Sometimes, a week far away seems hardly worth the toil, though most Americans rarely do that any more.  Other times, like this time, a week away feels like a mini-Sabbatical.  Mazatlan served up a healthy helping of sunshine and sass—just when winter Up North was threatening to become a living hell.

Mazatlan has been an important port and escape for millenia, yet it feels timeless.  When did it lose all sense of time?  Perhaps when brave explorers landed the endless beach and—if they had any sense—hunkered down for a while.

Or maybe it happened whenever the natives started settling.  And who wouldn’t want to stay?  Even in January, the sun shines warms the land to a balmy 80, while night falls to a cozy 50.

Might the development of the 60s and 70s been when time stopped?  Resorts and hotels shot up like beach weeds—while one young entrepreneur hatched Senor Frog’s.  All those cool cats made millions.  And Mazatlan became one of the world’s hot spots, at least for a while.

Time stands still in a place like this.  Nobody seems to care what day or decade it is.

The livin’ is easy…

The Pacific makes for a frigid bath in winter, but cool water never hurt anyone (at least not like ice).  And explorers, settlers, and vacationers must have one thing in common:  The desire for easy living.

Today, Mazatlan looks like the glory days may have come and gone, over and over again.  One one hand, dated and shuttered hotels and villas line the expansive Malecon promenade.  “Narc lords who got busted” go some stories.  Other abandonments, who knows?

On the other hand, giant luxury resorts and condos keep shooting up—as if they expect masses of loaded tourists and retirees to fall from the blue sky.  Clearly, money still flows, and Mexico is full of untapped potential.  Too bad most residents barely have running water in this third-world conundrum.

But maybe it’s better this way, at least for us visitors.  Parking is a snap.  Great restaurants are half-empty on a weekend night.  The service people offer competence and curiousity, as if they never expected to get rich quick anyway.

What they say is true:  Mexicans are happy people, more interested in pleasure than work.  They have much to teach their jaded neighbors to the north.

• So much to see, so little time

As always when on BreakAway, reality calls all too quickly.  A week flutters by like the crazy frigates in the sky.  Tan vacationers reluctantly board the same airplane that plopped them here seven days ago; the same aloof flight attendants give glances that say, “You again?”

In my case, a reunion with some lifelong friends also celebrating 50 birthdays makes the city backdrop superfluous.  Could we have forseen that our mutual adoration could last so long?  That we could still talk (and party) nonstop?  That our giddy  laughter could still make strangers stare?

That said, this place merits more attention.  Like, maybe, five months a year.  Just ask the smart Yankees and Canadians that smugly stay here—and look mostly fat, smart, and happy.

• Comin’ back to the cold

Even the tires scream when they hit the Minnesota ground, which remains covered in unyielding snow and ice.

But for a few days, and maybe longer, the mind’s eye sees not frozen urban sprawl, but Pacific waves.  Smiling Mexicans of many generations.  Art tucked into beloved boutiques and erected beside the sea.  Seafood so fresh it might jump off your plate.

On the plane, an elderly gentleman who now has a second home there reflects,

I thought I was just smitten with the vacation fun, and life couldn’t be better than it is in America.  But after all these years of living in both places, I’m sure of it now:  Life is better down there.”

Isn’t the internet great?  Sometimes yes, sometimes not so much—like when you need serious assistance.  In the past week, I’ve gotten trapped in enough online snares to miss the good old days of Ma Bell Hell.  Here are just a few of these head-banging incidents…

Gift card / sports store. One offspring gets a gift card, so we go to the store.  As these things go, we find $200 worth of stuff though the card value is only $100…

Them: After ringing us up, the checker says, “Oh, this is an online gift card.  We don’t accept those in the store.”

Us:  “Hmmm, is there anyway around this?  We only came in bacause of the gift card.”

