This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, Jan. 26, 2009 - Oatmeal-color sweaters admittedly have little to do with Mexico, but I should start by confessing that I own seven. Oh sure, there are variants within the bunch: turtleneck, cable knit, cotton or rayon blends. To be fair, one is actually a cardigan with stylishly large buttons, and another is more of a solid brown. I like to think I look good in the color.
Oatmeal says grounded; it says wholesome; it says approachable. What oatmeal doesn't say is Mexico, which is why it was just as much of a surprise to me as everyone else I know that I ended up on a Caribbean island south of the border this past month.
In fact, I couldn't tell you now why I decided to go. For starters, I've always been more of a "doer" when it comes to traveling than, say, a "relaxer." Additionally, I humbly "speak" a limited blend of Spanish and arm-flailing sign language. Still, when a chance encounter landed me at a Central West End bar with an old friend one Friday night in late November, I couldn't think of a single reason not to pull down the intellectual backpacker's rucksack and jump on board her tropical vacation plans to an island off the Yucatan coast near Cancun.
And so, that's precisely what I did and how I found myself on Isla Mujeres for 10 days this past month. During our stay, we did everything you're supposed to do with the girls on an island vacation: watch the sunset, snorkel, scuba dive, eat, drink rum, eat some more, lie in the sun, read beach books, swim, talk about men, walk in the surf, sleep in, buy handmade jewelry.
We did all those things, and they were all lovely. But if you were to ask me the best part of the trip, and what made Isla Mujeres what it was to me, I would inevitably hearken back to color. And I would struggle to keep my gushing about said color free of adoring inanities.
Well, I might tell you, the water there is surreally blue. So blue that your eyes at first don't believe the shades they are seeing - dancing turquoise in the shallower parts, and a deep, almost sacred cobalt in the deeper bits. The sand in places reflects the sun in a way that makes it appear as if it's radiating its own white light, and you've never seen such a color palate as the dancing blue on the radiating white plus the green of the palm trees overhead.
I would tell you about the buildings, some of them ramshackle lean-tos with little children playing out front in the dusty brown dirt, waving and smiling as you pass on your bicycle. I would tell you how every building, be it a residence, business, or combination of both, displays a colorful accent: a flowery painted vine bordering the doorframe, or boldly painted tiles on the stoop.
I would have to mention the schools of fish that habituate the reefs below the sea, how some of them seem to glow under the water with intense colors just not seen in ecosystems above land, while others mimic and blend into the muted brick and gray tones of the ocean floor.
And, of course, I would tell you about the food: the ever-present bright green wedge of lime, the fresh, deeper green cilantro for which my mouth still waters. The warm yellow of freshly baked corn tortilla, the icy cream of pina coladas, the dancing red diced tomatoes in pico de gallo.
And perhaps as I was gushing, you might look at me and I might be wearing one of the oatmeal sweaters and you might wonder just how someone dressed like me could fall in love with the colors of a place like that. And I might look at you looking at me and see what you're thinking and begin to wonder the same thing and if I'm making it all up.
Because I am a bit of a worrier, I played out this exact scenario before I left the island. Which is why I so desperately wanted something to take back to my oatmeal St. Louis existence that would remind me why I fell in love with Isla.
It was almost uncanny then, that we met the two young women selling stuffed animals on our last night of vacation.
The sisters were dressed very simply and stood quietly by their wares. On the table beside them lay rows and rows of every animal in every color combination one could imagine: black, orange and magenta aardvarks; pink, white and green teddy bears; roosters with proud tails of maroon, grey and yellow; coral penguins with sky-blue wings. Every new color I had encountered was represented on the table, and I was blown away by the creativity and imagination behind the stitched works of art.
I asked the sisters, with the help of my friend's fluent Spanish, who makes the animals and from what. They seemed surprised at my question, but answered that their mother does out of her home in Chiapas, the southernmost Mexican state. On their cell phones, they showed us pictures of her dyeing llama hair, weaving the fabric, cutting and stitching the patterns for the animals. In the pictures, the woman, Juana Lopez, could be any woman, but the animals she creates prove otherwise.
I bought three, but my favorite is the elephant. A goldenrod-color miniature beast with a grey underbelly and blue and red eyes. I carried it with me on the plane and back to my apartment, which is, unsurprisingly, shades of beige. Now it sits on top my rubberwood desk, out of character for all the right reasons and a reminder of why I fell in love with a small Mexican island. Because it surprised and delighted me in a way I never expected to be surprised and delighted.
Because just as I was becoming convinced that oatmeal was my color, Isla Mujeres found me, and I found colors I'd never imagined.
Anna Vitale is a freelance writer.