10/01/02
So the spoiled little prince came out in me upon arrival. The likes of Casa Coco and Casa Quetzal in Vallarta has spoiled me. But first impressions can be deceiving.
After a grueling red eye from SFO to Dallas, and a four hour lay over in Dallas, I arrived in Leon. Thank god for the DVD player in my laptop. I nearly got through “Life as a House” on the flight to Dallas and finished it at 5:00 in the morning outside the Dallas airport. I must have been quite a sight sitting there in the dark, unshaven, staring at my laptop, headphones on and tears streaming down my face. It is a wonderful movie and I highly recommend it if you haven’t seen it. My batteries were dead by the time I reached Dallas but I was able to find an available plug behind a phone card machine in Terminal A. I was therefore able to plug in and recharge while watching “From Hell” staring Johnny Dep. Also good but not for the weak of stomach.
Flying into Dallas I had the unique opportunity to actually see someone use one of those airline barf bags. Some pour little girl was calling dinosaurs as we landed, while her mother held the bag. I can’t believe that out of all my travels this is the first time I’ve encountered these noises and hopefully it will be the last.
I slept through the flight from Dallas to Leon so I ended up being one of those obnoxious passengers holding up the line as I filled out my customs form at the last minute. My ride was waiting right on schedule. I saw my name as I exited customs and was met by two charming Mexican women who chatted me up all the way to San Miguel de Allende. Despite my lack of proper sleep the ride was wonderful. The region has had an unusual amount of rainfall and the countryside was green with vibrant patches of yellow and pink flowers.
People have asked me, “How are you going to handle being so far away from water when you’ve lived near it your entire life?” This was a concern of mine as well. However, no one mentioned to me that San Miguel is perched on a hillside directly above and enormous lake. Apparently it is especially picturesque this year due to the heavy rainfall.
Entering town, chatting and laughing with my drivers, we stopped at the rental office where I picked up my keys. Then it was off to #54 San Jorge. I was a little concerned about the quality of the neighborhood as we approached the bright purple exterior. I bid my driver goodbye and she gave me her card and said to call if I needed anything while in San Miguel. Her friend offered me flamenco dancing lessons while she offered me Mexican cooking lessons. I think I might pursue the cooking lessons but I believe I’m a little past the flamenco years.
My casita was less than I expected. I had the impression that I was getting two complete units; one studio and a one bedroom. What I have is really a one bedroom, one bath unit where the living room/kitchen/dining room and the bedroom/bath are separated by a small courtyard. And the “view from the roof” is really just a view of other rooftops and a lot of wires. The hot water was barely tepid and the closest thing to an over is a toaster oven. The shower drains poorly. I was getting a little pissy by the time I heard the maid enter. My landlady told me not to leave any instructions in writing for the maid, Juanita, as she doesn’t read or write. What she failed to mention is that Juanita is 150 years old and speaks no English. We exchange pleasantries in Spanish which is where I always get caught. Stephanie calls me a “false intermediate” in Spanish because I sound good out the gate but that is all there is. Juanita began speaking to me a mile a minute. I think my comprehension was further encumbered by virtue of the fact that she has only one tooth that I was able to detect.
Concerned about the lack of hot water she lead me to the roof where the propane tanks are stationed. (It was torture watching her walk up the stairs. I felt like picking her up and carrying her.) It turns out that my tepid water was because the heater was only running on the pilot light. I now have water hot enough to boil eggs.
Anxious to see a better side of San Miguel de Allende I bid Juanita “Adios” and headed for el centro. She spat a few remarks that I think meant that she is not coming tomorrow so I developed a strategy that I think I’ll continue to pursue. I merely agreed, “Esta bien.” I figure whatever she is saying she knows best.
Walking gives a different perspective to a neighborhood than driving. As I navigated the cobblestone streets I noticed that, yes, some structures were poor. But right next to them are high walled villas with amazing courtyards. Every once in a while a gate would open and out would drive an American couple, the woman usually have very large hair. (A lot of the expats here are from Texas.) Five minutes from my casita I was facing the entrance to the Instituto de Allende where I intend to take Spanish lessons. Within a few minutes more I found a laundry, several convenience markets, an internet café and the Mail Boxes etc. where my mail can be sent.
