Death of the Father

I looked at my watch. 5:00 PM, Wednesday. A little more than two years ago, 5:00 PM on a Wednesday would have meant that I was sitting in my office prioritizing my Franklin Planner task list for the next day, and contemplating my walk to BART. Today I’m speeding across the Mexican countryside in my pathfinder, returning from a neighboring village. The back of the 4 X 4 is loaded with building materials for my ranchito. Dozing in the passenger seat is my attractive, 28 year old Mexican boyfriend, his slender light brown hand resting on my thigh as the Three Tenors blares on the CD player. Surreal. It is hard to believe that a life can change so dramatically, so quickly.

Months have passed since the paragraph above was written. It seems that when happiness comes, the balance of grief is not far behind.

First, let me thank everyone for your kind words of condolence after the death of my father. While I wept at my screen, it was really therapy. Since his death, I’ve been in a rather poor space. A sort of fog that then became an illness. After antibiotics, antidepressants and lots of bed rest, I’m a little better now. But the grieving is far from over and I have good days and bad.

Dad came to me with fluid in his lungs, after a fall in Eureka that cracked one of his ribs. Shortly after he arrived, he developed bronchitis. We cured that but his energy and breathing never recovered. And then his mind began to play tricks on him.

“Amigo, who were all those people here last night?”
“What people dad?”
“There were all these people dressed in black, wandering around the casita.”
“Rod, Christine and I were watching a movie down stairs, otherwise no one was here.”
“It seemed so real.”

And another day:

“Mary, get that information they left. Look in the drawers. It was printed on a tee shirt.” Dad said in English to his nurse who speaks none.
“Dad, what are you looking for?”
“This morning two personal trainers got out of my shower. One was a beautiful blond and the other a dark man. They rested a bit, probably because they needed to after the shower, if you know what I mean. The man told me about a gym membership with only a few more spaces left. I think it might be a good deal. The information was printed on a tee shirt that must be around here someplace.”
“Dad, I’m having a hard time believing that two personal trainers took a shower here.”
He looked at Mary and smiled. “She knows more than she’s telling.”
Mary smiled and looked a little confused.
“Here’s the deal. No matter how good the program was, we’re not signing up. You’re not in any shape to go to a gym. You can’t even get up and down the stairs. I want you to start walking on the roof and getting your strength back. Once you’re in shape, we can look into going to a gym and I’m sure that what ever deal they were offering, we can find a comparable one once you’re ready.”
“O.k. Amigo.”

Shortly thereafter we moved Dad downstairs. The weather had warmed up plus the casita was rented so we didn’t have any choice. He only made it down the first few steps and after that, Rod, Mary and I carried him to his bed. His legs just gave out. He had not a lick of energy to spare.

We now had an oxygen tank (which after days of looking all over San Miguel, found the requisite regulator two blocks from the house in an unmarked new business), a humidifier and around the clock nursing care. We didn’t like the attitude of the first doctor so we did some research, with the help of a retired U.S. doctor now living in Mexico, and found a geriatric specialist. Dr. Jessica had a great bedside manner, looked him over far more thoroughly than the previous doctor, and agreed to take the case.

He was sleeping a great deal. I told one of the nurses that it must be pretty boring, sitting there while he is sleeping and they should all feel free to step out of the room, read a book, watch T.V., whatever. Rodrigo translated, “Sometimes he reaches out for their hand in his sleep and they want to be there for him.” At night, one of the nurses slept on a mattress on the floor next to his bed.

“Sometimes I can’t tell them apart”, Dad told me (they’re all sisters), “But the one during the day gives the best massage.”

We put Dad in a chair while we placed the water mattress on the bed. “When can I get back in bed?” he asked.
“All you’re doing is lying in bed. That is why we need this special mattress. You’re getting bed sores.”
“Well I think I deserve it today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I found 20 jackets for the Australians.”
“World War II,” I thought to myself. And as we lifted him back into the bed he said, “You can just put the lamb here in my lap.”
“What lamb is that dad?”
“Susan was here earlier with a lamb.”
“Well, we don’t have any lambs here right now but I can provide you with a very affectionate cocker spaniel if you’d like.”
He smiled, “That’s ok.”

The night he died, two nurses, Rodrigo and Christine were there. We went into the room. He was sleeping but every breath sounded labored. “I don’t really know what a death rattle sounds like,” I said, “But if you were to ask me what he is doing right now is pretty much what I’ve always imagined.”
“Yes” was all that Christine said.

We were sitting in the kitchen moments later when one of the nurses rushed in and told us to call the doctor immediately. We ran to my father’s bedroom and I saw the head nurse (Celia) with a stethoscope on his chest shaking her head. I fell to my knees and grasped his hand as he exhaled his last breath. I wept like a Greek widow. (In fact, if Greek widows want grieving lessons, I can provide them.) I didn’t care who was there, who was listening, whatever. This was the man who was my pillar in life, the man who had come back from every former death scare and continued to be my father. I kept thinking, “We’re not done! You haven’t lived at the house I’m building for you!” Celia held his mouth closed as I wept and wailed.

The rest of the night is kind of a fog. It was nearly midnight on a work night as friends began to fill the house. I looked over as Cynthia and Victor lifted their pant legs and compared pajamas. Cynthia’s were a flower pattern while Victor had little space men. The doctor arrived, the men from the crematorium, Rodrigo handled it all as I stared into my wine glass. The other nurses arrived.

The next morning the doctor came back with all the requisite paperwork. I was a jellyfish in bed. Rodrigo took care of everything.

That afternoon Marcos called. “We’re with your dad. They are about to cremate him. Do you want to come?”
“No. I want to remember him like he was. I don’t want that image.”
“I understand. And I want you to know that Mary is here. She has never left him. She hasn’t slept all night.”

And that night people came with food and support. The nurses requested photos of Don Carlos that I printed off of my computer. The next day they delivered his ashes in a simple wood box. It seemed so light compared to the man that we carrier to bed only a few days before.

A few weeks later Rodrigo and I went to see his new nephew in Cuernavaca, and to meet his parents. I had a little meltdown when I realized that we were going to have to visit the family for a third time. “We’re not going to see them tomorrow so we need to have dinner with them tonight.”

I’d already endured two meetings. There was the initial meeting and then the “comida” the next day where everyone ran to visit with the new baby upstairs and left me alone downstairs. No one in the family speaks English and my Spanish was barely good enough for a wine conversation with the ex-monk father while the bible-pounding Catholic mother served the meal. But then I had a revelation of sorts. I’m whining about meeting the parents while Rodrigo, at 28 years old, has dealt with dying, death, doctors, funeral homes, etc., all for me, and has not missed a beat. I’m stressing over meeting the rather un-excepting family. Let’s put things in perspective.

When we got to the hotel I closed the door and fell to my knees. “I need to beg your forgiveness. After all that you have done for me I was so selfish. I know that this is important to you and I have been a bad partner. Please forgive me.” Rodrigo pulled me to my feet. “Don’t ever do that again. I know what you’re going through. You don’t need to apologize.”

Where are we now? As I was leaving the ranchito, Mary, my father’s primary caregiver whom we’ve hired to manage the house, said something in Spanish to me about my father’s ashes.
“Rod, can you come here for a minute. I don’t understand what Mary is saying about dad’s ashes.”
Mary repeated what she’d said to Rodrigo.
“She wants to say goodbye to his ashes.”
I took the box out of my bag and set it on the table. Mary bent down and kissed the box, “Adios Don Carlos”, she said while patting the box. I then fell apart for a spell.

Now I’m off the antibiotics, off the antidepressants and am taking care of business. I’ve brought my dad’s ashes to the U.S., done my taxes and, as the trustee, I am working on settling the estate. I only gave myself 10 days in the U.S. Otherwise, fax, email, etc., will have to suffice.

Rod and I are living at the ranchito with six dogs and one cat. (He is not only a vet but a handler and a breeder.) Building and infrastructure challenges persist, as does the random brush fire. The rainy season is around the corner. It can’t come soon enough for me although I know that it will present yet new challenges.

Fire and Fortune

Before returning to the states, I had hired a personal assistant. Alejandro (yes, the one who trashed my apartment last year) owed me money and I thought that I could deduct what he owed me from his weekly paycheck. It had occurred to me that I was relaying too much on my bi-lingual friends to help me with the construction project so I thought that this made sense. (He does prattle on in a metaphysical, existential kind of way but I’m learning how to tune him out. He is after all, only 21 years old and spent the last six months banging chicks in Cancun and now he has to tag along with a middle-aged gringo.)

Both Alejandro and I thought it might be a good idea to get a Mexican driver’s license. When we asked what it would take I found out that I’d have to take a written test, in Spanish. So Alejandro asked if they had a book that we could study from. Yes, they did. One, only one, which they reluctantly loaned to us so that we could go take copies. (I think I’ll deal with this next year.)

I was driving back from the ranchito with Alejandro and Brian when we passed a restaurant where someone was being taken out on a stretcher and stuffed into an ambulance. “Don’t eat there,” was Brian’s comment.

Alejandro’s job with me was probably the cushiest job he ever worked. It turned out that aside from the occasional translation services at the ranch he mostly helped me shop. Sometimes I’d have him make me breakfast. The day before I left for the states I gave him two weeks’ pay and told him, “Your job for the next two weeks is to find yourself another job.”