Them:  “No, but you can put back all your merchandise and then go buy it online, if it’s there…”

Autopay form / department store credit card. Autopay is a win-win-win, right?  It makes life better for the store, the customer, and the environment.  So when the online sign-up failed to function, I called the store…

Us (after a long, long wait and punching many digits—which eventually needed to be repeated to a Human):  “Hi.  I’m unable to complete the autopay form online, so you could mail me one?”

Them:  “Actually, for your convenience, you can just print it from our website.”

Me:  “Okay, but I’m not at my computer now, and my my printer needs ink.  So could you kindly just mail it me?  I’ll take it from there…”

Them:  “Actually, we don’t mail that form.  What number may I fax it to?”

Me:  “Actually, my fax isn’t hooked up and I’m not at the office.  Can’t you please just mail me one?  Or ask someone who can?”

Them:  “Well, we don’t do that, but let me talk to my supervisor.”

L o n g                              w a i t

Them:  “Okay, just this once, my boss said we can mail you one.  It might take a few weeks tough.  How else may I help you today?”

Vendor recommendation / municipality. The gardening to-do list takes a break during winter, yet dormant plants and a blanket of snow make it the ideal time to take down a dead, old ash.  My municipality prefers that you use vendors that have a proper local license, so I try to comply.  When my usual cutter does not appear on the online list, I call in…

Me:  “Hi.  I’m wondering if you can tell me if a tree service is still licensed and recommended by my fine city.”

Them:  “Great!  But actually, you can just find that information online.”

Me:  “Yes, I’m on that page right now, but my vendor is gone.”

Them:  “Oh.  Well, we may be behind on keeping that list current.”

Me:  “Great!  So tell me, should Grizzly’s Tree Care be there?  They always were in the past…”

Them:  “Hmmm, let’s see.  Ya, sure.  They’re current on the license and everything.  Go ahead and use them; they do good work.”

Us:  “Yes, I agree.  Nice to know someone does.  Thanks for your ‘help’”.

Having just returned from a BreakAway in Mazatlan, I’m temporarily smitten by the notion that, in some places, real people still offer unplugged service—and don’t just bat you back to your cold, lonely screen.  Because they probably don’t even have one.  Because they value things like human contact, attention, and having a job.

Thanks for listening.  I have to go now—to pay a bill online, renew an Apple service online, and resolve a payroll discrepency online.

Wish me luck.

Scholars and slackers worldwide continue to debate what, exactly, constitutes a BreakAway.  So some of us fervently continue the research.  Does one measly week in Mazatlan qualify?  Possibly.  After all, a guy has broken away from the fam and fray.  Yet one week smells suspiciously like vakay.

But we’re supposed to love the questions, right?  Well then, let’s revisit some basic BreakAway theory and see how this trip stacks up.

Mazatlan Faces the BreakAway Basics Litmus Test

Did I go far away?

Maz Mex certainly is all news to me, since I’ve never biked their long Malecon or meandered their magical old town.  Yet Mexico is familiar like an old sombero.  And while worlds away, the flight from MSP sneaks here in four hours.  Hmmm…

Is there time for both solo and social?

A sweet suite with a deck view of early Paradise makes some ME time a no-brainer.  Yet I’m here to get crazy over turning 50 with two lifelong friends—one a Malibu entertainment attorney who hangs with the stars, and the other the ultimate free spirit who hangs from them.  Hmmm…

Did I travel light yet log the journey?

When escaping the January grind, can one leave it all behind?  Perhaps:  The iPhone rarely rings; the emails stay in their box; and the catamaran adventure to an island requires only shades and watershoes.  Yet here I am, working (?) on my MacBook Pro and downloading digital pics.  Hmmm…

Can I keep it edgy but keep it smooth?

Travel promises adventure—and one may ride into more when racing dilipidated bikes down steep streets, kayak–surfing waves through island rocks, and wandering foreign ‘hoods alone late.  Yet I’m soaking up hot tubs, beach feasts, and cerveza and sunshine.  Hmmm…

Will I stay on budget but forget about finance?

