This little story perfectly sums up the beauty of my life in Mexico, its kind people and the warm culture that surrounds me.
There was a hive of activity as I walked into the fruit and veg section of my supermarket this morning. Women laughed and chatted, showing each other something I couldn’t quite see. Nods of approval and secondary squeezes were going on, and I was dying to know what was causing such a fuss.
Stepping closer, the beautiful, deep purplish-red hues of plums were a feast for my eyes. Okay, now I get it. We haven’t had plums on the island in a while, and they looked amazing. The ladies parted slightly so I could squeeze in and welcomed me with open arms. I’m almost 6 feet and twice their size, so it was a squeeze. But that didn’t matter. I was just another woman happy to get my hands on some sweet fruits.
It reminded me of an Italian market, where the nonnas roam daily, sniffing and squeezing fruits and vegetables for the freshest finds. That’s one unifying characteristic of women worldwide, I think. Cooking. Family. Food and home.
I picked up a large plum, one we call a blood plum back home. This got me curious. What was it called here? So I asked. The digging through the pile didn’t skip a beat as they smiled and said “ciruela.” Just plum. The little red ones are the same as the big, dark purple ones: just a plum.
That opened the doors to a delightful chat. They were fascinated that I had a plum tree back home in Australia. Eyes fixated on me like kids at storytime as I told the tale of the different types of plums we had — ones with red, white, yellow or dark purple inside. The nods of approval made my heart smile.
A quest for the plum perfection
Like a weird validation of total acceptance. I was just another woman who liked plums. It didn’t matter what I looked like, where I came from or how bad my Spanish was. They understood.
By then, we were chatting like old friends. In the whole three minutes since I’d met them, it was like we’d been friends for life. The two ladies nearest me went digging through the pile to find perfect plums for me.
They taught me how to choose the best ones. Not too soft, that’s not good. Those are for cooking. Jams and pies for those plums. Not the big ones. Those are too dry. Not as tasty or sweet, they’re a little bland. They go in the jam pot too.
No, they dug and squeezed and sniffed and held plums up to each other for second opinions. I want the ones that are firm, but not too firm. That’s the sweet spot, they said. Those are the perfect plums.
Their hands continued to dig through the pile, busily squeezing, holding them up to each other for inspection before handing them to me. Those were my plums. The sweetest, most perfect plums. That’s all that was good enough for their new friend.
When people say they can’t meet people or make friends in Mexico, I am gobsmacked.
Just by setting foot outside the door, you make friends. Most of the time, you don’t even need to do that. When I sit on my balcony with a pot of tea, sketching in the mornings, people walking past on the street say good morning and wave.
It’s a sweet life here. As sweet as my perfect plums, which have all been gobbled up now. So sweet, I think they formed a lifelong memory full of the warmth of the Mexican ladies. Those who genuinely want to help, share and communicate.
So, yeah, I love my life in Mexico; it’s just like perfect plums.
Bel Woodhouse, Mexico Correspondent for International Living, is an experienced writer, author, photographer and videographer with more than 500 articles published both in print and across digital platforms. Having lived in the Mexican Caribbean for over seven years now, she’s in love with Mexico and has no plans to go anywhere anytime soon.