Needing pesos, something you can find on nearly every corner in Puerto Vallarta, I began to scavenge the center of town. I ran into a group of elder Texans from my flight who were doing the same thing. The place where I was headed was out of pesos and they’d been sent around the corner. I joined their caravan. Once inside the Casa de Cambio the Texans were either speaking only English or badly butchered Spanish. (I let them go first since they had let me join their parade.) Sitting on a bench was an elderly American woman who appeared to have stepped out of the space-time continuum. She was dressed in a black lace gown and was sporting the most beautiful silver topped cane that I have ever seen. Her hair was snow white and partially piled on her head while the remaining portion fell to her shoulders; as if she couldn’t decide to relinquish herself to matron status or remain a ‘60’s flower child. As she translated for the Texans I wondered at her story. I may try to find her again. (Maybe she had a big colonial villa that I could help her manage.)
San Miguel de Allende is a city of colorful walls with crumbling window sills and secrets that lie within. As I glance past a 500 year old door I see polished floors, high-end fashion, jewelry, pottery and art frequently backed by a courtyard abundant with greenery and sporting a fountain. It is as if all the exteriors conceal the wonderment of the interiors but one never knows what the interior holds until one enters. Frequently there are no signs on the exterior that would provide one with a clue to what lingers within.
Having secured my pesos, I separated myself from the Texans (as everyone should) and found a little café on the square. I ordered a coke and settled back to observe my environment.
At the table next to me was a 30ish man of apparent European dissent. He was sporting a topcoat despite the 80 degree weather and staring into his espresso while smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Every once in a while his head would dip to his chest, he’d rub his eyes and sniffle a few times, as if suffering a great sorrow. I felt as if he should be drinking absinthe instead of espresso like the poet in the movie “Total Eclipse”. Once you trample over the Texas tourists I think there are stories to be uncovered in this town. I could stare at the doors for hours. They are beautiful, 500 years old and marred with the history of souls.
As I walked back to my casita I realized that I cannot shop on the main streets. They are priced for tourists and few deals are to be had. But the side streets are littered with shops that bare no indication of what they sell. Nor could they because one may find lipstick and flashlights sold on the same premises. What would you call that? “Jose’s Lips & Lights”?
I’m warming to the casita. The living room/kitchen does have a fold out couch for guests. And I’ve found a small table that I’ve moved into the courtyard. It is just large enough to hold my journal, a glass, a bottle of wine and a Spanish/English dictionary. That is enough for day one. I imagine that future entries will be shorter as the fascination dwindles. Right now I’m trying to peal my eyelids open in order to explore the first night. It is cooling down quickly and the long pants will need to come out. I think the casita needs a few candles to warm it up. It does have a small gas fireplace that should be cozy.
Esta noche mi comida a la Hecho en Mexico. It is next to the Instituto de Allende. I ordered tortilla soup and enchilada verde con pollo. The soup was very good. Missing the queso to which I am accustomed but included the avocado. I ran into a spicy patch in the corner of the bowl (if bowls have corners) that would have sent Patti Barker over the north wall. So, if here, she may want to pass. The enchilada verde apparently found the queso that was missing in my soup. It was good but a little smothered in cheese and if you are accustomed to California cuisine you may be disappointed.
I managed to hurt myself the first night. Getting up from my writing to use the bathroom I stumbled on the brick patio. When my right foot came down, not flat, it made a strange crunching sound and I had to catch myself on the wall of the casita. Today I’m going to search out my cousin Alan’s friend to try to get the name and number of a good doctor. The swelling is not too severe and will probably heal if I stay off my feet. But how do I do that when I have yet to explore the city?
