm, who looks enraptured. She only has eyes for him. He only has eyes for her.

Love at first sight
Right now, my brain disengages, clicks into slow motion.
Languorously, the beautiful creature extends a long hairy arm towards Norm, as if to touch his hand in greeting. I can see he is thrilled with this gesture. He extends his. It is love at first sight.
I watch in awe as she curls those long, strong, human-like fingers around Norm’s wrist and hand. In a trance it appears, he willingly grasps her hand in return. Gradually, slowly, still mesmerizing with her dark chocolate-coloured eyes, she begins to walk away with him. Like an odd couple, my husband and Jezebel stroll hand in hand; they begin to veer off the ramp together towards the jungle. Little do I know my husband’s calm demeanour is beginning to fade as he realizes her grip is iron-clad. She tightens her hold but does not hurt. There is no escaping her clutch.
In my slow-motion mode, it appears she intends to take him with her, perhaps back to her nest.
And it occurs to me at that moment, I might lose him. Forever. To a fearfully strong rival.
Gone forever?
My mind flashes forward, entertains crazy thoughts. What will I tell our three sons…that their father chose an orangutan over me? Our youngest might think that’s cool.
What will I tell our friends --- he left me for a female orangutan? One of them might rebound with ‘was she sexy?’
What will I tell each set of parents? Norm’s parents will be horrified. Mine, at least my artist father, might be intrigued with the possibility this is a surreal adventure.
Suddenly, as if in a jungle movie when the director yells CUT!, an assistant from the camp appears, races along the boardwalk from the low building. He yells at Jezebel, gestures wildly, frantically waves his arms.
She turns and looks at him with soft, languid eyes.

Scolding…
The assistant speaks harshly in an Indonesian dialect to her. She looks confused. Her feelings are hurt. She suddenly releases Norm’s hand. Backs shyly into the dense bush. We all watch in awe as she swings from tree branch to tree branch, disappearing from sight without a backward glance at her jilted lover.
I stare at Norm. He stares back in disbelief, shakes his hand, as if to feel it’s still there.
We will always remember this close encounter with Jezebel as the day I almost lost my husband in the Indonesian Jungle.
And I forgot my camera.

  Maps:  (hover cursor for titles)

Once upon a time there was a beautiful little fair-haired girl named Wendy. She lived in a comfortable, loving home with her parents and brother in Ottawa in the Kingdom of Canada.
 As a child, Wendy was curious. Loving. Sometimes opinionated. Fragile when it came to matters of self-doubt. But fiercely competitive and intellectually stimulating. Also caring. She loved all animals, especially her dogs. She even had a pet rabbit that hopped freely around her apartment.

I remember when her Nana died. Wendy made it her personal project to celebrate Nana’s long life through a compilation of favourite recipes adorned with Nana photos. Wendy worked all night before the next day funeral to have it ready as a parting gift to friends and family. That booklet is a family classic. Her dedication and love for the project defines Wendy.
Her zest for living led her to embrace adventure. She screamed in delight when she rode wild roller coasters. She learned to scuba dive. She jumped into soccer, hockey, both as player and coach. Physical activity was integral to her lifestyle.

When she grew up, Wendy met her handsome Prince Charming. He, from the Kingdom of Europe, complemented her self-development. And when they married in a castle in Ottawa, she looked like a royal princess, resplendent in her white gown and tiara. She trembled as she thanked her parents for their constant support. Then she and her husband danced as one to the strains of Come Away With Me by Norah Jones.
Two sons, each an essential part of Wendy’s life, enriched the couple. As the boys grew, so did she, volunteering in her community as a coach and, among other contributions, a voice for those unable to help themselves. She was recognized for her selfless actions with several awards.
At the same time, she embraced an exacting and exciting career in scientific research. Her attention to detail led to co-authoring several scientific publications.
Life was full.

And then, unexpectedly, Wendy was diagnosed with cancer. For two and a half years, she fought this insidious disease. Her family watched helplessly as she slowly faded away.
The little girl, who captivated everyone with her enthusiasm for life, died this month at age 47.
Wendy is my beloved niece.
I cannot fathom the desolate heartache her close family suffers at this time: her grieving husband and two young sons, my devoted sister and her husband, and Wendy’s brother and his wife.  

I can only share the following piece*, read by my sister at her daughter’s funeral, in loving memory of Wendy:
"You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love, and go on."

*British poet and artist David Harkins