After a brief stay in Oakland my cousins and I collected Dad at the San Francisco airport. I explained at the ticket counter that he needed a wheelchair and that he was traveling alone. They gave me a gate pass so that I could meet him. He teared up a bit when I asked him about leaving Eureka. Apparently my nephew had gotten very emotional at his departure and it clearly affected Dad. This is very tough on the family as at 92 years old, there is the prospect that they will never see him again.

That night, at the Mexicana ticket counter, the agent recognized me. “I’ve checked you in before.” I explained that I have traveled back and forth a great deal and that now I was taking my father down to live with me. He looked over my shoulder at my father in his wheelchair and promptly bumped us up to first class.

I returned to the house on Vergel to find that Evita, my dog that I saved from the wilderness, had learned several things while I was away. How to bark, how to howl, and that there is a cat that walks across the wall at one end of the courtyard that she clearly wants to eat. Exhausted from the trip I wanted nothing but to sleep. The dog kept barking and jumping at the wall. To elevate herself she hopped up on the edge of the fountain and was running laps around it when I heard the splash. I beat her to the door just before she dragged her soaking body into the house.

Dad is settling in fairly well. The problem here is that the temperature at night has dropped to freezing and the heat sources in the house are not sufficient to keep him warm. He was spending most of his days in front of a heater. My sister and niece arrived before Christmas. “He has this sore on his butt that you have to dress every day,” my sister explained.
“I’m not doing that,” I said.
“You get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it. I’m not doing that. I’ll hire someone to do that.”

One day Dad said, “I need the bandage on my butt changed.”
“I’ll send my sister right over.” (I ended up doing it.)

Christmas was very casual. Seven month pregnant Karla came over with her husband Mauricio and we had a great traditional gringo dinner. Karla told Dad that he shouldn’t eat too much garlic because it will make him fart. Then she told us about a tonic that her mother made for her using herbs and Karla’s own urine. “She made a tonic for Mauricio too.”

I looked at Mauricio. “Dude, you’re drinking your own pee.”

“It’s good!” he said.

One night my niece Susan was sitting at the computer while I sat in a chair with Evita in my lap. My father was sitting in his chair across from me. Susan asked me if Evita’s vet bills were expensive. I explained that Rodrigo, my vet, wanted to support my effort to save her and I had a hard time getting him to accept any money. Then I said, “And then he became my boyfriend and now it is impossible.” Dad got a big smile on his face.

Marcos called a couple days ago and asked if I’d been out to the ranch. “Not today,” I told him.
“Then you don’t know about the fire?”
“What fire?”
“There is a brush fire out in that area. It has been burning all day. Your house is fine but as we speak, your yard is on fire.”

I rushed out to the property with my sister and niece. Sure enough, one entire side of the property and around the back had burned. But just the grass, all the trees were fine. However, there were still hot spots, a couple of fence posts were on fire and a grass fire was spreading up towards the back of the house dangerously close to a pile of lumber. My sister and I spent the next several hours dragging a hose around the property while my niece stood on a dirt pile and watched a fiesta and horse race at the neighboring horse ranch.

Dad has bronchitis right now and it has me a little worried. The doctor has been here twice and she says that he is improving. His breathing is extremely labored but she says that it is to be expected. We moved him up to the casita where it is warmer and he is much more comfortable. He can’t leave, however, as he can’t handle the stairs down. I feel a little like I’ve locked him in a tower like poor Ruppenzel and he doesn’t have any hair to let down.

Last night Rodrigo and I got back to the house after dinner and we went up to check on Dad. Despite the fact that it was 1:00 in the morning I could tell that he was awake. I went in and sat on the edge of the bed. Rodrigo stood in the doorway. Dad seemed a little disoriented and was explaining something about forgetting his mantra. “But I found my book and now I remember it.” Then he looked over at Rodrigo. “Thank you for taking care of my son,” he said. (I almost cried. What changes our lives have taken.)

Dogs and Tiles

So I’ve been trying to pick out the tile for the house, the whole house. It is a little daunting because once it goes down, if I don’t like it, it is no one’s fault but my own. Plus, walking into the tile store and trying to obtain samples from a 16 year old girl who prefers to add numbers on her cell phone calculator than to use the perfectly good adding machine sitting right next to her, can get on one’s nerves.

Fortunately, I met an interior designed from Houston who volunteered her assistance. She is a 34 year old buxom dizzy blond pot head but when it comes to picking out tile samples she is a dynamo. I also believe that she stopped me from making a very big mistake on color. She is only here until Friday but I think we nailed down our choices yesterday so tomorrow I need to go place the order. However, first I need to meet with the builders, find out how many square meters of each and then go to the tile store and try to negotiate a discount given the size of my order (living room, dining room, kitchen, hallways, three bedrooms and two bathrooms). And all in Spanish unless I can find someone to translate for me.

The workers are nearly done removing all the paint from the stone and have started smoothing the non-stone walls. I imagine about one or two more weeks on the interior before they start putting the house back together. I’ve already purchased a stove, refrigerator, two queen beds, two microwaves (one for the future casita), a blender, comforter, pillows, one sink, and flatware. They are all in storage until the house is ready to receive. But I still need to buy sink pedestals, toilets, plumbing hardware, etc. The list seems endless.

Tapete, the volunteer dog, appears to be gone. However, I was out at the ranchito with Christine and Erin, looking at our tile samples. I said, “Lets step into the office and discuss our choices,” the office being a plastic table on the back patio. As we approached the table Christine said, “Who’s that?” and pointed to a purebred cocker spaniel curled up in the corner. I asked the workers if she belonged to anyone and they said no, she did not. Upon closer look, she was all skin and bones, problems with her eyes and feet and something on her snout that looked like the result of a fight. I went and got the dog dishes and dog food (previously purchased for Tapete) and put water and food out for her. She crawled from the corner, her fir like dread locks, ate, and then returned to the corner. This was Friday and since then I’ve been feeding her.

I spent the weekend largely at a dog show. It was difficult to see how well cared for the show dogs were and then to go up and feed my ratty little cocker. So I bought her a bed at the show and Marcos and Victor came up with their little mutt “Rhonda”. The cocker came out of the corner to meet Rhonda and then walked over and put her nasty little infected feet on my lap and looked into my eyes. So today, my vet friend Rodrigo came out with his kit. He says that she is only about 3 years old. She has eye infections, ear infections, infections on her feet and nose. We started the antibiotics and anti-inflammatory today. (House call and medicine, total $25 USD.) Thursday he will pick her up, sedate her and shave her completely. We think she can be saved. So I guess now we need to name her.

Today was “Dia de los Muertos” (Day of the Dead) so most places were closed for business (including my maids and workers). I spent the morning at the ranchito and really didn’t want to drag myself out of the hammock (once the vet left) but went and had a lovely lunch with Alex, Andrea, Melanie, Alejandro and Alejandro’s mother (her 67th birthday) and then we all went to the cemetery. As like last year, an amazing spectacle as people poured in to share that day when the veil between the living and the dead is most thin. Graves were decorated, some hired bands to play music for their deceased, one grave included tequila, a disk player and headphones. The gringo side of the cemetery was empty and many gringo friends said, “When I go, bury me on the Mexican side. For them it is about life.”

I should be back in the states for a brief visit (and to renew my tourist visa and California driver’s license) around the 28th of November. I haven’t decided when I’ll be returning to Mexico yet so I’ll probably purchase a one-way ticket. Ticket prices are through the roof in December but at the same time, I suspect that I will be at the detail stages on the remodel down here and can’t afford to be away long.

You’ll all probably be watching the election results tonight. There are several events covering them here in town but the word is that nothing will be decided until mid-day tomorrow. So I’ll skip the social scene tonight and stay in (I don’t have U.S. television) and check the results on the internet tomorrow. Something tells me that I may have a lot more visitors evaluating the prospects of living abroad.

Golf at the Ranchito

We’ve been trying to think of a name for the ranch, my friends and I. Nothing seemed to feel right. The old name was Rancho Obregon, after the family who owned the entire area. But everything we came up with seemed trite or overused. (Alejandro wants me to call it the “O Gay Corral”.) My workers passed me their invoice for the weeks work and at the top of the page it read, “Rancho del Padre” – Ranch of the father. I was so touched. They remembered our conversations about me creating a home for my father in San Miguel and came up with the name themselves. Plus, everyone says that it fits even for me because I’m such a “Dad” to all the young people in my circle of friends down here.

The first day that I had the place to myself, I was standing in the yard when I detected movement out of the corner of my eye. The cutest little female dog came crouching down the driveway, tail curled around. The tenants had told me that there was a sweet red dog that came by to be fed in the evenings and asked if I would continue to feed her. This was the dog. So off I went to the market to buy dog food. She came back again when I had a little party to celebrate getting the place. One has to lie on the ground to get close enough to pet her. We named her “Tapete” which means “Rug” because she approaches close to the ground, like a moving rug. I haven’t seen her since construction started so I fear that she may have been scared away.

We’re two weeks into construction. Actually it is demolition right now so every day it looks worse. My life has changed dramatically. To bed by 11:00, up by 8:00, lists of things to do, purchase, investigate. The good news, six workers working from 8:00 in the morning to 6:00 in the evening, five days a week, plus a half a ton of sand and cement, less than $900.00 USD. (But I’m not being fooled, materials and furnishing the place is what is going to get me. I do, after all, have exceptional taste.) I found it funny that one day I arrived at lunchtime to find a fire built in one corner of the yard and the workers roasting corn.

