This past week I took a much-needed pause from the constant motion that has defined my arrival in Mérida. Between settling in, navigating a new city, and absorbing everything this residency has already begun to offer, my days have felt full to the brim. So I gave myself permission to slow down, and that decision led me to Progreso.
Progreso is remarkably easy to reach from Mérida, just a 36-minute trip from where I am staying. For someone who has lived in St. Petersburg, Florida, where beach days were frequent and familiar, I was curious to see how this stretch of the Yucatán coast would feel in comparison. What I did not expect was how deeply restorative the contrast would be.
In Florida, my relationship with the beach was often complicated by a sense of entitlement that I encountered again and again. I vividly remember someone bringing a karaoke speaker to the beach and blasting music just feet away from me. Other times, I would be stretched out on a nearly empty shoreline, only for newcomers to arrive and set up their tent uncomfortably close, as if personal space were optional. Those moments chipped away at the peace I sought in those environments.
Progreso, on this particular day, offered something entirely different. People were respectful of one another. No one played music. Families and couples gathered quietly and enjoyed nature together. I watched people fly kites, something that felt both familiar and grounding, and noticed a woman kite surfing in the distance. For a moment I worried she might drift too close to the pier, but she moved with such ease and control that the concern quickly faded. By the end of the day, I felt nourished in a way that only stillness can provide.
That sense of fulfillment followed me as I treated myself to one of the well-known restaurants along the boardwalk. When the waiter handed me the menu, I eagerly scanned it, searching for drinks, as I was craving a lemonade. I did not see beverages listed anywhere, so I kept looking back at the breakfast section at the front of the menu, assuming they might be listed there.
The waiter returned and apologized for not giving me an English menu. I explained, in Spanish, that I could understand it. Reading comes more easily to me than conversation. He gave me a look that clearly said “silly gringo,” flipped the menu to the entrées, and walked away. I laughed to myself, understanding his expression, but instead of shrinking, I leaned in and asked, “¿Cuánto cuesta la limonada?” with a brief, accidental slip into Italian that amused me. I kept my confidence and my determination to speak only Spanish.
This was the furthest I had ventured on my own without someone bilingual beside me. It felt empowering and marked an important step in building trust in myself. Language learning, I am discovering, is as much about courage as it is about vocabulary.
Back in Mérida, I realized I may have been pushing myself too hard physically. Just the night before, I had walked eight miles, or thirteen kilometers. So on Sunday, I intentionally stayed closer to “home” and visited the Museo Regional de Antropología at Palacio Cantón, followed by a tour of Casa Gemelas along Paseo de Montejo.
The anthropology museum was impressive both in content and architecture. The building itself is beautiful, and while the artifacts on display were compelling, I could not help but wish there were more Mayan relics represented. Even the Mayan guide at Uxmal mentioned that many significant artifacts are no longer in Yucatán, noting that a substantial collection is now housed in Arizona. That realization sat heavily with me. There is something deeply troubling about the way humans claim entitlement over history, removing cultural objects from their place of origin and severing them from the land and people to whom they belong. The thought echoed my earlier reflections on the beach, where entitlement also disrupted harmony.
Casa Gemelas felt like stepping into another world. The twin mansions are breathtaking, with Italian marble throughout, ornate crown molding, and details so rich they are almost overwhelming. Built during the early twentieth century at the height of Mérida’s economic prosperity, these French-style residences line Paseo de Montejo as symbols of a bygone era.
Each house contains ten bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a basement, an office, a living room, and a spacious kitchen, undeniably qualifying them as mansions by any standard. Designed by French architect Gustave Umbdenstock, the homes feature Carrara marble, Art Nouveau chandeliers, and stained glass windows, all imported from Europe. While the house on the right remains a private residence for the Molina family, the one on the left, known as Montejo 495, has been converted into a museum and is open to the public.
I am always grateful when wealth is shared in this way, when beauty and history are made accessible rather than kept behind closed doors. Some of my favorite details were the sweeping staircase, where the guide kindly took my photo, though he was a better guide than photographer, and the basement kitchen, which was modernized in 1920. The display of period dishes added a sense of intimacy, reminding me that even grand spaces were once lived in, cooked in, and filled with everyday moments.
This week offered me something essential: rest, reflection, and renewed awareness. Whether standing quietly on the shore in Progreso or wandering through the ornate halls of Mérida, I was reminded that slowing down creates space for noticing, and noticing sits at the heart of both art and presence.
As this residency continues, I am actively developing new work shaped by these experiences of place, pace, and observation. If you would like to follow along and see what I am currently working on while I am here, I invite you to sign up for my mailing list. It is the best way to stay connected and receive updates, reflections, and images from the studio as this body of work unfolds. Sign up here!