These experiences are, well, priceless.  You can’t buy belly laughs and heartfelt talks with old friends—or seeing the sun set into the Pacific seven times.  Yet budget-creep sneaks in like a scorpion, like when this Gringo overpaid a cabby 12-fold (my bad; his good karma).  Hmmm…

BreakAway Si?  Or No?  What’s Your Final Answer?

So in the end, deciding whether a quick, watery week meets the criteria challenges even the alleged experts.  On one hand, a bartender last night so enjoyed my enthusiasm for finally finding beer on tap that he kept refilling my glass (on the house).  What a metaphor!

On the other hand, I know that it can take a week to unwind.  And before you’ve really unpacked, you’re atop a tarmac and whisked back into your reality where larger piles await and nothing has changed—only you.

So si or no?  No se’.  (I don’t know.)  But of this much I am sure:  Deeper research is in order.

:  )

Folks have been making self-improvement promises since, well, Babylonia. The Romans did it too—while worshipping the two-faced god Janus (no relation to the mutual fund, but closely related to the month). Nowadays, resolutions make for great toasts, but usually turn to toast by Valentine’s Day.

So how about New Year’s Aspirations instead?  And why not things to strive for every day, rather than over 365?  Mine are simple—likely same as 2010.  Yet I’ll know a better year (and me!) is in store with even modest progress…

• One hour outside, whether kayaking, sitting, gardening, or shoveling shnow.
• Read from a well-written book, if only one page.
• Go adrift on the internet and Facebook—only when there’s nothing better to do.
• Stretch and do that sorta-yoga routine, especially first thing in the morning.
• That said, sleep long whenever possible and practice good Z hygiene.
• Get exercise—and try to make it fun (kayaking) and useful (yardword) instead of torturous (machines).
• Eat more, so long as it’s a whole foodstuff and not from a geometric container.
• Ditch stuff, as in, reduce the possession piles by, say, 15 – 25%.
• Make more mini-BreakAways, like the river retreat and Hmong Market stopover.
• Take more saunas, hot baths, midnight swims.
• Shut up and listen to music, friends, family, nature, and silence.

What are your aspirations for 2011?  I’m listening.

Christmas has come and gone.  Again.

Beautiful; we still take a few days to BreakAway from our jobs, routines, and rat race.  With any luck, we even reflect, rest, and renew old ties.

But the party is far from over.  Now comes the clean-up, the bills, the weight-loss angst, and the withdrawal from holiday hype.

• What happened?

What’s happened to this sacred season, anyway?  What’s happened to our culture?  I mean, in an era of unemployment, austerity, and alleged rethinking of values, the season’s headlines obsess about retail sales.  It would appear that Christmas has become Growth Engine #1—and I’m not talking spiritual growth.

Meanwhile, I can’t remember the last time a Christmas carol lilted through a public school.  The radio and mall soundtrack is all “Here Comes Santa Claus” and “Let it Snow.”  The Christian denominations are losing souls and houses of worship as fast as other religions are gaining them.

• Where the GAINS are

Oh sure, you can find a few expanding strains of Christianity.  And they are likely to be heavily political and opinionated (in ways that may not agree with the Beatitudes).  Or they preach the poppy ME message of Prosperity Theology: “Make Me Rich.”  As uber-triumphant (and uber-rich) Reverend Joel Osteen puts it:

God has said that he will open the windows of heaven and pour such blessing that you will not be able to contain it!”

Oh well, people are just trying to be happy, right?  And when that’s the goal, it may be better to receive than to give.  Better to focus on a personal path than consider sacrifice for world needs or relationship growth.

But the truth (if there is one) of “happiness” may hide in big-hearted, old-school stories like Christmas, not just new-age websites, shopping malls, and self-help shelves.

Search “self help books” on Google and get 191,000,000 links to explore.  Search “self help” on Amazon and ponder 155,000 “results.”  The first “result” is a book with a title that starts, “When Am I Going to Be Happy?…”

Well, “happy” may be a simplistic, self-absorbed pursuit, anyway.  Jesus never promised happiness.  That’s just what we now ask of Christmas, spirituality, and so many things.  And of course, successful living in these times is all about the asking, not so much the sharing.