10/3/02
Well, I never made it to the bookstore. I met Owen and Nancy at the Café de la Parroquia. I was just finishing my chilaquiles when they came in. They could see that I was finishing and ask if they could take my table as it was ideally situated in the center of the courtyard. I invited them to sit as I would be leaving shortly.
Both are somewhere in their 70’s and they are making San Miguel de Allende their permanent residence (FM-2 status). Owen is a retired scientist while Nancy was somehow involved in public speaking. An hour later I had their home phone number, a restaurant recommendation near my casita, information about a play reading at the St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, an invitation to join the Rotary Club, information regarding conversational Spanish lessons at the Bibliotece and was invited for a tour of the neighboring countryside in Owen’s jeep. In addition, he invited me to attend archeological lectures on Thursdays at La Bella Artes and he gave me directions to the “best internet café”. Owen told me he felt some camaraderie with me while I just nodded and stared at the hair growing out of his ears.
After leaving Owen and Nancy’s company I shopped for provisions, went to the internet café (it just happened to be all the internet you can eat for free day) where I paid bills online and mailed my first report. I also stopped in at the Biblioteca to pick up a current issue of Atencíon San Miguel, the local expat paper.
The Biblioteca is like an oasis. A large courtyard with tables and chairs for reading, long tables around the perimeter for spreading out research materials, a charming restaurant (didn’t eat there yet) and internet access (albeit very slow).
By the time I had unpacked my provisions at the casita it was time to leave for St. Paul’s. It cost 10 Pesos ($1.00) to attend. The folding chairs in the small auditorium were filled with the strangest collection of middle aged and senior citizens and it was apparent that they all knew each other. I know that I shouldn’t judge books by their collective covers but I felt a tinge of panic at the thought of these people being my expat community. Not just from appearance but also from little snatches of conversation that I overheard.
Just before the play started a handsome couple in my age range were debating where to sit. I was on the aisle near the back of the room where I could escape if the play was really awful. It was apparent that they had the same strategy so we joked about it and they sat next to me.
A rather rotund, elderly, ex-New Yorker waddled onto the small stage to announce the play. “Dancing at Lughnase” by Brian Friel, described as his most popular. She also requested donations of clean plastic bags that are made into mattresses for the poor. Then she lumbered off the stage and took a seat across the aisle from me.
The play was awful. A couple of the performers were decent, even good. The play itself was dull and it was a little difficult to watch seniors play the parts of young people. Only one actress was young and she was one of the few who could actually act. I wondered at how she fell in with this crowd.
As bad as the start of the play was, it was made worse by the ex-New Yorker. Across the aisle came the constant sound of rustling plastic. I thought maybe she was eating something and the noise would stop when she finished. But the sound continued and I, as well as the couple next to me, began casting glances in her direction. She was merely fidgeting with a plastic bag. I was contemplating crossing the aisle and snatching it out of her hands but I was worried that it might create a commotion and that the entire room, including the performers, would turn on me thus ending any possibility of residing in this town. I could hear it, “That’s the guy who attacked Evelyn at the church!” Fortunately she stopped before I had to make that choice.
At the long awaited intermission I met up with the couple who sat next to me, outside. We unanimously agreed that we were not attending the second half (what a waste of a dollar). As they were walking the same direction as I we continued talking. Their names are Jeff and Vicky and they live in Baja amongst a fanatic windsurfing community with die-hard windsurfers from all over the world. (Unfortunately, they said, windsurfing is all these people know. They don’t read books, go to the theater, have family, etc., it is all about windsurfing.) They live in a classic Air Stream trailer on beachfront property that they own. They are considering purchasing a home in San Miguel de Allende but haven’t yet made up their minds despite multiple visits over substantial periods of time.
I told Jeff about my experience with Nancy and Owen. “Yes,” he said, “There is an apparent feeding on the young here and anyone under 50 qualifies as young.” I asked if it was really possible to live here on $1500.00 per month and he and Vicky both assured me that it was.
