A lonely lemon clings to the branch of a potted tree. I lean forward, close my eyes, and lose myself in the zesty fragrance. “Am I ready for ‘this,’” I whisper to myself, “whatever ‘this’ really is?” 

It’s a still summer evening. Heady, humid, and heavy. On the third-floor terrace of my hotel in San Miguel de Allende, a sixteenth-century Mexican colonial town, I stretch my arms above my head and roll my neck to ease the tight muscles.

For the first time since my beloved husband John died two years ago, I’m staying on my own in a place that is new to me, speaking only with my hotel manager and a few waiters. John and I had been together since high school and never spent a night apart since we married. Now I was alone.

John, you would’ve known what “this” was. 

Initially, I convinced myself and others that “this” was me simply attending the writers’ conference. That “this” was an opportunity to spend a few days before the conference to explore the town—visiting churches and museums to learn about the local history and culture—before attending workshops and meeting publishers. In hindsight, I was bluffing myself. I didn’t know then how hard it would be to be on my own, and I didn’t understand that I needed to get out there before I could figure “this” out. 

The evening chill closes in, and goosebumps run up my arms. Golden light tinges domed rooftops and terracotta Spanish-style buildings. All too soon, the comforting pastel hues begin to fade, and I’m shrouded in a cosmos without color. In this bruised glow, a darkness smothers the gentle cooing of doves and stifles clanging church bells. The descending dusk tries to snuff the citrus blossoms but cannot suffocate their potent fragrance. 

Just as the glowing crimson ball sinks and disappears behind grey rooftops, blaring trumpets and rolling drums march closer as if to signal I too, could, and should, be having fun out there. Even though the entrails of my grief are still weighing me down, the whoops and whistles defy me to break the solid mold of my loss. Why am I pushing myself to go out?

Without thinking, I invite myself to dinner. Refusing the invitation is not an option. I slip on my sweatshirt only to realize it’s inside out. After my long trip from London—a twelve-hour plane journey across five time zones—I can’t be bothered to take it off again and put it on the right way. I comb my fingers through my greying curls and touch my eyelashes with my thumbs to check if my mascara is clumpy. Anyway, will anyone notice a widow? 

Taking leave from the peaceful rooftop, I make my way down to my room, one stair at a time, on a twisting narrow iron staircase. The thin steel strips vibrate, sending shivers up my legs, until I plop onto the azure and sunshine-yellow patterned floor tiles in the reception area. I peer down a dimly lit passage, walk along for a minute or so, unlock the carved brass knob on the door of number twelve, and step inside my brick-domed guest room. On the wall, just above the carved pine headboard of the four-poster king-size bed, is a large white satin heart that makes me smile and tear up all at the same time. It’s hard to put a time limit on grief, but even after all this time since John’s passing, the outside world feels like a black and white photo filled with shadows. The room spins around slowly, and I grasp one of the bed posts to steady myself. I can’t remember when I last ate. 

On my arrival that afternoon, Antonio, the owner of my hotel, recommended the best traditional restaurant for pozole, the local soup prepared with pork, garlic, jalapeños, chilis, and herbs. 

“I know the cook there,” he said, pursing his lips and kissing his fingertips. His bushy eyebrows lifted to an ‘m’ shape, as if to emphasize the point. “He is the best in town. Here, let me show you on the map.” 

Antonio stood up to unfold a brochure of the town center. He’s about my height, a stocky five-four, wearing pressed khakis and a navy polo shirt tucked in at the waist. He took in a deep breath and spread the paper flat on the reception desk as I felt like another stupid tourist. 

“A few streets that way,” he pointed to his right, “next to the cathedral main gates you go left, and then right a few streets, then left again before you walk straight up the hill and around the corner, past the ATM, through this alley, and there it is.” A manicured index finger pointed at an unintelligible maze. 

In my room my stomach growls, and I convince myself that hot soup will revive me from my dizzy spell. In the bathroom, I wash my hands and splash cool water on my face again and again, as if it were the elixir to my survival. I change my sweatshirt for a denim jacket, pick up my room key and purse, and walk back into the passage. The lock clicks shut behind me. Even though I’d far prefer to buy takeout and stay in my room, I deliberately lift my chin, relax my frown, and walk to the main entrance, 

My purse swinging over my shoulder, I force a false smile and wave goodbye to Antonio. He looks up from his computer screen, takes off his wire-rimmed glasses, and brushes a hand through thinning black hair. “Please enjoy your dinner.” 

“Thank you.” I drop my shoulders, straighten, and nod as if I mean it. Little does he know that the thought of spending a couple of hours in a restaurant on my own, full of loving couples and families, makes me feel even more alone.