Was there ever a day when Christmass meant more than merriment, Macys, and money?

I believe.

Why do politicians thrust themselves into worlds that work just fine without them?  Why do Republicans—who claim to favor unintrusive, small government—keep interfering without invitation?  The latest instance is taking place in my home state, Iowa, where elected geniuses are threatening professors’ pursuit of improvement.

Never mind that, as part of budget consciousness, Iowa has reduced its sabbaticals by half over the last two years.  Never mind that it costs only $422,283—for replacement teachers—per year.  Heck, that doesn’t even buy enough attack ads to throw an election.

Never mind that, according to the Regents, that modest sabbatical investment last year yielded $5.2 million in grants.  Wouldn’t you be in favor of an opportunity to increase your money ten-fold while upgrading your employees’ skills?

Nonetheless, a handful of pols have had it with spending money on University-sponsored research and study.  They’ve declared a verbal war on the Regents—dubbing them “arrogant” for approving 95 requested sabbaticals at the three state university.

So naturally, they’ve threatened that the Regents could be “punished” for their vote.  By that they probably mean fired—and then replaced by like nonthinking “leaders.”    But that’s only the beginning.

• Speaking of “arrogant”…

When the obstreperous elephants flap their wings and jaws, it sounds something like this:

Why should the taxpayers of Iowa be paying to basically give these folks a year off from teaching?”

asks incoming House Speaker Kraig Paulsen (whose party just won power in November).

Clearly, Mr. Paulsen fails to value education—and the university system of three impressive schools that countless Iowans have created over the decades.  His ignorance and desire to micro-manage apparently run so deep that he can’t consider that sabbaticals are a time for research, writing, collaboration, and innovation.

In fact, in 2009, according to the Associated Press, Iowa professors on sabbatical “published 147 research articles, created and updated nearly 100 classes, and submitted 50 grant applications.”

Oh and by the way, the new term—no doubt to pacify prying politicians—is “Professsional Development Assignnments.”

• Open your minds, Republicans

Some say sabbaticals can work wonders—thanks to the grants, new students (who seek out new, cutting-edge courses), and attention to the schools who still innovate.  And it goes without saying that recruiting and retention matter, and the best teachers are going to seek out the campuses that care about growth.

• Personal growth?  Career growth?  Intellectual growth?

Perhaps those things don’t matter in these terrible times.  Not in Louisiana, where Republican governor Bobby Jindal is cutting higher-ed budgets in hopes that Louisiana’s universities might decrease sabbaticals and “force professors to actually spend more time in the classrooms teaching and interacting with students.”

Maybe not in Wisconsin too, where incoming Republicans are demanding to know how much sabbaticals cost and whether they’re valid or vacations.  Kent State cancelled them too, but then reinstated them (after the faculty made some noise)—but with tighter monitoring.

• The last word…

Closed-minded lawmakers who thrive on negativity won’t listen, but thank goodness for people like John Curtis, of the American Association of University Professors, who calmly suggests:

the whole purpose of sabbatical is to allow faculty members to do research, to engage in understanding new developments in their discipline and then to bring all of that back to their teaching.”

Teaching.  Remember when that was a priority?  It seems that a lot of politicians have a lot to learn.

Finally!  Career breaks and sabbaticals are getting their moment in the sun.  Doers and dreamers are coming out of the woodwork–sharing their passion and stories.  Into this mix, another savvy trekker has stepped forward…  

Meet Michael Schneider, author of the blog On the Other Guy’s Dime.  (No, this is not a rendering of Michael, but rather a metaphorical depiction of his swashbuckling nature.)

I met Michael at our most recent Twin Cities BreakAway MeetUp and he filled me in on his Big Idea, which can be summarized thusly:

“Learn how to live and work abroad without having to reach into your own wallet or give up your regular day job. I have done it 14 separate times and you can too.”

