Hola from Lake Chapala, Jalisco. At least, I think that’s where I am. Frankly, the last few months have felt like I’ve been swept up in the outer wisps of a tiny tornado, unable to do anything more than watch the random bits of my life spin by.

Since I last checked in, I have:

– Uprooted from my beloved Caribbean beach town of Puerto Morelos and headed up, up, up to the mountains to Lake Chapala, to try my (formal) hand at pet sitting

– Spent May caring for a lovely pup at a beautiful home in a gated community that is anchored by a golf and country club… pretty far removed from my usual rag-tag beach bum life

– Had a flaky homeowner cancel a six-week pet sit with less than a month’s notice

– Scrambled to try to fill in six suddenly free weeks

– Found myself embroiled in drama with the crazy landlords of a June apartment rental I will always wish I had never taken

– Spent five searing hot but unforgettable days exploring magical San Miguel de Allende with my best friend of almost 40 years

– Zipped up to Montreal for a last-minute work contract (also: Indian food! Hair products!)

– Reunited with friends from Puerto Morelos in Guadalajara to tick off a bucket list item, the Jose Cuervo Express tequila train tour

– Returned lakeside to care for a home in another gated community, this time in charming Ajijic (pronounced Ah-hee-HEEK)

– Bussed back to SMA (about 7 hours) to spend two weeks house sitting for a couple I met when I was there in June – a sit that I will call nothing short of a three-ring circus (complete with 5 animals)

– Boomeranged back to Lake Chapala again to pup-sit for my original May clients, whom I now consider friends

– Somewhere in the midst of all that, got in line at the check-in counter of the wrong airline when I lost track of where I was and where I was going.

If you read my last post (Mom, and maybe like two other people?), you’ll know that most of this cacophony wasn’t part of my original, harmonious Mexico plan. The plan was to spend a full year anchored in Puerto Morelos with my ancient cat, Mimine, so she could enjoy her retirement at the ocean. Then, a few months later when M moved on and I moved to the lake to begin executing plan B, just two house sits were meant to take up the rest of the summer until my departure for Atlanta mid-August. In that scenario—two homes over 10 weeks—I could unpack both physically and mentally, settle in, and explore what life is like here. But as we all know, the best way to ensure our plans go to shit is to make some.

While all the bouncing around may sound adventurous, it is also exhausting. On top of the mental stress of always wondering where I’m going to be living next, the Jenga tower of planes, trains and automobiles that perches precariously on my ability to plan, schedule and strategize teeters and threatens to topple with every decision I make (or don’t make). My unexpectedly peripatetic life is held together by gravity and patience.

Certainly, some of the chapters of this screwy story have been penned by yours truly. Nobody forced me onboard the tequila train, or into the cobblestone streets of San Miguel to meet up with my BFF. But, when in Rome. Because, at the same time that I am physically and mentally drained from this real-life game of Pong (if you’re younger than me you may need to Google that), I also try to remind myself regularly that I am here! in Mexico. And it is always very suddenly next week, or next month, or next quarter. It seems almost impossible that I am coming up on my one-year anniversary of living here. Time is moving at warp speed and I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of what this incredible country has to offer.

Yet I do fall into moments of missing my big, cheap, comfortably cluttered Verdun apartment. A place where I am surrounded by familiarity, where I can exhale and not have to plan (or pack) a thing. A place where there are no surprises and nothing to worry about or strategize; where the knives are always sharp, and I have wardrobe options and a gym membership and mobile data that never runs out. A physical home, some might say.

And I think it’s OK to have those moments. Sometimes it’s all about the adventure, but like my wise friend Nora (aka The Professional Hobo) once confessed to me, “Sometimes you just want sushi, Netflix, and comfortable furniture.”

The trick is to acknowledge those moments and then let them go. Because when it comes to having a place to call home, there currently is no Plan B. So, after a few moments of crying into my margarita, I suck it up, pack it up, and keep moving. I will continue to redraw this rogue route as I fumble along.

It’s certainly not for everyone. There’s a reason people face the direction the bus or train or subway is coming from when they’re waiting. It doesn’t change a thing, but it makes us feel reassured and prepared. We like feeling that our plan is going to unfold right on schedule.

The next legs of my journey promise to deliver a disorienting concoction of contrasts. I’ll be pulling 18-hour workdays in Atlanta but staying in a nice hotel, where I won’t be responsible for a thing! If I’m really lucky, there will even be a bathrobe and slippers. From there I’ll be jetting up to familiar stomping grounds in Ontario to visit with family, overeat, and make memories. A train ride to Montreal follows, for a mix of tactical executions (hair salon, medical appointments, storage space, etc.), much-anticipated quality time with friends, and stocking up on creature comforts. Then, finally, it’s back to my beautiful little Puerto Morelos, where I’ll do my best to balance beach time with navigating the tangled and infuriating net of Mexican bureaucracy as I wade into the process of renewing my temporary residency.

At present, I have no plan at all past October 21.

One important thing I have realized over these past few months: I miss the ocean terribly. I will tuck this seashell of information into my pocket and run my fingers over its chalky smooth surface whenever I’m feeling lost. It is my compass.