The Fine Art of Losing Yourself in Mexico

Early Lessons from My Latest Attempt to Explore Expat Life in Mexico

Mar 26, 2026

Hello, readers, wherever you are.

I am in Michoacán state, Mexico. According to the U.S. government, I’m not supposed to be here. The State Department says that Michoacán is too dangerous.

Personally, I haven’t encountered anything truly dangerous or frightening yet. Should I ignore what our government says, or trust my own eyes and ears? And my friends?

Americans I met in Sonora told me about a nice town in the mountains. I call it Past Sorrow. They have visited here multiple times without any problems.

I take their word for it because they have been here recently and know the place.

Would you drive down to Mexico even if our government says not to? Or play it safe and stay home? Take the poll below.

The way I look at it, you can stay home, where life is safe but often dull, or you can venture out into the big, wide world. As for me, I ventured down south of the border, but I admit that it can be challenging starting over abroad. So much to learn.

For example, learning Spanish late in life is confusing. I discovered that the word for eleven is “once.” ¿Por qué? Why couldn’t they spell once with a “z” instead of a “c.”

Adjusting to living in Mexico could be tricky. Anything can happen and often does.

Don’t you believe me? Read on.

Mexico lulls you into complacency with a slow pace of life, a friendly face, and tone.

Up in the mountains, the weather is good: not too hot during the day at this elevation, pleasantly cool at night. People are friendly. Good coffee shops in which to hang out.

No trouble for me here. Or was there? I was about to find out.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon.

I parked the van and spent the afternoon at a colorful café called El Gran Calavera.

So pleasant was the afternoon, and so much progress had I made on the blog, that at 5 p.m., I asked the owner, Jacko, a transplanted Frenchman from Toulouse, for a beer.

When I left, I felt happy. Nothing could spoil an afternoon like that. We turned left out of the cafe and walked about 100 yards to Alcantarilla, a wide street where I had parked the van.

As I turned the corner, I gasped. My van was not there. How was this possible?

Without it, I was lost.

“Mr. Bones,” I said, looking at my dog, ‘Where is the van? Was it stolen? Or towed? Everything we have is in the campervan.” Including my U.S. passport, my ticket home.

I felt sick to my stomach: shocked, confused. Who could I ask for help? What should I do? I was new in town; I didn’t know the emergency number for the local police.

I had a number from a friend for a taxi driver named Juan in case I ever needed a ride. I dialed the number. “Juan,” I said, “Help. Can you come meet me? My van is missing!”

Juan took me to Seguridad Vial, the police division that deals with towing and car theft. We got there after dark. The police had no news about my missing camper van.

“What do I do?” I asked in a panic. “That’s my campervan. We sleep in it. Where will we go?” The police officer shrugged. “A hotel, maybe? The tow yard opens at 9 tomorrow.”

Juan patted my shoulder. “Let’s go try to find you a hotel. No se pasa nada.” (We can’t do anything about it tonight.)

We had to drive to three hotels before we found one that allowed mascotas (Pets).

That night, I tried to put the situation in perspective.

This was our third winter in Mexico, and so far, nothing terrible had ever happened to us, other than my dog getting sick once. (not 11 times)

I had begun to feel invincible. Now, not so much.

When you travel to other countries, and something goes wrong, you realize that you don’t know what to do, or who to call, or where to go. You depend totally on others.

He dropped me off. I tried to sleep, but worried my van might have been stolen. My brain cycled all night between moments of total panic and a strange sense of calm.

Overnight, it hit me.

Without the van, our van life was over. No transport. Nowhere to sleep. No way back to the USA except to fly. No home waiting for me if I flew back to the USA now.

My plan to spend the year in Mexico depended more on having the campervan than on adjusting. Having lived in multiple countries for much of my adult life, this was “not my first rodeo” abroad, but it was my first time riding a bull that spoke Spanish.

Ole!

In your own country, it’s easier.

You know where to go, who to call, what to do, and what it will cost. Not so when you’ve arrived in another country and don’t yet speak the language.

So far, I have learned survival Spanish and picked up a few useful bits of information.

I knew what to say to fill up my car (Tanque lleno). When I passed people on the street in Mexico, I had learned it was rude not to say “Buenos Dias” (hello).

When driving, the ubiquitous topes, or speed bumps, were often hard to spot. After slamming into many of them, I devised a strategy to save my shocks: Follow another vehicle. If they hit a tope and go airborne, I slow down immediately.

In town, I often hear loud cohetes, scary explosions, beginning in the late afternoon, lasting until late evening. People tell me the booms are related to religious festivals, and not, I hope, to criminal activity. The booms often resume early in the morning.

This is how life goes when you move to another country. You leave home as an adult, but upon arrival, you become a child who has to learn everything all over again.

I asked a lot of stupid questions. Questions to which the average child knew the answer. “But why was my van towed? I did not see any “no parking” signs.”

Local people had an explanation. It was obvious to them. “Señor, they had to clear the street for a parade tomorrow in honor of a great hero of our history, Benito Juárez.”

Of course! The Abraham Lincoln of Mexican history. Why didn’t I know the date?

Parade clip: https://www.facebook.com/reel/920080707292089

President Benito Juárez, the Abraham Lincoln of Mexico

In the end, I had to pay the parking fine and compensate the tow operator for doing his job, but I got my van back. Nothing is missing, and no damage was done.

Wish me luck down here. Hopefully, over time, my Spanish will improve, and I will learn more of the written and unwritten rules of life in the town of Past Sorrow.

Meanwhile, I’ll try to live like a child, curious, inquisitive. I’ll make mistakes, but getting caught again in that tow trap in El Centro (downtown) will not be one of them.

I gotta run. The booms are going off. I’m marching in the next parade. See you later.

AFTERWORD

I have been towed in the US, although it has been decades since it happened to me. The same with running out of gas. I don’t like to make the same mistake twice, so I go to considerable lengths to make sure lightning does not strike me twice. Anywhere.

In a total of 8 months in Mexico over the past three years, this is my first car problem. I chalk it up to a more aggressive police force in the town of Past Sorrow, and to what seems to be an exuberant way of celebrating civic heroes as well as the many saints.

Other than having my car towed, in all the time down here, I have not run into any trouble, either with the police, much less common criminals, or the cartels. I can’t promise that nothing will happen to you, but I can tell you nothing happened to me.

I am not urging anyone to travel down here against their better judgment, but I am a big fan of Mexico so far, and am sharing my photos and stories on Facebook as well.