Good Things Come to Those Who Wait
Chapter 11: Déjà vu
Mexico Soul presents a condensed version of Where the Sky is Born, my memoir on building a house and opening a bookstore. Earlier chapters in menu at top.
In our quest to locate new land and another contractor, Rodolfo, our first candidate, suggested we talk about Puerto Morelos lots and building possibilities with his associate, Joe Marino.
Immediately after speaking to Rodolfo’s wife we drove to Joe Marino’s house and rang the bell positioned under a plaque reading Villas Marino. Next to it was a double garage with doors fashioned out of the most beautiful striped Mexican hardwood I’d seen yet. It was dark as coffee beans but with a wide ivory stripe throughout—zebra-esque. Only in Mexico, I thought, are garage doors so achingly beautiful I want to caress them. It said something about the level of Mexican craftsmanship along with the vast amount of natural resources available in this country.
Men here learned a trade from their fathers, so artisans came from a long line of others who had done the very same thing. The work was in their blood. It reflected on the beauty and pride in a finished piece—as if a long line of forefathers smiled from some lofty spot on high at the completion of every project. In Mexico, it was not unusual to know the man who built your house, or crafted your cupboards, or painted your handmade tiles. Mexico still brought you back to the roots—the beginning of things.
At that moment the door swung open and we were face to face with a man of medium build, sandy hair, mid-thirties dressed in shorts and tee shirt.
“Hi, we’re looking for Joe Marino,” Paul said. “The hotel clerk at the Paradise told us he could help us out.”
“I’m Joe Marino Junior. My father, Joe Senior, worked with her husband Rodolfo for years but he’s semi-retired now and I’m picking up a lot of the construction work. Why don’t you come in?” he said, waving us into the compound.
Only later did I realize that walking through that doorway was the bridge between almost owning land in Mexico and finally realizing a land buy. From that point forward, things moved in the right direction.
We told him about ourselves, explained our desire for a beachfront lot and the need for a contractor, and how his father’s company came highly recommended.
“I know of another beachfront lot for sale if you haven’t made a decision. It’s a half mile north, near the ruins of Cabañas la Ceiba. Do you know the spot?”
“Yes, we do,” I said, thinking how odd it was that he called the Cabañas ruins, but in reality, they were. “The beach is nice there, quiet. Where exactly is the lot and what’s the size?”
“It’s just north of the cabañas with 100 feet of beach frontage—thirty some meters. Actually there’s a hitch. A house is already on the property but it was devastated by the hurricane.”
“Do you know who the house belongs to?” Paul asked.
“Yes, an older couple just bought it from a guy from L.A.,” Joe said.
Paul shot me a glance. “Wait a minute, that wasn’t Barry’s old house, was it?”
“As a matter of fact yes. Did you know Barry?” Joe asked, now curious.
“I can’t believe it! We knew Barry and the guy next to him, Alejandro. This is too weird.”
Joe gave me a quizzical look. “I seem to have struck a nerve. The lot’s for sale and the people who now own it are friends, or acquaintances, of ours. They paid a hefty price and just months later, Gilberto. They’re not up to rebuilding, so they plan to sell.”
“How much are they asking?” Paul said.
“Sixty thousand U.S. It’s worth it. It’s a nice lot.”
“Can you contact them? I think we’d like to make an offer,” Paul said looking at me.
“I’ll call them tonight. You can check back tomorrow and I’ll have more information. Will you be looking for a contractor? That’s what I do,” Joe said with a nod towards the luxurious surroundings. “Would you like a house tour?”
My heart was doing somersaults. “Sure.”
If I understood this right, Barry’s lot right next to Alejandro’s was for sale. We might be buying a lot next door to the house that first brought us to Puerto Morelos. Full circle. Completion of cycle. I felt like I’d just stepped into Act Two of a play I’d written and was starring in. All my lines were perfect.
Joe began the house tour by leading us through a lush, tropical courtyard complete with bird cages encasing parrots, toucans, macaws. A serene swimming pool, its bottom a turquoise blue mosaic, looked inviting. I felt like jumping in, to celebrate the elation I felt. At the edge of the pool a male peacock studied us, intruders to his paradise. Surprisingly we seemed more out of place than he did. The setting was so luxurious having a peacock on the premises didn't seem a stretch.