By this time we are sitting in a bar called La Vida where a guitarist is playing and singing beautifully. Jeff and Vicky are originally from the bay area as well and own income property in Marin that supports their life of travel. When I told them that I had rented my home of 14+ years, furnished, for the first time in my life, Vicky gave me a high five. “It is just stuff isn’t it!” she exclaimed. I agreed, “I really thought that I’d miss my house but I don’t at all.”
A young woman began to take the bar stool next to mine. “There’s our star!” I said to her. It was the girl in the play who could actually act. She is, in fact, an actress and produces real plays in San Miguel, in both Spanish and English. The baby of the family, her mother, father and three older brothers are all doctors. And here she is, the actress living in Mexico. Emily is her name and the four of us chatted away the evening. Emily agreed that the play was awful. She just helps out the group when they need someone to play a young role. When I told her that I acted in high school she threatened to throw my name in the pot for upcoming performances. I flatly refused.
So the second night in town I spent with Jeff, the retired animated film producer, Vicky, the retired owner of her own marketing firm that she started at 22 years old and left 18 years later, and Emily the young actress.
Emily and I outlasted Jeff and Vicky. She gave me an extensive list of places to check out the nightlife and we left the bar at around 1:30 am.
Over the course of the evening, I learned how to purify my fresh fruit and vegetables (although Jeff and Vicky say don’t bother – Emily is a fanatic about it), learned that renting a place off the internet means twice the price and that I’m getting ripped off, how to catch the bus from Mexico City (cab to Estacion del Norte), where to hang out where it’s hip and about some of the programs put on at the Biblioteca. I also got a list of favorite books. Not bad for a day’s work. (Oh, and for the Vallarta crowd, that stuff that Fedalina was shaking over the fresh vegetables we brought to the villa was not a purification method. It is just what is says on the label, table salt. Purification drops/tablets are something entirely different.)
I feel a bit of a cold coming on (damn airplanes) and intend to make this a down day. Juanita was just here. She doesn’t so much eradicate the dirt as she does push it around in circles. I swept out the place after she left. While she was here I caught a glimpse of some lower teeth so I was happy to see that she has some there to keep the one on the top company. The good news is that she will do my laundry. 10 pesos ($1.00) per load. I hope she does more that just move the dirt from one garment to the next.
The swelling in my foot is going down. I can almost walk normally.
It was cool today. I had to turn in my shorts for jeans and put on a flannel shirt. By afternoon it had warmed up again and the flannel came off.
I’m adjusting to the fauna here. I didn’t notice a large cricket that was resting above the door handle to the kitchen. When I inserted the key he took off and sailed just inches from my right ear. After I changed my pants I went into the kitchen and found a furry little caterpillar crossing the floor. He was black and hairy and had a head that looked like he was wearing an old diving helmet. I put him outside. The other night some flying thing that sounded like a small aircraft flew into the courtyard and landed on the brick. He was ugly. I killed him. A rather plain looking bird has settled in the giant tree in the courtyard. He has a beautiful song.
10/4/02
Juanita hasn’t shown up yet today. I wonder if she died. If she did I wonder if I’ll get my clothes back, clean or otherwise.
I had revueltos, ahogodos en salsa sasilla con nopales for breakfast. Roughly translated, scrambled eggs with salsa and cactus. Quite good really. The waiter called me “Carlitos”. I told him that I was a little old to be called “Carlitos” and he explained that it wasn’t necessarily a question of age but of kindness. Therefore I am now Carlitos and he, Pedro, is Pedritos. His friend and co-worker, Evaristo (Evaristitos?), volunteered to take me around on Sunday to look at apartments and houses. He must get a commission for reeling in gringo renters/buyers.
Just now I stopped writing and went to use the bathroom. For some reason, suddenly, there is no running water. I called the property management office and they are sending someone over. I don’t know what I would have done had I not rented the cell phone. Probably gotten out my map and the property management office’s address and taken a long walk.