I’ve asked the architect to give me his ideas where I should put a swimming pool, pool house and casita on the property. Monday he is meeting with Marcos and I with his vision, and then we are going to the tile store to show him the master bath that I want. I keep increasing the scope of work so who knows when this project will be done. I have a lease on the rental house until May of next year and it may take every day of that. Instead of just making the main house livable, I’m remodeling everything. Every room, every bathroom, the kitchen, the patios, etc. And this is all before the pool and casitas. It is just far easier to get the messy stuff out of the way when one is not living on the premises. The out buildings will have to wait until the main house is ready.

Data point: Since purchasing the property and bringing friends out there, people are asking me if other lots are for sale. And there are. There is something so tranquil about the area; I never want to go back into town when I’m out there.

A flat tire took half a day to remedy but having the tire changed twice (temporary tire on, then temporary tire off) and having it repaired cost a total of around $10.00 USD. They didn’t charge me at the Nissan repair place for the tire changes, “Just tip the boy 20 pesos.” If you don’t put a value on your time, and do it the Mexican way, you can find some cheap deals. And the system, as well. I purchased the Pathfinder with a cracked windshield that got progressively worse given the terrain here. When I ordered a new one from the Nissan service station the woman asked if I had insurance. I said yes, I did. She said I’d only have to pay 20% of the cost if I claimed it on my insurance. But the crack was there before I got the insurance. She shrugged and asked, “What else is insurance for?” New windshield, $85.00 USD.

When I arrived at the ranch this afternoon (Saturday, no workers) I burst out laughing as I drove through the gate. Paola was giving Christina a golf lesson in front of the house. Paola’s mother was lounging in the hammock. We spent the day under the trees (it is about 80 degrees this time of year), eating and hitting golf balls and playing soccer with Pancho, a 10 year old neighbor of Paola’s mother. Pancho is 10 but looks five. Paola’s mother, a doctor, believes that it is due to malnutrition at some critical stage in his life or during his mother’s pregnancy. He is one of 10 children. At one point Christina fashioned a belt for him out of some rope because his pants kept falling down while he was playing. Paola’s mother pays for all his school clothes and materials and brought him his first birthday cake when he turned nine.

I want to chronicle all that is happening, every impression, vision, challenge, success, and lesson. But my days are being eaten up. I found myself on the verge of tears while sitting in my realtor’s office complaining about the failure of the notario to produce the “title deed” for the house. I told them that my father is 92 years old and that this is affecting his health and the tears started to well up. (Marcos tells me that it is the stress of the remodel and that I will get better as I get used to it.) The realtor assures me that I’m not the only one in this boat; he has a list of clients that are waiting, some with million dollar plus properties. Real estate here has gone up 30% in one year. The market is hot and the city and notarios can’t handle the volume. Plus, this notario is going through a divorce and they think that might have something to do with it. Our next plan is for me to pitch a tent in front of the office with a sign on the outside that says, “Waiting for Title Deed.”

Bob and Karen were here for their third visit. They bought an amazing lot and are going to build an amazing house (don’t be in a hurry for your title deed). I’m so excited that we’re going to be neighbors. Actually, it is not as if they are going to live next door, they’re in town. But only maybe 10 minutes away. So far, no one is far away. But the town is growing by leaps and bounds. And Victor, my friend and real estate agent, tells me that he hopes that Bush gets re-elected because it is great for his business. All the fed-up gringos buying homes in Mexico.

Driving, etc.

Driving in Mexico is proving to be interesting. Andrew says that they don’t have so much “Traffic Laws” but rather “Traffic Suggestions.”

For example, “Yield” means almost nothing at all. If it means anything, it is more like “Accelerate rapidly into fast moving traffic”. “Alto” or Stop means that other cars are probably coming and one should accelerate or decelerate as required to fit into the flow. A red light works about the same way. “Alto Completo” or Stop Completely means Yield. Speed limit signs are easy. Just double them.

“No Estacionamiento” or No Parking does mean No Parking and the police will take your license plates. When one returns to one’s car and finds it without plates, one must find the requisite Transito office in that particular city to pay the fine after which the plates are returned (if they can find them).

Backing down the street can circumvent the complexity of a one-way street when there is no oncoming traffic.

If you see a sign depicting a picture of a bull, there will be a bull in the road at some point, guaranteed. Even if you don’t see a sign, there is a good chance there will be a bull or a goat, donkey, chicken, dog, horse or even a person. And this is on the freeways.

Slow moving trucks are a challenge. Most of the roads are only two lanes so one has to pull out into the lane of oncoming traffic in order to pass. Truckers are very helpful and will turn on their left turn signal as a sign that it is safe to pass. (However, on rare occasions they are actually turning left so one has to be very cautious.)

On multi-lane roads, the little white dotted lines that divide the lanes mean nothing. The entire road belongs to everyone and everyone should use as much of it as possible. Some times they don’t even bother with lines and one just needs to determine whether one fits or not.

I believe that “Topes” or speed bumps were invented in Mexico and they are very proud of them. They appear at random and are marked about 50% of the time. If one doesn’t wish to become airborne, it is good to have a Tope spotter in the passenger seat.

Pick-up trucks with open beds should include an entire family in the open bed. A horse is also a viable alternative.

Motorcycles should be ridden without a helmet. It is also preferable to balance a small child on the handlebars.


Cynthia invited me to accompany her on a trip to Queretero. She was shopping for supplies for her hotel and this was before I had a car so I jumped at the chance.

Our first stop was Home Depot where I purchased a toilet seat at a very reasonable price. Second stop was Costco where I bought a couple of small items and Cynthia filled two carts. Back out at her car she opened the back of her PT Cruiser, folded down the back seats and proceeded to demonstrate her expert packing skills. While doing so she turned to me, “I put the toilet seat on the roof,” she said. I acknowledged her comment and went around to the passenger side to put my small stash under the front seat. I heard the back door slam and we both climbed in. Off we went to another store where we purchased hard to find food items.

As we were leaving town, a thought occurred to me. “Did you put the toilet seat back in the car?”

“You’re kidding, right?” was her response. I just gave here a blank stare.

We pulled over and poked around inside the car to see if one of us had unconsciously put it inside. On the top of the pile was a 50-pound bag of dog food that Cynthia had picked up for one of her employees. It proved difficult to maneuver around the bag and we felt reasonably certain that a toilet seat was not to be found. So we drove back to the Costco parking lot to see if there was a toilet seat lurking anywhere. Spotting nothing Cynthia pulled into a space near the entrance. Two men where sitting in the shade of a tree, talking. Cynthia got out to go inside to see if anyone had turned it in.

I decided to take one more look so I got out and opened the rear passenger door. As I was moving the bag of dog food it caught on the edge of a box and began to tear. Dog food started to spill out. The more I tried to move the bag to stop the flow, the more it tore. Dog food began spilling out into the parking lot. The two men stopped talking and just watched as I wrestled with the bag, attempting to turn it over as a cascade of the stuff rolled down my front and spilled out onto the ground. I managed to flip the bag over by which time it was split completely in half on one side. I shoveled as much back in as I could.

Cynthia returned empty handed and we went back to Home Depot and bought another toilet seat.

Suffice to say that we had to keep the windows open the entire ride back to San Miguel as the smell of dog food was overpowering. Cynthia found little nuggets of the stuff in her car for weeks to come. And every time we return to Costco, we keep an eye open for that toilet seat.


On Thursday I attended a potluck a few doors down from my house. It was hosted by Beverly, a psychologist and one of the founders of “Life Path”. (Life Path is sort of a self-help organization here and the party was for current and former graduates. I am neither but I know several people who have been through the program as well as the four people who run the retreats.)

It was an interesting event, attended by about 30 people. A Mexican boy met everyone at the door and took our dishes into the kitchen. The food was excellent and conversation was typical of gringo social events. “How long have you lived in San Miguel? What brought you here?” Etc.

After everyone had consumed food and drink there was a call to attention as Joseph, Michael and Beverly stood in a line at one end of the living room. Beverly asked everyone to introduce himself or herself and to say a few words about their Life Path experience. As everyone spoke I noticed that the training must include some kind of numerology as nearly everyone started with, “Hi, my name is such and such and I’m a 5 . . .” or “I’m a 1” or “7” or whatever. I didn’t have a clue what any of these numbers were supposed to mean and I appeared to be alone in my ignorance.

They’d gotten through nearly all the group when Beverly spotted me sitting on the floor behind a chair. “I see you back there Charles. Can we have a few words from you?”

So I stood. “Hi, my name is Charles and I’ve lived in San Miguel on and off for about two years now. I find the place very special and am making it my primary residence. I was a banker for 22 years and moved here to escape corporate America and reinvent myself. I’ve not attended Life Path but somehow seem to be drawn to people who have been through the program and am friends with a number of them. And,” I hesitated a moment, “I’m not sure what all this number stuff is about but the last time I measured I was about a six and a half.”

There was a brief silence and then the crowd exploded with laughter. One woman held her fingers out to about three inches and said, “I’m from Texas and men there tell us that this is six inches!” More laughter. I was called “Mr. Six and a Half” the rest of the evening and something tells me that someone will shout the name out to me in the Jardin one day.

Registering the Car

Car buying, stage 2.