When I tentatively stride out of the tall steel gate in front of my hotel into the bustling square, food stands greet me with the smells of garlic, fried tortillas, and sizzling sausage. It would be so much easier to sit here on the railing drinking freshly squeezed orange juice and munching on spicy pork tacos, but I force myself to move on. Maybe my persistence to dine out is what “this” is? 

Am I ready to move out into the world? And to where? 

Trying to make the best of my map reading dyslexia, I turn the map to face the other way, but it doesn’t help. It’s hard to straighten the glossy paper or fold it in half with sweaty palms. I find the winding lanes, many without names, even more confusing. Navigating the maze alone without John feels intimidating. Tears fill my eyes. I can’t do this. My heart is pumping hard.

As I cautiously pace my way up a quiet road with a wide sidewalk, I try to remember Antonio’s verbal instructions. Surely, I should’ve been able to notice the church entrance by now. Suddenly, a wooden door, twice, or maybe even three times, the height and width of the front door of my London home opens to my right, leaving me no time to question my location. The rough slates under my feet vibrate in time with a loud bass. I hear guitars, trumpets, and flutes playing “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando,” accompanied by the jubilant voices of Mariachi singers. This had been one of John’s favorite songs, and he’d swing me into an impromptu tango in our London kitchen when he heard it. I wipe my eyes, probably ruining whatever’s left of my mascara. 

As I peer into the courtyard crowded with people laughing and chatting, my hips on their own accord wiggle and jiggle in time to the rhythm. I’m tempted to join this party. Swigging a Corona straight from the bottle through a quarter slice of lime I might meet people. But then I imagine myself standing all alone amongst the crowds, bottle in hand. I try to smile but swallow instead. The gulp echoes in my ears. 

I carry on, no longer looking out for the cathedral. Instead, I turn my map around again, hoping it’s facing the right way up. I can’t remember if I passed the bank or the ATM. In a panic I stop, strain my neck to look around, but can’t see any neon signs. Determined to try to follow Antonio’s ink markings, I carry on up the road, to the right, and around the corner. I’m stumped because the map leaves out most of the narrow twisting side alleys. Even though I’m baffled, I push on. “This,” still partially obscured from me, is beginning to take shape.

Ahead, the streetlights grow dimmer and further apart. I blink again, hoping Antonio’s instructions might match my current location, and peer at the map again. It makes as much sense as if I were studying an algebra equation. I give up, fold the map in half, and slide it into my purse. I’m left on my own, relying on my lousy sense of direction and the mythical Southern Cross to show me the way. I can barely see a few yards ahead.

There are no people or cars on the road. None. I’d always relied on John to lead the way and had never bothered to take note of street names, gardens, or landmarks like a hedge or tree. Tall stucco walls reach up to and beyond the second and third floors. Barred windows the size of portholes peer down at the street. Every twenty yards or so, yet another locked steel gate signals a driveway where the cobbled path slopes down, flattens out, and then slopes up again. 

Cars, taxis, and buses cease to chug and honk. A dog yaps, then howls as if it’s been kicked. Silence. All I can hear is the quick intake of my breath, the clop of my boots on the rutted path, and the intermittent clanging of my heels on manhole covers. The walls on either side close in as the alley narrows, and the sidewalk disappears. There are no streetlights. My right knuckle scrapes along the rough wall. Standing still, I clench my jaw, hug my purse in tight, and straighten up. A man slouches against the wall smoking, eyeing me up and down just as my heel catches in a wide crack between two bricks. I should go back.

I regain my balance and will myself to carry on past him. 

I haven’t walked alone at night as a woman in a strange city before. 

Looking up, I forge ahead as if I were about to reach the summit of the Sierra Gorda. Under a stone slab in a dingy recess, I squint at a sign hiding in the shadows. Gold letters on a strip of black wood declare El Dorado. My destination. 

Pushing open the grumbling steel door, I walk into a dingy foyer. The cook, wearing a traditional white hat and an apron stained with what looks like blood, puffs on a cigarette. I smile and wish him, “Buenos Noches,” but he frowns and stares at me as if I were an uninvited guest. He leans against the kitchen doorpost and flicks the cigarette ash on the floor. 

I shrug, and as I turn to leave, he shouts, “Señora.” Without changing his expression, he points a meaty puckered hand at a set of stone stairs that look as if they were made for Rapunzel’s turret—steep and narrow. There is no railing. 

Determined to complete my journey, I heave myself up what feels like an endless corkscrew of stairs, puffing as I reach the top. I enter a dimly lit room shaped like a star with a high ceiling, low-hanging lanterns, and half a dozen round glass tables. A cacophony of a blaring television, Mexican accordion music, and a phlegmy cough greet me. A hunchback woman with shoulder-length grey hair and furrowed cheeks stares across the room at me, the ashtray on her table overflowing with cigarette butts. I half turn to run, but the woman digs her elbows into the table, wags her index finger at me as if I were a naughty child, and motions me to one of the empty tables. It’s too late to waver. I take a seat near two young women who turn to stare at me, put their heads together, and then shriek with laughter. 