Juanita just stopped by with my laundry. She is not dead, yet. The clothes appear clean. She charged me an additional 30 pesos and I’m not sure what for. I just handed over the money as instructed. That would mean, given the 10 pesos that I already gave her, four dollars for a very small load. This is not a bargain. I would consider taking my laundry to a shop to see if I can get a better price. But Juanita would suspect something if I had no laundry for her. And let’s face it, I’m a little afraid of her. You know, she just walks in whenever. The first day it was 2:00 PM, the next 10:30 AM, and today at 5:45 PM. What if she were to walk in while I’m entertaining an intimate guest? Or, more likely, I was tending to myself? There isn’t enough Viagra in the world to get things working after an experience like that.
The guy showed up about the water 30 minutes after I called. Now people joke about “Mexican time” but I think that is pretty impressive. Especially considering the experience of calling a plumber in the bay area. “We can have someone there between 8:00 AM and 2:00 PM tomorrow.” And then they show up at 4:00 PM.
It turns out that there is a cistern on the roof. The pump that draws the water to the cistern had been unplugged for some reason. The man from the property office plugged it in and away she went. “Run for only 5 minutes,” he said, “Then turn it off at the switch or you will hear water running on the roof.” “Doesn’t it have and automatic shut off valve?” I asked. “No.” So I made him show me the inside of the cistern and there is this floating devise much like you see in a toilet tank but much bigger. Apparently it doesn’t work so I have to run the pump every day or two depending on how long my showers are. Now wouldn’t you think that they might have mentioned something when I moved in? I think a very nasty email to Señora Kahn is brewing.
I had my first pangs of loneliness today. I found myself wishing that Jeff and Vicky would call, or Emily. “For Christ’s sake,” I thought, “It has only been 15 hours since you left their company and they already have lives of their own here.” So I went to gallery opening for José Vasquez that was advertised in Atención. As gallery openings go, it was pretty sad. The artist had one little corner of a very small gallery and many of his paintings were on the floor, propped up against the wall. He was backed into a corner surrounded by a different but equally scary crowd of expats. This included a woman with a poodle dawning a bright red paper necklace to match her owner’s outfit. Her husband was wearing jeans tucked into what were supposed to look like white cowboy boots but the bottom looked like tennis shoes. His red shirt matched his wife’s and the dog’s outfits. The rest of the crowd was Texas tourists who kept pumping my hand and loudly proclaiming that they were from Texas (as if I couldn’t tell) with great pride. I think I was supposed to be envious and feel unworthy in their presence.
I left the gallery shortly after I arrived and began to wander the night streets to see what happens around the Jardin. I’d only walked a couple of blocks when I heard, “Charles?” I looked across the street and it was Jeff and Vicky flagging me down. I darted through the Friday night traffic and caught up with them on the other side. “Are you going to the movie?” they asked. I knew what movie they were talking about, a Czechoslovakian film entitled “Divided We Fall” that was being shown at the Biblioteca. I had seen it advertised in Atención. I told them no, I hadn’t eaten yet and that was the next level of priority. And probably at some level I didn’t want to appear clingy. “Well, come and see the theater before you go.”
Entering the foyer they introduced me to Pasqual who arranges this expat movie program and then they led me into the theater. It is a beautiful theater with a large screen and regular padded theater seats staged on a slope. The projection is DVD so on my way out I told Pasqual that I had brought three DVDs with me that he was welcome to borrow. His eyes lit up and I promised to drop them off in the next couple of days. Of course, showing these for money (all proceeds benefit programs at the Biblioteca) in the U.S. would constitute a serious copyright violation. This doesn’t seem to be an issue in Mexico. And I like the idea of making my first donation to the expat community, and the Biblioteca, as an entertainment contributor.
I proceeded on to “Plum”, a place Emily recommended, because they serve tapas and I wanted something light. And it was on the way back to my Casita. “Chic” and “Plum” certainly described the place. Up the stairs I was met by sheer drapes wafting in the evening breeze, plum colored walls and high tech metallic furniture in candlelight. There was no one there but me. It was 8:00 PM.