So my young friend Alejandro is back in town. You may remember him as the kid who trashed my old apartment. He was my Spanish tutor and got kicked out of his apartment two weeks before he was to return to Canada. Since I was going to be gone I offered him my place. “I won’t tell anyone that I’m staying here,” he had told me. Reports from my Landlords was that there was a party every night, the house was a mess when he left, both toilets “Full to the top with shit,” according to Francois, the owner, and they had to pay the housekeeper extra to clean everything before I returned. And on one night, when Ana Bella was home alone, she looked out the window and was terrified when she saw young men climbing over the wall. Alejandro had lost his keys and convinced the neighbors to allow him to climb over from their side. “He was such a nice boy,” Francois said, “He just like to party a lot.”

Between the extra housekeeping expense and his phone bill, he wound up owing me about $150 USD, which he assured me via email, that he would pay. That was a year ago and while I’ve seen no money, he has kept in touch and even invited me to Cancun to stay for free at a hotel where he was working. (I declined, as that was the week that my family was here in San Miguel.)

So he’s back in San Miguel for a couple of months and has managed to burn through all the money that he saved while working at the hotel. I helped him put together a resume and he now has leads on two jobs here. He wanted to do some work for me to repay his debt. “How about a gardener? Do you need a gardener?”

“No,” I told him, “A gardener comes with the house. But what you can do is help me with translation services. I have to get my car registered and when the construction starts on the house I’ll need someone to translate to the builders.”

(I’ll explain this in dollars so that we don’t have to convert between pesos and dollars.)

On the first attempt at getting the car registered we were told that the state of Guanajuato imposes a title transfer fee of $350. And, since the transfer between the first and second owner was never completed we’d need to pay $700 to get it registered. The man in the office was very nice and told us that we should get this taken care of in Queretaro because it would be cheaper. My initial gringo response was to just throw money at the problem and get it resolved but Alejandro was adamant that we should at least make the attempt. He called the dealer who, understandably, didn’t want to pay the fee for his half because it is not required in the state where he sold the car. So, cash in pocket we returned to the Transito in San Miguel. Even with the cash we were told that we needed to have the car investigated to ensure that it was not stolen. “I did that in Queretaro before I bought the car,” I explained. “That is a different state, you have to have in done here in Guanajuato as well.” (Heaven forbid the agencies should work together.)

Off we went through the back roads of San Miguel, Alejandro asking directions out the window of the car as we wound our way through town. They took us immediately at the investigations office and about an hour later we were good to go. Alejandro and I agreed to meet the next morning and drive to Queretaro. “We don’t even know where in Queretaro the Transito is,” I explained. “It is a city of a million people. How are we going to find this place?”

“I’ll ask around when we get there.”

After the 45 minute drive I took the only exit that I know in Queretaro. The exit to Costco, Walmart, Sam’s club, etc. After asking around and driving in circles for about an hour we found the place right across the freeway from Office Max and Home Depot. Inside we were directed to the appropriate window where we stood in line filling out the requisite form. I was prepared. I’d heard stories about government offices so I had a folder with three copies of everything under the sun.

The official seemed convinced that we would be lacking something. Every time he asked for a document and we gave it to him, he’d push it back saying that we needed a copy, which I would then pull out of the folder. He said that we’d have to turn in the license plates so Alejandro borrowed a screwdriver from him and went out to the car while I waited at the window. Then the man glanced at one of the copies and ran out of the building while I stood there helpless. A few minutes later he returned with Alejandro, without the plates, and said that we needed to speak with the manager.

The manager pointed to a receipt from 1999 and said that it was not valid because it did not display the year of the vehicle. (Never mind that the serial number and engine number were both depicted.) She said that we would need to find the owner from 1999 and have a proper receipt prepared. Alejandro asked if some money would take care of this but she said that it was a legal document and it needed to be accurate and then she walked off. The man whispered to Alejandro. “What did he say?” I asked. “He says that we should just find a typewriter and type 1997 on the form.”

That night, back in San Miguel, I scanned the document into my computer, selected the right font, the right grey scale, etc., and produced a near perfect document. I picked Alejandro up the next morning at 9:30. “If this doesn’t work, I’m just going to drive an unregistered car. This is so stupid. I gave the man his money, he gave me the car, and this should be a done deal.”

It worked (with the help of $20 slipped to the man behind the window). The front plate wasn’t attached with screws so Alejandro borrowed a pair of pliers from a taxi driver, removed the plates and turned them in. After we drove back to the Transito in San Miguel. We had a little difficulty as I don’t really have an address at the new house. It is in the contract as Lot number such and such. “It is a ranchito,” we explained. I paid for the plates and, after six different trips to four different Transito offices over the course of four days, we were done. Total cost, $175 USD. With patience, Alejandro’s help and a tank of gas, I saved over $500.

This is the kind of red tape that drives gringos out of Mexico.
Alejandro is trying to decide what to do in life and I spent an evening playing big brother. I explained how I started out in life thinking that ‘things’ would make me happy. Then I was sitting there with all my ‘things’ and wasn’t happy. I found that experiences are what motivate me in life and ‘things’ do not make me happy. “Except my new truck,” I had to admit. It has made me very happy. Being able to drive to neighboring towns, throw stuff in the back, etc., has changed my life here. I can hardly stop smiling.


It was Independencia Wednesday night. Alex had a group of us over to his rooftop patio to hear the grito (the cry for independence) and to watch the subsequent fireworks. Mary Elena was there from the ranch, seven centimeters dilated with her seventh child.

The grito was really moving. An announcer would read from the balcony of Allende’s former home and during designated sections the crowd would scream, “Viva!” Their cries could be heard throughout the city. This was followed by an impressive display of fireworks. I’ve seldom seen such patriotism anywhere.

On the house front, I’ve got builders scheduled to begin work on the morning of October 4th. However, I just received an email from my tenants who are building in La Manzanilla. They want to delay their departure for a week so I need to check with my builders to see if this is going to be a problem. It is the first construction delay and construction has not even begun. “Patience,” I tell myself. “If you are going to survive this thing, patience.”

The Car Purchase

Car buying, stage 1.

My objective was to purchase an old beater truck, nothing too nice, but functional for the new “Ranchito”. Lacking the presence of any used car dealerships here in San Miguel, I enlisted the help of my friend Karla. Karla’s husband is the bass player in the band Pila Seca and they recently left for tour in the U.S., leaving 5-month pregnant Karla behind. I promised Mauricio (her husband) that I would keep an eye on her so what better way than to get her to help me buy a truck.

Karla is not like the pregnant women that I met growing up. Instead of wearing large blousy tops to conceal her condition, she wears tiny tee shirts that leave her bulging middle exposed. Karla is so petite that at five months pregnant she looks seven months and her tummy is out there for the world to see.

After a fruitless internet search Karla suggested that we call her Uncle in Queretaro to see if he knew of any used car dealerships. Not only did he know of a couple but he agreed to takes us to them.

The next morning we set out in Karla’s car. I drove as her condition makes driving uncomfortable for her. In addition, she usually has Mauricio drive her so neither of us were entirely certain where we were going. Queretaro is a city of a million people and getting lost was to be more the rule than the exception. We met her Uncle in the parking lot of Costco since it was the only place that either of us had the remotest idea how to find.

I was a little uncomfortable, as transactions of this nature tend to be in cash. So there I was with $45,000 pesos (approx. $4,500 USD) in the pocket of my cargo pants, as we headed off. The two dealerships were right next to each other and they had a fair inventory of cars but trucks, small trucks (not the big Dodge Ram type), were scarce. I particularly wanted a Nissan as they are the predominant vehicle in San Miguel and I felt servicing would be easier.

The dealer was just putting an SUV out onto the lot. It was a 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with oversized tires, custom wheels, Bose stereo system, four-wheel drive and about every bell and whistle one could ask for. It had a crack in the windshield but it was also sporting only 68,000 miles and was in very good condition. It was 115,000 pesos. They told Karla that they would take 110,000. We kept looking around the lot where most of the pickups had over 150,000 miles on them, and I kept being drawn back to the Pathfinder. So I took down the information and asked Karla’s uncle if we could go to an internet café and off we went.

I looked up the Kelley Blue Book web site and entered the vehicle information. What the dealer was asking was almost identical to the value listed at Kelley. When I went to pay for my internet time, Karla’s uncle had already paid. Back to the dealer we went.

We approached the pathfinder to take another look. As we were standing next to it, Karla eating cereal from a Tupperware container, a woman approached the dealer and began speaking. Karla leaned over to me. “That woman over there wants to buy it. She just came from the bank with the money but they guys told her that you were first and you have to decide.” The pressure was now on, not to mention that I had only 45,000 pesos on me. I need a days notice to take money out of my bank here because it is not really a bank but a brokerage house and they need to sell shares and prepare the check. My other option was to write a check on my U.S. bank account and get my Mexican bank to guarantee it. So I called my account representative, Inez, on my cell phone (yes, one actually has an account representative that is available by phone). She assured me that I could cash my check at Lloyds in Queretaro and if there was any problem to have them call her. Relieved, I hung up the phone. Then I looked in my backpack to find that I had not brought my checkbook.