Michael’s got this thing figured out.  In fact, he wrote the book on it!  

He also invited me to speak out on his blog, which of course I took him up on…

As one who has always raided my own booty for career breaks, my guest post tells a decidedly contrarian tale.  But would I considering working (for pay!) abroad instead of footing the bill myself? Sign me up!

Among his many accomplishments, Michael is a professor emeritus at top-notch Macalaster College in St. Paul—and an expert in taking paid (yes, PAID) assignments at exotic international locations.  He’s lived and worked abroad 14 different times, from Australia to Zimbabwe. How the heck does he do it?  

He tells all, in the book and the blog—including tips, opportunity postings and more. So go for my guest post.  But stay for the inspiration and to find out about out-of-the-blue and under-the-radar opportunities like, say, “Seeking Software Engineering Lecturers in Vietnam!”

What have you got to lose?

We Merr’kuns may still be learning our money math. But if a downturn is good for anything, it’s for ruthless fiscal forehead-gripping—for economists and Joe 6-Packs alike. 

The good news:  Americans are reducing their credit card usage.  In fact, more than 8 million people stopped actively using their cards in the past year.  Now a big part of that is because many folks have gotten their swiper taken away.  But maybe we’re also wising up, and those 20-something interest rates just don’t interest us any more. Still, the sad fact remains that the average credit card balance hovers around $5,000.  Ugh.

The bad news: Our college students admit to overall cluelessness about managing their own money, and (of course) blame their parents.  (Duh!)  

The latest digits…

• 77% of students said they didn’t feel fully prepared to manage their own money when they went to college, according to a BookRenter College Experience survey.
• 85% believed that it was a parent’s responsibility to actively teach them about money.
• 5% felt that the onus of learning about money is on them. 

The best news:  Only 5% think (I mean “feel”) the onus (what’s an “onus,” anyway?) is “on them.”  Self-esteem must be thriving, even when the fiscal fitness is getting way flabby. 

In The Graduate, Mr. Mcguire says,

I want to say just one word to you.  Just one word, Benjamin…

Yes, sir, Mr. McGuire?

Plastics.”

Could we finally have Graduated from Plastics?

Happy birthday to Me. Yep, it’s arrived: The Big 5-Oh.

Now there’s a number that screams for extreme measures. So I made a list of, oh, 50 things I might do to commemorate, celebrate, and contemplate. For the contemplation bit, a BreakAway retreat beckoned. Naturally, I wanted a spa with massage and sushi. But I chose a remote river cabin instead.

The point: Be still. As in, “Be still and know that God is God.” Not the pope, not you, not even me at 50. A prayer pamphlet on the fireplace mantle says healthy spirituality requires persistence. My marked-up copy of “Nothing Special” by a Zen master insists serenity takes practice.

Practice? Damn! Can’t someone come up with some new secrets and shortcuts?

Should the maudlin come calling, you can’t mess around. So I allow diversions—as need be. Light the fire and candles. Play some guitar (and iPod Gospel) when the silence gets shrill. Cook up healthful grub grabbed at the co-op on the way. Take pics of the river running by.

• Now there’s a metaphor…

River. Old Man. Like the years, that thing just keeps rollin’ along; what’s the rush? Yet it’s effortless to sit still beside wild waters. For one thing, my body-mind-spirit is solar-powered. Dash outside and catch some rays? Impossible. The sky, water, and horizon offer only shades of grim.

The Gods must have a crazy sense of humor to give me a November 30 birthday. Ha ha ha. The nine months this soul spent in-utero happened to be the warmest and brightest, while I gestated in the darkness.”

Hence, birthday festivities are forever fated to coincide with Seasonal Affected Disgruntlement. Deal with it.

• Re: Arrangement

For a retreat space, this knotty-pine shanty has ample creature comforts. So I gradually reorganize chairs, lights, and tables to my liking—and make a big mess. I must enjoy nesting, and still don’t travel lite. Soon enough, I’ll put every thing back in order, wipe away any evidence of my brief existence, and move on.