The tapas menu was very exotic for Mexico. In fact, there was nothing Mexican on it. They also had a drink list with everything from a cosmopolitan to something called “Between the Sheets.” I ordered wine. For my meal I had tabbouleh with hummus and pita bread as a first course, and for my second, smoked salmon with cream cheese and sliced tomato served on potato cakes. There were five of these little salmon goodies and in the center was a green salad with a balsamic dressing. When I first looked at the menu I thought, “Wow, San Francisco prices.” But the serving portions were so much larger. I walked out of there (9:00 PM and still know one but me) having spent 169 pesos plus tip. Figure $20 U.S. and that included two glasses of very nice Chilean sauvignon blanc (Concho y Torro Reserve for the interested). I was completely satisfied.
I caught a cab home. (I know what you’re thinking, “Home at 9:00 on a Friday night? Charles, what has happened to you?” Give me a break. I’m recovering from a smashed foot, a sinus cold and jet lag. I’ll rage tomorrow.) I have to mention this here because it came up with my cab driver. House numbers do not make sense. On one side you have #2, #4, #8 while across the street you have #35, #47, #23, and they aren’t even sequential. I don’t understand the system nor do the Mexicans that I’ve ask about it. In fact, it was a Mexican who pointed it out to me. Maybe it is based on when the property was built not so much as the placement of the lot. Just a theory. If anyone knows, please let me know and I’ll make it my mission to communicate it to everyone south of the border.
The other anomaly is the evening release of dogs. During the day one sees the random dog on the street. Now these are not roaming mongrels but well cared for family pets. But at night they are everywhere. As if they are not released during the day but free to roam at night. Tonight a very well groomed, Fluffy, apparent Shepard-Golden Retriever mix met me as I stepped out of my cab. He waged his tail; I patted his head and went into my casita. A few minutes later I heard this horrific dog fight going on outside. (I had heard this on previous nights as well.) I climbed to the roof and peered over. It was my pooch friend having an all out war with a dog behind a gate at the home next to mine. Neither dog can see the other but they both know the other is there so many threats are exchanged in dog language. Both are very brave with a solid barrier between them. I yelled at my dog friend and he stopped just as his owner came out and called him in. I think the owner used to let them go at it but now that there is a cranky gringo in the neighborhood he may rein his dog in.
Well, it is 10:30 on a Friday night and I’m off to bed. The bird in my tree tends to start his song early. I hope the children still playing on the street don’t keep me awake. What time do they go to bed anyway?
10/5/02
I’m learning the sounds of the service vehicles. Mexico is not a quiet place. The garbage truck drives down the street while a boy sitting on the pile of garbage clangs a metal bar. The residents then run out and toss in their trash. Some of this bounces off the boys in the back but they don’t seem to mind. The propane tank truck plays a song reminiscent of ice cream trucks in the U.S. This is accompanied by the intermittent blaring of the trucks horn. I haven’t heard the water truck yet. So the concept of sleeping in is lost at this establishment. You’re either awakened by service vehicles, the iron works (or whatever the hell they’re doing next door) the screams of small children (apparently being dismembered based on the decibel level of their screams, - next door on the other side), the frigg’n bird in the courtyard tree or the hunchback maid who appears out of nowhere.
I confirmed with Evaristo today. There is a house and garden tour that I want to attend tomorrow at 11:00. At 4:00 he and I will meet in front of Restaurant del Jardín (“En el Corazón de San Miguel”) for my house and apartment tour, the ones for rent and for sale; those of which I can afford will probably be depressing after the morning’s activity. Actually this is not a bad strategy. It should keep me from impulsive acquisition. If I come home and immediately put my house on the market, it means I lost and Evaristo won.
Evaristo has this habit of touching me on the shoulder every time he talks to me. He does it very tentatively. I don’t think this natural for Mexicans who are a very private and conservative people (until you’re “familia”). Someone must have told him that this is how to obtain a gringo’s confidence and trust. But it feels kind of creepy. Not like he’s a gross old man or anything. He’s actually younger than I and very clean cut. More like that slimy salesman kind of thing.