This was a mistake. 

The waiter, wearing dark slacks, a charcoal T-shirt, and sneakers that squeal on the wooden floor, rushes from across the room to bring me a menu. I point to the name “pozole” on the page. With the fingertips of both my hands touching, I use sign language to order a bowl, not the smaller cup. The waiter chuckles and gently slaps me on my shoulder. Another friendly congratulatory tap when I order a salted margarita. 

On the television, Animal Planet is at full volume. A young man appears to be trying to build a huge treehouse way off the ground, big enough for a family to live in. I’m surprised anyone would be interested in the program, but no one is watching anyway. 

A middle-aged couple swaggers into the room and sits right in front of me. She shifts towards him and kisses him on the cheek. He brushes her black curls over her shoulders and puts his arm around her as they snuggle in closer. Staring at an advert for a washing machine on the TV screen, I try not to look at the lovers, so painfully reminding me of what I once had, who I once was, and what I’d lost. I feel helpless and isolated. That’s when I realize grief’s long tentacles are withering my spirit. 

I finally look around to take in the room. When I glance to my right, I find myself face-to-face with a row of human skulls on a windowsill only a few yards away. I gasp, lean back into my chair, and almost tip over. There are white and black skulls. Orange, yellow, and green skulls. In the pale light, dust particles dance around skulls with long black eyelashes, skulls with hair, and bald skulls. Their eyes burrow into my chest, making John come back to life. I feel him staring at me out of one of the black skulls, urging me to lighten up.

I’m so sorry, but I’m not coming back. Go for it.

Hypnotized by empty eye sockets and red-painted cheeks, I realize I’ve been holding my breath too long. The skulls seem to jeer, “you’re next.” Squeezing the sides of my forehead between my palms, I half stand up, bracing to run. The stool’s steel legs screech against the stone ground. When I realize the skulls are made of plastic and paper-mâché, my knees give in, and I slowly sink back into my seat. I feel hungry, hollow, and helpless. Now I wish I had company. 

A laugh comes from an alcove near the stairs. Footsteps, firm and heavy, walk towards me. I look at the approaching shadow. A man with short black hair cropped almost to balding, wearing a denim jacket and jeans, pointed tan cowboy boots, and somewhere in his late forties, speaks with an American twang.

“No need to get flustered by all this stuff,” he says pointing at the rows of skulls. “Mexicans think about death differently.”

He must’ve seen me ready to run. I nod, not knowing what to say. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. I try to smile, but my lips quiver like Jello.

“In November, during the holiday of Día de Muertos, or Day of the Dead, the souls of their departed ones return to visit. Friends and families hold celebrations in their honor and set gifts like candied pumpkin and sugar skulls on the altars in their homes.” His voice is smooth. 

A long beat passes.

“Thanks for taking the time to explain this.” My tongue feels thick, and the words come out in a croaky whisper. “It sounds like a happy homecoming.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I take another sip of margarita.

He places a hand on my table and laughs again. “Even though I’ve lived here for ten years, it took me a while to understand all this.” He waves his arm at the skulls. “I was also a bit shaken when I first came here.” 

“A lot to take in on my first day.” I smile as he straightens up and strokes the dimple in his chin. 

“Well, now you can enjoy your dinner,” he says. “The food here is amazing. I dine here a few times a week.”

My old self might have invited him to pull up a chair, but, for the first time since John’s passing, I want to dine out on my own. It begins to dawn on me that “this” is likely about learning to be alone without feeling lonely. I’m relieved when he saunters away, clanging down the staircase. Strident. Confident. 

I take a few sips of the margarita, lick the salt on the glass rim, flick my hair over my shoulders, and relax back into the chair. 

My waiter approaches and plonks wooden cups of chopped onion, sprigs of parsley, and sliced radishes on the table. The glass top shudders. Then he gently places a soup dish filled with steaming reddish-brown corn and pork stew on a cork mat in front of me. Forehead puckered, and cheeks wet from perspiration, the waiter spoons the raw vegetables on top of this feast. When he walks away, I lean forward and breathe in the spicy aromas of pepper, chili, and oregano. I take a sip, and then another, and close my eyes. The morsels of chewy pork, crunchy vegetables, and crumbly corn are a memorable combination. Between sips of my second margarita, I savor the next bite, and the next, relishing the piquant flavors. I slip off my demin jacket 

The waiter strolls over to me. “The pozole is okay?” he shouts, trying to be heard above the TV. 