Moving on: Isn’t that what it’s all about?

With apologies to the hokey-pokey, five decades teaches you a lot about moving on. You can seize the day, but you can’t keep it. Your youth disappears like a blossom in the current. And your own toddlers are teenagers before you’ve tossed their Thomas the Tank Engine toys.

Honestly? I’d like them back. Not Thomas, but the days. Oh, to wobble around the carpet again with my droolers, hook up with my adolescent entourage as we prowl fearlessly but aimlessly into the night, and recreate college but with more romp and less circumstance.

• The Big 5 O.M.G.

But no. Those days gushed into the mush that brings me to exactly where I am. Yet, one trusts, the past that brought us here will carry us around the bend. This river water was so far away yesterday, will be God-knows-where tomorrow, yet is also here now. Be Here Now.

That’s what a retreat offers: A chance to sit with the past, present, and future—and see how they somehow flow into one lifestream; e’er the Twain shall meet. Such romantic notions warm my heart during yesterday’s pursuit of inner-peace through kayaking. But gradually, the darkness, like the dirty water, surrounds me.

Decomposing jack-o-lanterns with twisted smiles line the banks. Spooky. Gunshots echo through the woods and bullets bounce off trees. Deadly. Recent heavy rains and snows make the current swift with logs, dock chunks, and trash. Dangerous. A cat with one ear and sick eyes wins our staredown. Ick. A deafening motorboat with three camo-clad rednecks passes way too close and makes rough waves.

Enough creepiness—so says my survival instinct. Night is falling early (hey, it’s November); head for shore.

As I hurry, so do 50 wild turkeys—dumb as bricks and barely able to keep their heads above water as they flail from an island and barely miss me. Thanksgiving? Yes, it’s that time of year too.

• The Grateful Not-Yet Dead

Amid the haunting omens, I choose to interpret the klutzy turkeys as carrying the only message that flies: Gratitude. “Oh the Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord,” sings Johnny Appleseed and happy congregations before potluck suppers.

Still, once inside, it takes some scalding 70s Rolling Stones and a long shower to wash both chill and demons away.

But that was yesterday’s voyage. Those things have passed. For now. So let go of these digital crutches. Get out of your head and hut. Walk full of grace into that bracing, gray November day. Go paddle that perilous river—while you can.

Afterward, go ahead—sip some wine if you feel like it. It’s a Christian Brothers retreat center, after all; what righteous wine snob didn’t practice on gallons of their sweet Burgundy? Blood of Christ! Water into wine! Maybe a midlife miracle (not crisis) awaits those with faith!

After the paddle, raise a full glass to floating through five decades. No revelations. No regrets. No one but myself to toast with. But it’s good to be here.

Still.

The Minneapolis BreakAway branch proudly hosted Sherry Ott, travel guru extraordinaire, for a merry meetup on Wednesday.  Some 30 souls showed up—representing everything from experienced around-the-worlders to die-hard dreamers and schemers. 

People mingled comfortably; we even ran out of name tags.  Many stayed well after our two hours of informal presentation and Q&A.  In fact, Sherry and I barely got our dinner order in before the kitchen-closing hard-stop of 11:00. 

As usual, a host like myself leaves an event like this exhausted, inspired, and humble.  After all…

• At least half the people there have traveled at least as much as I have, and many have lived overseas and become fluent in other languages. 
• Many are proud budget vagabonders—wearing backpacks, surfing couches, and conquering third worlds with the ease some of us do Oslo. 
• The tales of woe—illness, accidents, stolen passports, holdups—make this tough gang only more stubborn and fearless. 
• This crowd was delighfully diverse.  There were Uptown natives and travelers from other countries, old and young, couples and singles, edgy urbanites and dolled-up suburban moms.

Thanks to all who showed up—literally and metaphorically.  Big ups and high-fives to my friend and collaborator, Sherry Ott.  We’ll keep our eye on her—if we can!