Now this was a Friday and Lloyds is closed on Saturdays. It is now about 3:00 in the afternoon and we are an hour from San Miguel. Lloyds closes at 5:00. The dealer agreed to a 5,000 peso deposit to hold the car and off we raced to San Miguel where I stopped at the house and picked up my checkbook and then charged off to Lloyds. Inez was gone for the day but I relayed the story to the receptionist. “I’m not certain that we have that much cash, let me call someone.” She did, they did, but in small bills. So with a sack of money I returned home. Karla suggested that we take the bus the next morning so that we could drive the car back. “I warn you,” she said, “It is going to be a long day. We have to take the car to the Transito to make sure that it is not stolen.”

I went out that night. A friend was singing at one of the local bars and another friend had reserved a huge lounge section for us. After the concert we were all having so much fun that we continued on. I finally got home at 3:30 in the morning and fell into bed.

The alarm went off at 8:00 and I nearly cried. It was raining and the sound of the rain and the warmth of the blankets said, “Stay in bed.” But I knew I couldn’t. Karla was waiting, so was my new car. We arrived at the bus station and had to wait until 10:00 for the next bus. We both slept nearly all the way to Queretaro. Then we took a taxi to the dealership where we all piled into the prospective new car and drove to the Transito. An official there took the car and disappeared. Another official walked around carrying a large riffle. About an hour after we were clear to go but one of the men wanted a tip, “For a beverage or something.” The dealer suggested 100 pesos. Karla said, “That’s a lot of soft drinks” (all in Spanish of course). She was pissed, I just wanted to get out of there and I paid. All through this I’m carrying the equivalent of $10,000 USD in cash in my backpack and I’m beginning to sweat.

I was also going to have a mechanic look at the car but by the time we had driven to the Transito and back, I thought, “What the hell, I want this car and if anything is wrong with it I’ll just have to have it fixed.” Back at the dealership we closed the deal, Karla reading over all the detailed information. We were free in a new (used) vehicle. From there we went to Sam’s, Walmart and La Europea before having comida at Karla’s uncle’s house. There I inspected and admired toy cars handed to me by 6 year old boys as I recovered from my adrenalin rush of the purchase. One of them came over to me while I was eating and began singing a song in English until his parents kicked him out. (They don’t see many gringos in Queretaro.) Karla faked a doctor’s appointment so that we could leave immediately after eating.

The last two days I’ve done little other than drive around. Volunteering to take friends home, move furniture, shop for groceries, listening to music on the stereo system, etc. The car is a little big for the streets of San Miguel and I sometimes have to fold my mirrors in. But I’m not alone. The other gringos and the chilangos from Mexico City have the same size or bigger cars. Parking is nearly impossible in Centro. But the sense of independence offered by having a vehicle has opened up new horizons. Tomorrow I go to get the car registered in San Miguel and to look into getting a Mexican drivers license. I’m sure that this will be an adventure in itself.

Now a house (renovations for phase I start October 4 and are expected to be completed by mid-November) and a car (that is nicer than my old car in the bay area). I guess that I’m going to be here for awhile.

Noise

Noise. I can’t wait to move to the country. How can an entire culture be deaf to the sound of barking dogs? Last year it was the rottweiler that was dropped off two doors away every night, to guard a vacant lot. Now there is some white mutt directly next door, that has the run of the rooftop. Twice a day there is a chorus of dogs barking, the first at about 7:00 AM and then again in the evening. If that were not enough, crickets. Yes, those lovely little creatures that one hears at night. But when you’re trying to watch a movie, and you get the distinct feeling that the crickets are no longer outside because they are drowning out the dialog from Gladiator, something has to be done. I found two on the fireplace and promptly slaughtered them with my latest issue of Atencion (a better use than reading it). But that didn’t stop the din. After careful research that included wandering through the house, stepping gingerly, I discerned that the sound was coming from the baseboard in the dinning room. They’re in the frigg’n walls! Or so it sounded. One cricket, I thought, on the other side. Detecting a small gap I approached with my can of Raid. I sprayed a healthy dose into the gap and along the top of the baseboard. Within seconds an entire family of crickets hopped out of the crack and began limping around the dinning room. Flamenco lessons might have helped with their destruction. Ahhhh, quiet now. But for the dogs. It might take more than a can of Raid.

The other night I was sharing a rather delightful bottle of wine with my cousin Alan (a wine snob who brought the bottle from his collection), Alex and Andrea on the rooftop at Alex’s house. We were watching the sunset before going to the new middle-eastern restaurant in town, when Alex’s mother ascended the stairs. We had a lovely visit with her and later, as I kissed her goodnight she called me “Charlitos”. I am so in the family now.

Alan’s visit was great but experienced by me in small doses. Although he was staying at my house, I hardly saw him. 91 people from the states and Canada came for the wedding that he was attending, not to mention the locals that knew the groom’s mother before she passed. The bride’s family also lives here. Every day he had another event. From mountain biking in Pozos to nearly naked photography (wrapped in bright colored fabric) at the hot springs. The bachelor party included “re-birthing”, whatever the hell that is. (Where are the strippers?) But I did meet part of the crowd and a closer, more loving group would be hard to find. It reminded me of my friends with whom I travel with to Puerto Vallarta every year; but multiplied by 10. Alan will be back though, even if I have to fly to Portland, OR, and bring him down kicking and screaming. Between my house and his friends “phat” mansion in town, he has no excuses. After all, he is one of the people who encouraged me to come here in the first place.

Last night there was a free showing of Celsius/488.33 (i.e., Fahrenheit 9/11) at the Angela Peralta Theater. There was also a documentary on the difference on the war coverage between U.S. media and other countries. The house was packed. After the applause died down, there was a strange silence among the crowd. Whether it was from shame, embarrassment, horror, or disbelief, it was not from pride. How can we, as a country, have allowed this to happen? I’m voting absentee but I AM voting.

Our tenants in Mexico are returning from their home construction in La Manzanilla, this weekend. So next week I’ll go out to the property with a builder, take measurements and hopefully do a very thorough walkthrough. I hope to get an estimate and be ready to begin work as soon as the tenants move out. The casita on the roof of my rental house is getting a fair amount of interest from the owner’s contacts in Boston so my ability to use it as a crash pad for family and friends may be impaired. Thus, getting the new house ready for guests becomes more urgent. Not to mention that the new house needs to be furnished. I found a great store that makes wrought iron furniture at great prices (impressive queen size beds with canopies for less than $500 USD). Of course this is before mattress, box spring, bedding, etc. They also do chandeliers, patio furniture, the works. Until then, there is plenty of room to pitch tents in the yard for the more adventurous types. October 1 we take possession. The countdown begins.

Getting Robbed

The following piece, a true story, was published in Atencion, the local gringo newspaper. The names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

It was about 6:00 PM on the day that I got robbed. When I got home the front doors were propped open, a fresh coat of varnish drying. Karen, the owner, was sitting in the courtyard reading a book, effectively guarding the house while the varnish dried. We tested the doors as she departed and agreed that they should probably remain open for another hour or so.

After she left I checked my answering machine and listened to messages from James and Mara. Cell phone in hand I walked from the living room out to the courtyard, my back to the front door, and dialed James. “Hey man, what’s up?” he asked as I turned toward the front of the house. Before I could respond I glimpsed what appeared to be the back of a man leaving my living room and walking out the front door. Did I imagine it? “Hold on,” I said and walked quickly to the living room door. I looked at my desk and my digital camera and its docking station were gone. I stuck my head out the front door just in time to see the perpetrator’s back disappearing around the far corner, clearly running. “YOU BASTARD!” I yelled, my mind spinning. I must have blurted something into the cell phone before hanging up. James in the mean time was wondering why I’d called him a bastard.

I took off running down the street. After about two blocks the streets went in several different directions and I could see no one. It also occurred to me that the front doors were still open and this could provide an opportunity for a second wave to show up and take my laptop and whatever else tickled their fancy. So I ran back to the house.

As far as I could tell, everything else was in place. I called James back, told him what had happened and he immediately handed to phone to his Mexican girlfriend Mara. “I’m calling the police for you. What is your address and which way did he run?” I gave her the information and she told me that she would call me back.

I hung up and paced back in forth just inside the entrance to the house and within a minute a motorcycle cop pulled up. He looked 12 years old and spoke no English. I apologized for my poor Spanish and then in bits and fragments of language I acted out what had happened. He took notes on a worn little pad, spoke something into his radio and got back on his bike.

The phone rang. “This is Mara the police are on their way. Tell me what he looked like and I’ll call them back with the description.”

“I only saw him from the back. He was a big guy, dark shoes, and he was wearing a jacket, a dark jacket, either navy blue or black and it had red stripes on the sleeves. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Do you need me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hung up. My heart was racing, my adrenalin pumping. I looked outside and noticed that Mexican neighbors were beginning to stand out in front of their houses. Another motorcycle cop sped bye, then another, then a police truck. It seemed like the neighborhood was swarming with cops. Within five minutes a police truck pulled up to my front door, a half a dozen motorcycle cops surrounding it. In the back were two young Mexican men in handcuffs. Neither was wearing a dark jacket with red stripes. The police were asking me which one but I couldn’t identify either of them. I hadn’t seen the guy’s face. But I noticed a dark jacket stuffed into a tire next to one of the men.

Another car pulled up and James and Mara got out. From the moment the beautiful Mara stepped out of that car, she was a woman in charge. She bid the policemen good afternoon and then ushered them into the house. We pointed out where the camera had been. Then one of the cops pulled something out of his pocket. “Esta?” he asked as I looked at my camera in shock.

“Si.”

“E esta?” as he held up my docking station.