I seem to be burning through the pesos faster than I expected. Phone calls to mom and dad at $6.00 a minute don’t help. I talked to one of the expats at the Internet café and he has his money with Lloyds (not Lloyds of London – entirely different, Mexican owned) which is the most reputable firm catering to expats. I think I’ll open an account on Monday and put $5,000 USD in it. Even if this all doesn’t work out, I’m in Mexico frequently enough that I’ll use it. Plus it pays somewhere between 8 and 15 percent interest depending on the peso value. Find that in the states will ya!
Dear Señora Kahn,
I have been living at your casita advertised as “Señora Erika’s very special place” for five days now. I feel that I would be remiss if I did not express my concerns with the portions of your advertisement and our specific communications that appear deceptive. Allow me to articulate.
In August I specifically ask you, in an email, if I understood your advertisement correctly. A one bedroom plus an adjacent studio. You dodged the questions in your response, indicating only when it was available and telling me where I could send the check. In October you called my home and confirmed the dates. At that time I questioned you, “Let me understand this properly”, I said, “This is a one bedroom and a separate studio apartment, right?” You said, “Yes, connected by the courtyard.”
Upon arrival I was surprised to find that, despite my attempts at clarification, I did not have two separate unites; i.e., a one bedroom with kitchen and bath plus a separate studio with kitchen and bath. I have taken the liberty of suggesting some revisions to your advertisement below.
“Señora Erika’s very special place” is a fine name. It is certainly “special”. You also state, “My maid cleans for you!” You mention a view from the rooftop patio. I would suggest the following:
“Are you one of those people who enjoy screaming babies on airplanes, generally find sleep unnecessary, appreciate small spaces resplendent with spiders, their webs and nests; do you thirst for the true Mexican experience? You’ll get it all here at Señora Erika’s very special place.
Enjoy San Miguel de Allende in an efficient one-bedroom apartment in a rather industrial part of town. Garish colors greet you as you approach the unit and continue once inside. (Bring slippers because if you’re in the main room and have to pee you’ll need to cross the small courtyard to do so.) No exterior windows ensure your privacy from those on the street. All doors and windows look onto the miniscule courtyard. The casita can sleep up to four people but don’t plan to eat all at once. Tiny pots and pans will mean that each person has to wait his or her turn.
Experience the sounds of Mexico by day as loud utility vehicles drive by every few minutes, construction progresses on one side of you and children scream bloody murder on the other. Enjoy the incessant song of an ugly bird in the courtyard. Languish on the rooftop with views of other rooftops and the wires that connect them.
At night, descend through the cloud of mosquitoes and try to remember where you left things as you wander back and forth between the main room and the bedroom/bath. (Remember to pump your own water at least every other day!) As your head hits the pillow, enjoy the sounds of car alarms and dogs howling and fighting, uniquely amplified as your surrounding walls act as a sound chamber.
As an added bonus, my maid will come (remove the exclamation point, it’s not that special) randomly and move the dirt around. She is even available to overcharge you for doing your laundry.
Amenities include a small refrigerator, a cook top with two burners, a toaster oven, a thirteen-inch color TV with three Mexican stations and a flush toilet. Remember not to smoke in the main room because the constant propane leaks could result in an explosion! (Here the exclamation point is appropriate.)
If your shower is cold and there is no fire for your kettle, just flag down one of the noisy propane trucks driving by. The property office will reimburse you. Clean drinking water is also available for 15 pesos per 5 gallons. Just identify the right truck at the right time of day and it is all yours.
Enjoy your stay and Bienvenido,
Señora Erika”
Señora Kahn, I hope you find this rewrite of your advertisement helpful. I think it will improve prospective tenant’s expectations tremendously.
(Email never sent but felt good to write.)
10/7/02
Every bowel movement here is an event. And a celebration when consistency meets with approval. I don’t know why I mention this but it just came to mind after a happy return from the restroom and I thought I’d share.