I shrug and try to smile, but my face stays frozen. Then my lips stretch wide, and my cheeks plump up.

“Gracias.” My voice feels strong. For the first time today, my smile feels genuine.

I wrap a bread roll in a paper napkin for when I’m back in my room, then settle my bill and sidestep my way down the narrow staircase to the restaurant entrance. As I turn to look at the ceiling one last time, I lose my balance and bump into a skeleton I’d not noticed when I came in. I grab on to her ribcage and the bones clatter together. She’s wearing a broad-brimmed magenta satin hat, and I gasp, clutch my throat, and then laugh as her full-length circular black taffeta skirt shivers and then settles. At her waist, red beads the size of golf balls jangle. “Glad I only met you on my way out,” I whisper to the plastic bones. Is that me giggling?

Back in the deserted alley, I study the map again. It still makes no sense. 

“You came up the hill to get here, so it must be downhill now,” I say out loud. “That must be right.” Stuffing the map into my pocket, I steady myself, placing my forearm against the ochre wall still warm from the sun. Relying only on my memory, I’ll have to find my way back to my hotel with my new self. 

The night breeze rifles through my hair as I retrace my steps, wobbling and leaning into the wall every now and again, taking care on the ancient cobblestones. I’m relieved when I see the man from earlier, now snoring on a ledge jutting off the wall. A block further down, with no clue as to how I got there, I walk straight into the back of a bakery where women are rolling out dough, stuffing it with raisins and apples, and then slicing each one into little individual pastries. The air is charged with aromas of cinnamon, melted chocolate, and vanilla. I can’t stop myself from walking around to the front of the bakery to join the line of shoppers. The glass case is filled with European and Mexican desserts. I struggle to choose between a slice of chocolate jalapeño cake, warm churros drizzled with melted brown sugar, and a latticed apple tart. Even though I know John would love the tart, I can’t resist the churros.

Hugging the cake box close, for no reason I feel more confident as to where I’m going. My footsteps echo in the empty road. After a few blocks, I reach the huge wooden door that I passed on the way up. Laughter, flashing disco lights, and the Bee Gees wave me on until I recognize the square near my hotel. The food stalls now serve candy floss, ice cream, and toffee apples, but those delights are for another evening.

I fumble as I try to insert the key into the lock of the gated wooden door of my hotel. Nothing gives, and I worry I may not be able to get back in. Grunting, I shove it hard with the palm of my hand. It seems to take forever before the door opens and I can step into the foyer.

Antonio is still sitting at the reception desk, tapping away on the computer keyboard. He looks up at me and then at his watch. I wonder if he was waiting up to see that I got back okay. 

“Aaah, how was your evening?” He stands up and takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. 

“The pozolewas delicious. Thank you for the recommendation.” 

He steps toward me, pumps my hand up and down until my shoulder throbs, and I begin to laugh as I pull my arm away.

“There is also a wonderful bakery I found. The churros are straight out of the pot.” I open the cake box. “Here, try one.”

He shakes his head and pats his belly. “Gracias señora, but my wife is complaining I’m too fat.” He turns and beckons me to follow him. He pushes a swinging door which opens to a small kitchen. He opens a drawer, takes out a fork and spoon, and puts them on a dinner-size plate. 

“It will be easy now for you to eat.” He holds the door open as we go back out to reception. “Tomorrow, I will show you another restaurant where they make the best enchiladas in the town.”

“Gracias, Antonio.” 

I unlock the door to my room, balancing the plate, box, and my purse, and shuffle inside. After placing my things on the bedside table, I run my fingers over my face. My cheeks ripple, and I discover that crucial part of me that’s been invisible since John’s passing. On their own accord, my lips stretch wide, my jaw softens, and the tension in my forehead melts. I unwrap the bread roll I’d stuffed in my bag at the restaurant, kiss it, place it on the bedside table, and whisper, “John, here, this is for you.” Then I kick off my shoes and fork the churros onto the plate. 

Without changing into my pajamas or washing my face, I slip under the covers and take my first bite. The churros are crisp and fluffy and oozing with caramel syrup. I relish the sticky sauce coating my tongue, under the protection of a frilly white canopy and a golden heart. 

I fall asleep licking my fingers. 

———————————————————
———————————————————
Susan Bloch is the author of the award-winning memoir, Travels with My Grief. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in a variety of publications including Glint, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, Random Sample, The Hooghly Review, The Antigonish Review, The Summerset Review, and Jelly Bucket, as well as receiving a notable mention in Best American Essays 2017. A lifelong traveler, she lived in South Africa, New York, Tel Aviv, London, and Mumbai before alighting in Seattle. www.susanblochwriter.com.

ART BY:
Hallie Krause
Goat
plexiglass engraving printed on paper, 12”x10”
2024