“Si.”

We were then to follow them to the police station. Remembering gringo stories of long ordeals with the police, I felt that I should pack a bag with food and water. Instead I just grabbed my passport.

As I was locking up the house (screw the damp varnish) some of the neighbors approached and began speaking rapidly to Mara. She nodded briefly to one gentleman and spoke with measured calm. When we got in James’ car she turned to me in the back seat. “That was the boy’s uncle. The boy is a neighbor and he and his friend are drunk. I’m concerned about repercussions. You live alone; sometimes you come home late at night. You have to be very careful how you chose to handle this.”

Within a few minutes we were at the police station. We stepped just inside a large sparsely furnished room and everyone stood. A half a dozen policemen surrounded Mara and she recounted my story. Two of the policemen were playing with my camera, turning it on and off and watching the lens go in and out. Mara turned to me.

“They are really pressuring you to prosecute. They say that the young men must be punished for this or they will just do it again. That is the family over there, the father, the mother and the sister. The father is angry. He says that he can’t control his son. That the boy just drinks beer all day and that he’s a bum and you should do whatever you need to do.”

“This is my instinct,” I told Mara, “To tell them that I think they are just boys who were drunk and did something stupid. The ordeal of the arrest is probably punishment enough if this is a first offence.”

Mara relayed my wishes. The cops appeared disappointed and we were ushered, along with the family, out of the building, through another entrance and up some stairs. At the top of the stairs we were directed to a cramped space where an older, clearly senior officer sat behind a desk. Mara immediately took a seat in front of the desk and motioned for me to sit next to her.

The officer went on at some length and the father, a stocky, authoritative looking man, spoke as well. Mara nodded a great deal and listened. Then she turned to me. “I know we’ve already gone over this but I need to give the appearance that I am asking you again. Largely the General here has just reiterated what we went over downstairs so you just need to say to me what you said before so I can repeat it back to them.”

Mara translated and then the General spoke and handed me my camera. “He says then there is nothing more to do. It is between you and the family.”

“Please tell him,” I said, “That I am from the U.S. and I have never in my life seen such impressive police work. The speed at which they apprehended the men was amazing.” I turned around and shook the hands of the officers behind me and said, “Muy impresionante. Mil gracias.” Then I stood and turned to the family. “Please tell them that it is very nice to meet them. It is too bad that it was not under better circumstances.” I shook each of their hands. The mother’s eyes were red and the sister stared at the floor.

At dinner I ordered a martini straight up and as I was cutting my filet mignon I wondered what the young men were eating for dinner. I live in a land of the have and the have not. A family was shamed because their son, brother, nephew wanted what I had and I fought to get it back. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

Book Project

One of the owners, Karen, arrived with her friend Rikki, around 2:30 PM. (They are staying in the casita on the roof.) I wanted to make a good impression. After all, I am living in their house. So I had Elena prepare a meal for their arrival; a salad, Spanish rice and enchiladas verde. They were duly impressed and when given the options for beverages they chose the white wine. The conversation ranged from house logistics to careers to life in Mexico in general. Karen’s husband is a lawyer and I elected to tell the story of my father’s illustrious career and reputation as the “Pot Judge”, which sent the 50-something year old Karen off on a tangent.

“We’re not religious people, you know. We’re bad people - but fun people. One year, on my husband’s birthday my college-age sons were asking me what they could get for their father. He is really difficult to buy for. We grew up in the sixties you know, and I told them that I probably wasn’t going to win the mother-of-the-year award for this but what they could get him that he would enjoy, was some dope. I mean, he doesn’t know where to get it and I don’t want to put anyone in any danger, but if it’s is convenient . . . They did and Greg was really happy.”

Later she asked if she could go into the owner’s closet and get some things that they’d left during their last stay in San Miguel, and I said, “sure.” I watched her ascend the stairs with a significant liquor supply. And I was worried that they wouldn’t find me to be a satisfactory tenant. Hell, party in the casita!

At around 5:00 the thunder rumbled and the skies opened up. The street outside turned into a river. I heard the words, “Holly shit!” repeated again and again in English so I looked outside my living room window where a group of American teenagers were standing at the front door of a house, watching the newly formed river rush bye. I called to them out my window, “It happens every couple of weeks this time of year.” “Well it could have waited a few days until we were gone. Our rooms are flooding. It’s coming up through the drains!” “Good luck,” I said, and closed the drapes.


Alex, Andrea and I are working on a book to promote La Cañada de la Virgen, Alex’s mother’s ranch and the community surrounding. Alex is in charge of the photography, I’m responsible for the text and Andrea is handling the layout and translation. Alex felt we could better focus on the project if we worked on it at the ranch. So off we went.

Several bedrooms have been restored, adjacent to the old hacienda ruin, to accommodate Alex’s family and any guests should they desire to stay at the ranch. The rooms are furnished very traditionally and the beds have luxurious down comforters. In addition to caring for her six children (with another on the way) Mary Elena prepares our meals. She is the wife of the caretaker who is gone tending to the cattle most of the day but has still managed to father seven children before his 35th birthday.

The children where shy and reserved when we first arrived but after dinner they were quick to warm up as we climbed a mulberry tree and picked its meager fruit. Mary Elena came out wrapped in a shawl, carrying her youngest, and watched as we played soccer, jumped rope and made figures out of mud. There is no electricity at the ranch. The children have never seen a movie (the oldest is 11). Neither has Mary Elena.

I was impressed at how well the children played with each other. No squabbling, no toys to fight over. An old rope and some imagination and they laughed until the sun set and we all went to bed.

Unfortunately, both Andrea and I woke up with raging cases of diarrhea. I told her that the children were waiting to jump rope with her. “No, don’t shake the piñata,” was her reply.

After breakfast we headed off to Casa Esquela, another building on the ranch where we could work undisturbed. The children appeared very disappointed that we were leaving and weren’t going to play with them. Casa Esquela is accessed by carefully walking over stones to cross the river. Casa Esquela’s bathrooms have not been installed. So if we needed a bathroom we had to go back to the main house on the other side of the river. Picking your way across a river when you’ve got diarrhea is no picnic.

We escaped any playground responsibilities that evening as a storm moved in and it poured all through the night. The morning was bright and clear and out my window I could see cowboys lassoing horses in the coral. The ride back to town was an adventure. The rain had turned part of the road to mud and the remainder was rutted and rocky. There was much “Shaking of the piñata” and Andrea and I were silent in our concentration.

Buying the Ranchito

I arrived in Leon at 5:30 in the morning. The shuttle driver was waiting. Then he and I were waiting, as a woman named Christine was moving her cat from Alameda to San Miguel and was temporarily delayed at immigration.

When I got to the house in San Miguel there was a message from Victor, my real estate agent, who asked that I call him as soon as possible. However, the message had been left the day before and his office was not yet open. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep but my anxiety level was running a little high. I worried that something had gone sour with the deal.

When I finally reached Victor he explained that the notary republic would not be in his office on Friday so might we be able to close on Thursday? And since the wire can take a day to post, could we send it on Wednesday? This being Tuesday, I called my sister and gave her the scoop. She said she thought we could pull it off and that she would call dad. That is when she told me the amount of money that was in his checking account ready to be wired. Unfortunately, the amount she gave me was about $100,000 short of what was needed. My anxiety began to turn to panic. How was I going to come up with $100,000 and get it to Mexico in two days? If we miss the deadline we could lose our 10% deposit.

After considerable pacing and a short nap and some unpacking, I called my father who had just returned to the house with my sister. They had completed the wire, for the correct amount (he hadn’t informed her about another account) a day early. Fine. Time for a margarita.

Two days later I waited in the reception area of the local notary republic. Also waiting were the sellers who kept engaging me in conversation, stretching the limits of my Spanish. At one point they asked me if I had a wife and children to which I replied that I did not. So the husband responded, “Viva feliz” (a happy life) to which we all laughed. After about 30 minutes of waiting we were ushered into the notary’s office. He sat behind an enormous desk and alternated between talking on his desk phone and his cell phone. Victor (my friend and real estate agent) and his boss were already in the office having just completed another transaction. The notary completed his calls and introductions were made all around. Everyone was seated around the notary’s desk as he translated the sale agreement for me. That concluded I signed the document as did the seller and everyone sat around for another 30 minutes, talking about golf, until copies were made. The seller presented me with a letter that I have to take to the phone company to have the phone number changed to my name. The final deed is supposed to be ready in three to five weeks.

The next day Andrea, Christine and I went out to the property to meet with the tenants. The first thing that I noticed was a crashed plane in the yard, near the back of the property. “Beach,” I said as he opened the door, “I think I would have remembered a crashed plane in the yard. That’s new isn’t it?” Beach went on to explain that a friend had attempted his first solo flight and lost control at take-off, pitch polling off the end of the runway. He survived but was pretty banged up. The plane is being sold for scrap.

The girls wandered the property while Beach and I went over details such as the staff and their salaries, water, electricity and most importantly, when he and Clare will be moving to La Manzanilla. We agreed on a date of October 1. He and Clare are extremely nice and suggested that I come back closer the time so that they can share their ideas as to how they would improve the place given their 1 year experience of living there. I will do so but I don’t know how much of their advice will be useful. After all, they are the ones who painted the stone walls yellow.

