A few midnights ago, when salvos of exploding fireworks made sleep impossible, Lorena and I began blearily cataloging the various Mexican villages, towns, cities, ranchos and beaches we've lived in during the past thirty-odd years. We gave up when the count exceeded several dozen places, unable to agree if the caves we'd used on a 9 week kayak trip in the Sea of Cortez could be collectively dubbed a "residence" or not.

Our list of temporary homes includes a sub-divided colonial monastery, a traditional Mayan "na", a multi-level artist's studio, various beach bungalows and crude "palapas", and countless tile-roofed casitas. There is also the odd little place we owned for 25 years but seldom lived in -- a chockablock construction of stone, cement and adobe that was only marginally comfortable but never quaint. The most luxurious house was loaned to us in San Miguel de Allende by our friends and publishers, John and Eve Muir. For almost five years we enjoyed such outrageous amenities as a hot tub, swimming pool, separate office, full-time cook/housekeeper, and gardener.

Of all the places we've lived, however, the most memorable was a traditional thatched house on a postcard-perfect beach. Handbuilt for us by Mexican friends, it was a soaring structure of palm leaves lashed by vines to an intricate framework of peeled logs and long narrow poles. At night, with candles flickering and the surf booming, we would swing in our hammocks and imagine ourselves as sailors in some ancient, creaking schooner. Alas, those six months of barefooted bliss came to a dramatic end when an unseasonal hurricane swept in from the western Pacific. The wind burst our Robinson Crusoe palace like a house of cards, scouring away everything but good memories.

In those earlier years, locating an empty house or apartment to rent was something of a snipe hunt. Vacancies were rare and a spare room or house was usually reserved for visiting family and friends. Newspapers offered few leads and there were seldom any gringo residents to ask for advice in the places we wanted to live.

The difficulty of finding rentals left us no choice but to canvass a prospective neighborhood in a methodical house-to-house search. As we soon learned, the pulse of a Mexican neighborhood is best taken at the corner tienda (grocery). We also found that point blank questions aren't the custom, and often bring nothing but blank, frustrating replies. On the other hand, slowing down enough to sip a Coke while exchanging pleasantries often paid off. After taking our measure as potential neighbors, someone -- perhaps the tienda's owner, or a housewife picking up a handful of chilies for dinner -- might recall that "quizas..." a comadre or friend-of-a-friend had a nearby place to rent.

We also learned through experience that Mexico's definition of "vacant" meant utterly vacant, without furniture, appliances, linens, lamps, or even lightbulbs. Evolving from tourists into nomads, we adjusted to this custom by equipping our VW van with removable cabinets, sturdy storage boxes, a camp stove, dishes and other portable household essentials.

Times change, of course, and nowhere is this more evident than the growing migration of foreign residents and "snowbirds" toward Mexico's most prosperous towns and tourist areas. The last ten years have also brought tremendous improvements in such vital services as communications, transportation and health care. In the "good old days", before the arrival of internet access and "super" stores such as Walmart and Carrefour, expatriates wept at the sight of a jar of genuine Skippy peanut butter. Gringos starved for news and gossip arm-wrestled over tattered back issues of Time magazine and the sports section of your hometown newspaper was more precious than an Aztec codex.

For many of us, however, Mexico's attraction as a place to actually live rather than just visit isn't based on the country's improving "infrastructure" or the ready availability of Pringle's potato chips, but on the more nebulous "quality-of-life". If I can afford to make a choice, would I rather tough out another year in Detroit, Tacoma, or Boston -- or is it about time to give San Luis Potosi a try? To cut it really fine, what is the best use of my hard-earned freedom: fighting traffic and shoveling snow this winter or exploring a new life in Mexico?

As an unabashed booster of Mexico and its people, I've probably sounded more alerts about a southward invasion by Yanks and Canucks than Chicken Little. Although my earlier predictions were premature, several years ago Lorena and I began to notice a definite broadening of interest among our readers. Once their basic travel-related questions have been answered, more and more people inquire about living, retiring and even working in Mexico.

In the first edition of The People's Guide To Mexico, I explained that the book began as a series of letters to friends back in the U.S. In those days, Mexico was still terra incognita to all but a few brave travelers. To encourage our friends to visit us here, my letters attempted to answer their anxious queries and to calm their fears.

Almost 30 years later, Lorena and I continue to write letters (this time via email) and answer questions about Mexico, many of them from those same friends. It seems a natural evolution of the People's Guide that our current book-in-progress describes the ins-and-outs of living, retiring and working in Mexico.

In participating in Mexico Connect's new "Living, Working & Retiring in Mexico" Resource Section and Discussion Forum, our goals include helping you sort the "pros" of living here from the "cons". For example, are you actually ready for such a dramatic change or not? To those who have successfully made the move, this country offers many rewards and countless small satisfactions. As much as we love Mexico, however, it does have warts.

I'm not interested in criticizing Mexico -- that is already being done to excess in other places. However, to be fair to both you and your future Mexican neighbors, we need to honestly discuss what is good and what's not-so-good about living here. Then, once you understand the basic nuts-and-bolts, including any red tape involved, it's time to get out the maps.

In terms of variety -- geography, climate, history, language, cuisine, and culture -- Mexico has few equals. But... where will you actually live? What is the best place (or places) to retire? Can I get a job teaching English in Oaxaca or will it be uncomfortably hot in summer? What will it cost?

Mexico's offers such a rich variety of choices that it is very difficult and perhaps impossible to give quick , definitive answers to these burning questions. The topic of "where-to-live?" is endless interest, however, so we look forward to meeting you here, in both the Resource Section and the LWR Forum, and swapping our personal experiences and hard-earned opinions.

Saludos de Ajijic, Jalisco, Mexico

Carl Franz and Lorena Havens

January, 2000