The Call of the Mild

Quiet Americans Moving to a Loud Country*

We may have been colorful back home, but here, we’re plain, old, and white

Wild, meet mild.

In 1903, Jack London’s book, The Call of the Wild, was published. It caused a sensation.

In January 2026, at age 67, I arrived in Mexico, responding to a different appeal, The Call of the Mild. Thousands of American retirees hear the siren call and move south of the border.

We may have been the life of the party back home, but down here, we discover that we are like jars of mayonnaise floating in a sea of salsa.

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Mild People in a Spicy Land.

Most of the retired Americans I have met in Mexico aren’t exactly wild. Soft-spoken, low-key. Polite, law-abiding.

It takes me back to a time when other expat groups were notable by comparison.

In his twenties, Hemingway moved to Paris and joined the Lost Generation. They caroused, drinking absinthe in bars until late, and writing great novels by day.

Hemingway, sans beard, on the left

This Patzcuaro contingent can’t measure up to that group.

Personally, I drink coffee, write a blog, and go to bed early. This is Generation Lost. I often can’t find the car keys. Fortunately, my dog can.

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Funny Creatures, These Expats

Who are these people called “expats,” I find myself wondering.

We Americans jet off to foreign countries (or, in my case, drive) to meet exotic people, see the sights, and absorb the culture. However, soon after I arrived, existential panic set in.

Brief moments of terror: Will I forget how to speak English? Lose track of who I am?

Big questions arose. Where can I find a place to live? Where do other Americans hang out?

Seeking an antidote, I interrogated other Americans, hoping they would show me the way.

The local expats often meet at a trendy restaurant called Bistro Monarca, run by Yaya, a Mexican woman with a nose for business and a flair for fashion. She hosts afternoon game sessions and organizes wine tastings on Saturday afternoons.

The excitement builds as Yaya prepares to set the Scrabble board in front of us

Nobody warned me it was serious Scrabble. The women acted laid back until the game began. Then, they went all out, stopping at nothing to win. Using a printed sheet of two-letter words. Searching for words in online dictionaries.

Not so serious myself, I played big words to open up new areas of the board.

Big mistake.

Like when you pull out your wallet in NYC to give a guy a dollar, and he mugs you. You wake up later with a headache, asking, “What hit me?”

Maybe I should try a less dangerous outdoor activity?

There is a more adventurous crowd that hikes on Saturday mornings, up and down mountain trails on the outskirts of Pátzcuaro. We bring our dogs along for a little exercise. We can send the dogs for help if anyone has a heart attack.

After two months here, my big question is still, “Where do I fit in?”

In old black-and-white movies, British expats abroad were often social misfits. They dressed properly for dinner as if still in England, clueless about where they actually were. The locals often rolled their eyes.

In a earlier life, I sold tea and scones to Brits in a Cairo train station

It is an age-old question that has dogged us since adolescence. Abroad, who are the weird ones; who is normal? Are the other expats peculiar? Is it me?

A Layer of Ice Despite the Heat

I needed someone to help me break the ice; I found her. Meet my landlady, a kind, white-haired, older woman named Maria Dolores Contreras Rodriguez.

At first glance, she struck me as grandmotherly. We sat, chatting on my patio.

Then, she broke out a pack of cigarettes and lit up a smoke. With a sudden, sad look, she confided to me, “I crashed my car, and now I have to walk.” Her face nearly dissolved into tears. I couldn’t bear to see her cry.

“Don’t be sad,” I said. How to cheer her up? “Would you like a shot of tequila?”

She nodded, accepted a shot, and took a quick swallow. She put the shot glass down and brightened, replying with the easy smile of her 20-year-old self.

“I’m fine now!”She leaned in and raised her eyebrows. She had more to share.

“Do you like music?” she asked.

“Yes! I love music. I’d like to learn more about Mexican music.”

“Well, on Mondays and Wednesdays,” she said, “I sing in a choir at the nearby Senior Center...” She had me at choir.

“Bravo!” I said, cutting her off. “I can take you there in my van.” Her youthful smile erupted again. “Thank you, Carlos!”

The first time I took her to the Estancia por Adultos Mayores, she invited me in to hear them sing. She sat between the other women and me.

Was she protecting me in case they got fresh? They kept pointing at my cap.

Maria said, “They want you to take it off.” I shrugged and removed it. There was applause. She said, “The women are happy that you still have hair.”

Next, someone handed me sheet music. Soon, I was belting out old ballads in Spanish by legends like Pedro Infante, once the Frank Sinatra of Mexico.

I had no idea what I was singing. Or what the melodies were. Confused, I looked around. About half of the people missed the melodies or wobbled the words.

The choirmaster winced as we mangled songs, but he soldiered on to the end.

Despacito, Por Favor

Learning Spanish is one of my main reasons for moving here.

However, no matter how hard I try to prepare myself for the moment of truth, when a Mexican speaks, all hope is lost. They speak faster than I can hear.

It’s not just that I am a slow listener. Spanish is a fast language. In Spanish, you can leave out a mess of words that we are required to say in English.

We have to say, “I am speaking.”

They just say, “Hablo.” We lose.

Spanish speakers also seem to have more fun than we do in English.

They have excitable words, like “¡Olé!” “¡Ándale!” and “¡Arriba!” In Spanish, words often get excited before you say them. The exclamation mark in front is a tip-off.

But the most fun is the grito, a high-pitched celebratory shout, often heard during live musical performances, at parties, or other highly emotional moments.

Ai yi yi!

And maybe during sex. I wouldn’t know, myself.

Let’s face it, in American culture, we don’t have nearly as many emotional moments. Emotions cost more in America. Most of us can’t afford a lot of them.

Here, emotions, like tortillas, are nearly free; people enjoy them in abundance.

They don’t really give away free emotions with a purchase of tortillas

The Plan of Mayonnaise Man?

Despite the challenges of learning Spanish, I hope to stay until the end of the year, or maybe the rest of my life, unless things settle down back home.

Perhaps there will be a miracle, and I will learn to speak Spanish fluently. In my twenties, I learned both French and Arabic. It’s much harder now. Wonder why?

At this point, my life often feels like a blindfolded swing at a piñata. I’m not sure there is candy in it. No one shouts directions. It’s hard. I’m not sure of a reward.

You know me. I’ll keep swinging. You’d better stay out of harm’s way.

Ai yi yi!

AFTERWORD

Life’s persistent questions keep us awake at night. The dreams we cherished but never realized. The slightly silly ones, and the bucket list items.

Will we ever master choral singing? Will we ever learn that foreign language we’ve been working on? Will we ever visit the exotic place we fantasized about?

Sometimes, we find the courage. Or we demonstrate unusual persistence. Et voila. We finally take action. But it does not always turn out as we imagined.

We’re in the choir, but for reasons unknown, they are singing in Spanish.

We arrive in that exotic country, but on that day, there is a coup d’etat.

Our plans go astray. What then?

I don’t have all the answers. I think we just have to do the best we can.

What do you think? Should we continue to pursue our dreams?

Take the poll below and share how you feel about dreams.

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