I went to the opening of a new restaurant with the gang. There, a 41 year old retired VP from Morgan-Stanley, Kevin, came to our table and regaled us with card tricks. Eric was at the table and asked Kevin if he would come to the ranch the next day and perform the tricks for the ranch children who come every Saturday for English lessons. I invited myself and the next morning Eric and Melanie picked Kevin and I up and drove us out to the ranch. Fifteen children, ranging in age from 3 to about 12, were waiting when we arrived. They were shy at first but quickly gathered round when Kevin pulled out his cards. After an hour they were all hiding coins in the palms of their little hands and making cards disappear. Kevin, having two daughters of his own, knows how to entertain children and by the end of the session he had several children dangling off his arms. I was more interested in the buildings on the ranch. Apart from the main house Eric has his own one bedroom house with an open floor plan. It is the perfect blueprint for a casita on our new property. In addition to ranching, Eric is also in the housing development business and has the construction contacts that I will need.

My head is spinning with lists of things to figure out, or do. Yesterday I waited an hour at the phone company. When I gave them my letter from the seller, asking that the phone be changed to my name, I was told that I needed a copy of the seller’s identification with her signature and a copy of my passport. So, another day, another hour.

Next step, buy a car. This should prove interesting.

Today there was such a thunder storm that I thought that I was going to
Be house bound. The street became a river and the courtyard a mud pit. But within minutes of it stopping, everything was absorbed.
Aaron (the previous tenant) came by the other day to pick up a pan and some mail and I asked him if the courtyard ever flooded and overflowed onto the terrace and he said that it did not. (He showed up when I was naked, just out of the shower and shaving with shaving cream all over my face. I pulled on some shorts and met him at the door still covered with shaving cream.)

I asked Elena to make me some chicken soup and she did a pretty good job except that the whole chicken was just cut up into four big pieces floating in the broth. When she came back the next day I had her remove the bones.

On the home front, Dad is in escrow on the sale of his house. He will move in with my sister until it is prudent for them to join me down in San Miguel. They will probably come after we take possession of the property, some time in October. However, they are anxious and may appear on my doorstep earlier.

Bringing Dad to Mexico

I know that I might have promised an interesting expose of my family’s visit to San Miguel de Allende. But finding the time to write about their visit between playing tour guide, translator and nursemaid (to my father) has proven a little overbearing.

There have been moments, to say the least. I did not know until only a couple of days before my father arrived in Oakland that he had fallen at his home and scraped his arm and twisted his ankle. This plus the residual restricted mobility from his stroke last summer, makes him nearly a wheelchair candidate despite his denial.

His weakness does, however, prove useful for travel. Special attention, early boarding, etc. When we arrived in Zacatacas to clear immigration, everyone off-boarded the plane except my father. After we had cleared immigration and stood waiting to re-board, the customs official boarded the plane and personally processed my father’s papers while he remained seated on the plane. Upon arrival in Leon, two attendants carried him down the stairs from the aircraft, on a makeshift dolly.

We took the hour and a half shuttle ride from Leon to San Miguel. After the red-eye flight we were all fighting to stay awake. My nephew’s wife kept repeating, “I can’t believe how tired I am.”

At breakfast my sister took one look at the menu and upon seeing Spanish, closed the menu and handed it to me. “You might look a little closer,” I said, “It is all printed in English under the Spanish. And the waiter will understand if you point.” Suffice to say, all I wanted was sleep and at one point, during a barrage of questions coming at me from all three, I lost it. “Frankly I just need sleep, NOW.”

When we got back to the house I closed my door, shut the drapes and slipped off my clothes. I’d been asleep for about two hours when I had the sense that someone was in the room. I removed my earplugs and my sleep mask and looked up. My father was standing in my doorway. “Did I disturb your nap?” he asked. “Yes. What do you need?” “Nada,” he replied, and hobbled off. (“Then why the hell did you wake me?” I thought.)

I then couldn’t sleep any longer so I got up and went to help my father unpack. “Dad, just for future reference, what part of a closed door with drapes drawn sends a message to you that says, “Come In”? I mean, I just need to understand this for future reference.” “Well,” he said, “I guess one might consider that an invasion of privacy.” “One might.” “Ok, Amigo.” (He never did really answer the question.)

It became immediately clear that I was not going to be able to share San Miguel with my father as I had hoped. I had envisioned trips to the ranch, the hot springs, the botanical gardens, but with his mobility so restricted these would be impossible. Just getting him in and out of a taxi proved a major event. The girls were largely satisfied to shop. And shop they did. Even if it was just for household items, they were thrilled when they came back successful. (They managed to plug up two toilets within the first couple of days so a toiled plunger was one of their first acquisitions.)
Despite Dad’s inability to experience the town like the rest of the family, he is really enjoying himself. I mean, who wouldn’t? He has a staff of four to attend to his every need. (When the girls left I told him that he should expect the service to suffer as he just lost 75% of his staff.)

So aside from a few restaurants and drives around town, Dad has spent much of his time at the house and we brought people to him. My Argentinean friend Matias offered to prepare a barbeque at the house so we had a crowd over and it turned out to be quite the little party. I invited Karla and Maricio. Karla is the ex-model who also has worked at a care facility and has offered to care for Dad should he move here. She is in her mid-twenties and is absolutely beautiful. She walked in the door with her husband and immediately said, “Where’s your father.” I directed her to the kitchen where she sat down next to him and quickly engaged him in conversation.

Andrea loaned me her car while the family was here and I was able to take the girls to a day trip to Dolores Hildago (more shopping) and, after Star and Rosie left, Susan and Dad to Pozos (ghost town – no shopping).

All the girls have left and now it is just Dad and I. Tomorrow we head back to the states. However, we looked at a country house today, on a little more than two acres, five minutes outside of town. It has a lot of potential. Dad wants to buy it and move here. Time for a family conference and quickly.

After looking at the house Andrea took us out to her father’s ranch where we were served lunch next to the rose garden, nothing but fields and mountains for our view. Most of the meal was made from items grown on the ranch, the lettuce and mushroom soup, the salad, the artichokes and the apricots. (The chicken was from the store.) Andrea had a special couch for Dad to nap on after the meal and she and I pulled chairs out to the lawn and watched the setting sun cast colors and shadows across the mountains. This place doesn’t suck.

Parties & Pyramids

I’ve apparently committed a San Miguel social blunder. I got a call from Marcos, “Joanie just called me all upset. Apparently you are throwing a party the same night as she and Robert and she’s afraid that no one will come to her party. She told me she’s spent like $400 on this thing and it’s their last opportunity before they return to the states.”

“I hardly know them. I can’t imagine that our guest lists cross that much. Mine’s a pretty young crowd. And it’s my last opportunity for some time as well.”

“Can you call her? I told her you were really nice and could probably work something out.”

So I did. And I think I managed to convince her that we had only about a 5 person overlap so they could just go to her party first and show up to mine late. (God this is a small town.)

My party/open house, was supposed to run from 7:00 until 11:00. It ended at 3:00 and was a huge success. Over the course of the evening somewhere between 30 and 40 people showed up (some of whom I didn’t remember inviting) and there wasn’t a scrap of food left. Cynthia managed to bump into a table in the courtyard and knock over a large day-of-the-dead statue belonging to the owners. It shattered. Bryan ran off with the head. (Cynthia is going to replace the statue.) People seemed to have enjoyed the eclectic nature of the party as I invited older as well as younger people. Some of the younger brought their parents. At one point I sat on the edge of the fountain and looked around, smiling as I saw people engaged in conversation in every part of the house, making new friends. (I can’t remember when the last time was that I gave a party. Why did I stop?)

Yesterday Elena prepared lunch for Alex and me. She is turning out to be quite the cook when left to her own devices. We ate out in the sala and had meatballs, rice, green beans and a salad. After lunch, Alex did my Maya horoscope. He’s new to the process so it took about 3 hours. Here’s this guy that looks like he just stepped out of prep-school, studying to be a Maya priest. It blows me away.

I always thought that to lead a spiritual life one was supposed to lead a Christian spiritual life. But there is a dynamic quite different than that here in San Miguel. Spiritual events take place all over town and have less to do with a Christian doctrine and more to do with the power of the universe, following one’s path, things happen for a reason kind of stuff. Being a person of logic all my life, I look at all this very skeptically. “Hooroo Gooroo” stuff as my friend Robert calls it. (I have no idea if that is how it is spelled.) Burning sage, wearing Indian symbols, and talking about vortexes and crystals. I just don’t know. But I’m trying to keep an open mind.

Anyway, according to my Maya horoscope, I am a guardian of traditions and a builder of communities. That is my sacred path. And I have 76 spirits behind me right now, to help me (any number above 50 is hot stuff). Supposedly, anything that interferes with my pursuit of either should be eliminated from my life. Alex told his mother and then told me that she said, “Good, I’ve got many plans for him.” They left today for Guatemala, to continue their Maya training.

The other day I was sitting at my desk, doing Providian work, while Elena was watering the yard. A giant cockroach came charging under the front door right at me. I screamed like a girl scout and Elena came to my rescue. Between her broom and shoe (I was barefoot) she conquered my foe. I think a good Christmas bonus is in store for her.