“This is beautiful,” I murmured. “And peacocks, so lush.”
“Glad you like it.”
Joe Marino was enjoying giving us the tour and we were feeling comfortable with this newly discovered contractor. We talked with him a bit longer, still numb from the fact that we might be buying a lot next door to the first place we set foot on in Puerto Morelos, now nearly five years ago.
A great deal had happened since our first exposure to this little fishing village: we’d almost been Mexican land owners in Playa del Carmen; watched as the government seized that land by eminent domain; then purchased, or more accurately, transferred that collateral into another beach lot south of Capitán Lafitte in an enormous parcel with rivers and cenotes. Then came the hurricane of the century, blowing away every vestige of our project manager’s house, putting everything connected to him into indefinite limbo.
Fast forward—24 hours after landing in Mexico in pursuit of our backup plan we’d met two contractors. Now one was telling us Barry’s beach lot was for sale, right next door to Alejandro’s. And our quest for land all began by waiting for a bus on the Coba road and being picked up by Alejandro in a gesture of good will.
“I’ll give those people a call,” Joe said. “Check if they still want to sell.”
“Sounds good,” Paul said. “Should we stop over tomorrow morning and see if you could reach them?”
“Sure. I’ll be here all morning. Well.” He paused. “It’s been nice meeting you both. Maybe we can work something out.”
“I hope so,” I said, echoing Paul’s remark. “Thanks for the house tour. It’s a lovely place. Hasta luego.”
And with that, we walked out the gate into a blazing Mexican sun, full of hope and brimming with excitement, ready to begin yet another chapter in our Mexican land buying adventure. Would we never give up?
“Paul!” I spoke his name loudly, just under a shout. “I cannot believe it!”
He grabbed me around the waist and pulled me in for a hug. “If it all works out it will be unbelievable. It would be perfect for us. It’s beautiful out there. Wanna take a ride?”
As the VW puttered down the sascab road I realized we may be going to our new land—the land that crazy Barry’s demolished house was on. Maybe for once we were in the right place at the right time and maybe we’d be working with someone who was willing to work with us. Joe Marino seemed reasonable, helpful. Were our fortunes shifting? Or were we setting ourselves up for the biggest letdown yet?
We arrived at Barry’s old house and parked in the debris-cluttered driveway. As I climbed out of the car I watched a magnificent frigate bird catch a thermal high above us, tip its wings, and soar off into an enormous sky. Then my gaze shifted to the shattered remnant of someone’s Caribbean dream.
“Oh, this poor house. I feel sorry for the couple who only owned it three months before the storm. I can understand wanting to call it quits.”
“It is too bad,” Paul said, as he took a look around. “This is an exceptional lot, excluding the demolished house of course. This end of town is much nicer than the south end.”
“Alejandro picked a good spot,” I agreed. “Even with other houses around, they’re far enough apart so it doesn’t feel closed in.”
“It seems like a good deal. We’d have wider beach frontage, but if we buy it we’ll have to demolish the remains of Barry’s old house. That’s an additional expense. Probably not too expensive in Mexico though.”
We walked around the building and the debris, commenting on what we remembered of the house.
“I love it out here, Paul. It’s so calm. And I like the fact that it was our first introduction to Puerto Morelos. If this comes together, we’ll be right next to Alejandro’s. What are the odds of that happening? After the run-around we’ve had—for five years! And now possibly buying the lot right next door. And his house is gone, devastated by the hurricane.”
“It’s weird but it’s not a done deal yet. There are still things we need to discuss and we have to make sure they’re selling.”
I sighed. “That’s right. It could just be a pipe dream.”
But what a pleasant dream it was. Who would have known when we climbed into that yellow Honda five years ago on the Coba road that we’d end up in Puerto Morelos, buying a lot right next to Alejandro’s, when he was telling us those wild Yucatán tales?
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Also, a quick Excuse Me: For accidentally resending Chapter 9 to you this past week. I’m technically challenged and have been trying to add my memoir chapters to a section at the top, Where the Sky is Born. Obviously that somehow backfired. So, if you received it again, my sincere apologies!
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