Monday night I went to my first sweat lodge. Alex’s friend Clay, trained by Native Americans, invited Alex, Andrea and I as Alex’s birthday present. Clay (63 and built like a tri-athlete – he actually is) and his girlfriend (33 and beautiful) live in an amazing house above San Miguel. In the backyard was a handmade wooden dome-like structure over which we draped multiple blankets. Inside was a hole in the ground where the hot rocks (“grandmothers”) are placed. After a Celtic ruin ceremony we entered the pitch-black hut while Clay shoveled hot rocks from the fire into the hole in the floor of the lodge. There we beat drums and shacked rattles and chanted and sweat like I’ve never sweat in my life. After an hour or so, with Clay facilitating different prayers, giving thanks, etc., we plunged ourselves into the swimming pool for our post-lodge 30 minutes of silence. Then we attacked plates full of chilled fruit (which has never tasted so good in my entire life).

The next morning we met at 6:30 AM at Alex’s house. This was the day that the archeologist was to say “Thank you” for the fundraiser we helped put on for re-hiring workers who were laid off due to budget constraints. Six of us were privy to a private tour of the pyramid dig. (The pyramid is not scheduled to be open to the public for another two years.) An amazing experience. To be able to spend an entire day with the chief archeologist, ask as many questions as we wanted, climb all over the thing – where tourists will never be allowed - eating lunch with the workers heated on metal plates over open fires. I found it curious that the tour started with the ecologically correct toilets. They are divided so that the poo and the pee are captured in different tanks (with a sign sternly instructing you not to get pee into the poo tank). Where you pee, you spray vinegar when done, it then passes through a carbon filtration system and is released into the soil. The poo is collected for a year or so and then becomes fertilizer. (One is instructed to sprinkle dirt over the poo section when done.) So really, pee is worse than poo. Who would’ve thunk? I was curious to see the construction of the girl’s bathroom. I mean, wouldn’t the toilet design need to be a little different? I didn’t get up the nerve.

Ranchers I'm Getting to Know

Now Alex’s mother, Regina, is a fascinating woman. She is German, raised on a ranch in Argentina. Her first language was Spanish, her second German and her third, English. She is only in her 60’s but walks with a stoop. She wears long, natural fiber clothing and jewelry that looks like it comes from Indian craft fairs. Her shoes look like slippers. She wears a cell phone earpiece and is constantly on the phone. I’m never quite certain whether she is talking to me or taking a call.

She owns “Cañada de la Virgen” (The Canyon of the Virgin). The ranch itself survives on cattle. But Alex’s mother understands that the cattle grazing destroys the land and is teaching the ranch residents how to farm organic produce in hopes of weaning them from their dependence on cattle. She recently ordered a thousand olive trees. Meanwhile, she, Alex and Alex’s sister are training in Guatemala to become Maya priests.

Regina is clearly a woman who is accustomed to giving orders. Right now I am in her good graces and she has implied that I am to treat her home in town as my second home. I am well aware that I could fall from grace and be crossed off the “A” list at a moments notice. (As Alex is one of my best friends in this town, I try very hard not to piss her off.) She told me that she is so busy with the ranch business that she has no time to do what she wants. She mentioned writing. Alex doesn’t want responsibility for the ranch so it looks like it will fall to Sophia, his sister. I talked to Sophia while she was here for Alex’s birthday (from Los Angeles). It sounds like she may take up the gauntlet. Andrea and I were talking, reminiscing about how well she, Alex and I worked together on a charity event here. “Sophia could hire us,” she said. Wow, from banker to ranch project manager. What an idea. From systems installations and process design to planning rotating crops, inventorying cattle, installing irrigations systems. I’ll have to think about this.

The surprise 29th birthday party for Alex was a huge success. As people were arriving, Alex’s mother waived a hand at me. “Charles is the host. He will tell you what to do.” A discrete cell phone call from Andrea warned us that he was only minutes away. Thirty or so guests peered down from the rooftop patio and as he entered the courtyard below we yelled, “Surprise” and then sang happy birthday. His jaw dropped and his knees where shaking as he looked up at the sea of faces. Now Alex did inherit some of that controlling behavior that German’s are famous for. So the fact that we were able to conceal the party from him left him absolutely flabbergasted.

Drinks were poured, the buffet was attacked and everyone had a great time. Regina held court in the living room, in the family room people discussed addictions and on the roof people enjoyed the view and as it happens, fireworks. The party broke up around midnight and moved on to Limerick (a popular pub) and then to La Cucaracha. It is said that some did not stop celebrating until 7:00 Sunday morning. (Was I part of that group?)

Today Cecelia’s son David showed up precisely on schedule, at my apartment on Cuesta de San Jose. A small, handsome Mexican boy in his beat-up truck, I thought he was about 18. But he is 22 and despite his size he is strong as an ox. As instructed, he brought rope and we lowered my trundle bed over the balcony and down three floors. We worked together for half the day and all my stuff is now at the new house.

Jesus, my 15 year old gardener showed up Saturday. He is not a gardener. He is a 15 year old who trims bougainvillea well. I have my work cut out for me. He and Elena and I sat down to comida together. He told me that he studies English in school but when I asked him, in English, how long he had been studying English, he gave me a blank stare. After my family’s visit I need to get back to Spanish lessons. While it is true that one does not need to speak Spanish to live in San Miguel, I believe that one misses a lot by not being able to communicate with these people. They are so gracious, so patient, and so grateful at even my feeble attempts at their language. Some days I think I’m on fire. All the words just flow. Other days it is as if every word escapes me. I will work on this.

The Return to SMA

The next couple of months might just prove to be something worth writing about as preparations are being made for my family’s visit. In addition to my 91 year old father, my sister, niece and nephew’s wife are coming for a visit. (I feel a little like I’m bringing the Clampits to Mexico.)

I landed in Leon yesterday morning at 5:30 AM. As arranged, the shuttle driver was waiting outside immigration with a sign depicting my name and that of another passenger. The driver looked tired. (Understandable as he would have had to leave San Miguel at about 4:00 in the morning in order to meet our flight.) After a few minutes we were joined by a man named Greg and his 11 year old weimaraner, Jake. Jake was very excited to be out of his carrier and Greg and I recognized each other from our work on the House and Garden tours last year.

In route we stopped at the Holiday Inn in Leon to pick up another couple. We had to wait awhile as the hotel had neglected their wake up call. Once in route, I sat in the front seat next to the driver and the others chatted away in the back. Jake had terrible “doggy gas”, as Greg referred to it, while he continually patted the old guy. I thought, “So quit patting him. You’re squeezing it out.”

We’d been driving about 30 minutes as the sun began to rise. I noticed that our drive seemed to be a little off, just the slightest hit of weaving. I glanced over at the driver. Rather than blinking, his eyes were closing for seconds at a time. The guy was clearly falling asleep at the wheel. I immediately started slapping him on the back and blurted out in Spanish “Eyes open!” This caught the attention of the other travelers and Greg leaned forward between the seats. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I think our driver may not have gotten up early to meet our flight but rather stayed up all night.”

Greg and I both offered to drive but the driver assured us that he was ok. He wasn’t. I spent the next hour watching him like a hawk. Even Jakes gas didn’t keep him alert and every time his eyes started to close I rallied any fragment of Spanish I know to keep him engaged. “Much rain this month? Which restaurants are open for breakfast now in San Miguel? How many more minutes now? How many kilometers is that? A lot of tourists in San Miguel now? Which house first?” It was one of the longest rides of my life and despite only a couple of hours sleep myself, I was wide awake.

We arrived in San Miguel just after sunrise and I felt like I was home. The jacaranda trees are in bloom and from my balcony giant splashes of purple appear across the landscape. The church bells ring continually in honor of semana santa (holy week). The town center is packed with people as event after event takes place in celebration. Elaborate alters are built outside homes, parades are almost daily this week. It is one of the times when I really know that I’m living in another country since we gringos become an even larger minority as Mexicans spill in from neighboring towns and take over the Jardin.

I’m making preparations to move from my apartment into a house. Last night I met with my new landlords and they gave me the key. I can begin moving on Wednesday and they told me that if I covered their utility bills for the period that they were in the house (11 days), I can have the rest of the month of April for free. The only security I have put down is one month’s rent. My old landlords asked me to stay and offered the use of their home, as they will be in Europe, when my family arrives. Very nice but I declined since I’m already in contract on the new place.

My friend Alex’s 29th birthday is next Sunday and his mother, Andrea and I are planning a surprise party. Unbeknownst to him, his sister is flying in from New York. One plan is a bond fire at Andrea’s father’s ranch, another is renting out the hot springs for a night.

Twink Spanish Teacher

June 18, 2003

Alex, the 20-year-old persistent Spanish teacher, has moved in. He got kicked out of his old apartment for being two days late on the rent and he doesn’t have two pesos to rub together. He has been an excellent roommate although I have thus far turned down all invitations to play PlayStation games with him. He lives on hot dogs. I took him to a hoity toity gringo cocktail party out in the country and he picked up two new students so he should be back on his feet before long.

At the cocktail party I also met a woman named Jane who has published a couple of books, worked in the film industry and has generally made a great deal of money on her writing career. She also sits on the board of directors for the charitable organization that I want to get involved with. She likes the idea of a benefit concert featuring my Mexican pianist friend Rodolfo Morales, who graduated with a masters from Julliard. She invited me to her house for dinner last night, where the Dali Lama’s nephew (yes, the real thing) and his wife prepared the meal. (There was no yak readably available so they used beef.) (Oh, and at the party the night before I met Bob Makey(sp?) who is apparently the dress designer for Cher and the likes. But I found him rather dull.)