After buying more cell phone minutes I bought a bottle of water from a street vendor in the Jardín. After taking a couple of gulps it occurred to me that I hadn’t head the plastic seal break when I opened it. Fearing that I might have been sold a reused bottle filled with tap water, I headed to Café Etc. where I bought another. When Juan heard that I was going on the House and Garden tour he gave me his disposable camera and asked that I take a few pictures.
When I arrived at the Bibliotece for the tour I ran into an elderly couple from Florida whom I had helped out at a restaurant my first night in town. (They were having trouble with the conversion rate and were baffling the waiter with questions that he didn’t understand, so I had stepped in to help. I also calculated the tip for them.) I can’t remember their names and don’t want to. If I see them again I’ll run the other way. He proved an obnoxious one as he kept interrupting the tour guide with senseless observations. Problem was he was sitting next to me and I was afraid people would somehow think we were associated.
But I digress. So here I am sitting in the courtyard with tourists from the U.S., Australia, Canada and Britain, reading the new edition of Atencíon. We are listening to a mariachi band and waiting for our 12:00 departure. On page two of the paper I see an ad for House and Garden tour volunteers. Apparently the Bibliotece is short on volunteers until the “snowbirds” arrive in December. I turned to one of the volunteers (identified by her name tag) sitting at the table next to me. “Excuse me, but what skills are required to qualify for one of these volunteer positions?” I asked. “You’re qualified,” she said and before I knew what was happening to me I was whisked into an office where I met two women named Jane. They took my contact information and I walked out with three pages of instructions. I start next Sunday. The cool part is that there are around 300 houses used for these tours, three or four each Sunday. This way I’ll get into many of them for free. And if they are anything like the ones I saw on my tour, I want to see more.
The first was a seven bedroom place at the top of a hill with spectacular views. It had once been a home for troubled boys. One of the bathrooms had steps directly into the swimming pool. Once can rent the house for a mere two thousand dollars per week. It comes with a staff of nine. The second was a house on the edge of town. The owner is a retired Texan and the place was right out of Architectural Digest. Three floors beautifully laid out with outdoor courtyards at every level. The third was the most amazing. It is brand new and is right off the Jardín. From the street you see nothing but a door. Once inside you walk through a patio, past the guest casita, the pool with outdoor shower and a palapa containing a bar and pool table, to the main house. The place must be about 6,000 square feet and is the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen. It is a three bedroom, 5 bathroom home, three floors of decorating perfection. The main living area is on the top level with views of church towers. It can be rented for $4,900 per month. The guest casita rents separately for $1300 per month and is a perfect little one bedroom with its own kitchen and living room. I seriously thought about renting it then saw that, on either side of the property are lots under construction. That would have been a fatal mistake.
I had about an hour to kill after the House and Garden tour so I headed over to Café Etc. There I ran into Owen who was sitting in the courtyard having a coffee. I grabbed a cup of tea and joined him. His withered frame barely filling out the chair, he leaned back and crossed his legs. “One of the things I’m good at,” he said, pausing briefly, “Is putting things, or rather people, together. Do you remember that young woman who stopped by our table?” I did. She was an attractive 30 something woman who was there briefly on the day that I men Owen and Nancy. She was there with her maid and an enormous great dane. One of her four dogs as I remember. “Well,” he continued, “She used to be a psychotherapist in New York. She has since given it up and wants nothing further to do with that field. Her mother is American and her father is a wealthy Mexican. She has a large place on the edge of town and is learning to play the guitar. According to her she just wants someone to jam with. I don’t know if you play an instrument but even if you don’t I think you two have a lot in common. You may want to get together for sex or otherwise. I think you’d get along.” I couldn’t believe what was coming out of this frail old man’s mouth. “Is he a yenta or a pimp?” I asked myself. Then realized that Owen is a scientist and is probably this clinical about everything. Not really acknowledging the comment I said, “Well, I would be interested in seeing where she lives. You know, getting a little more familiar with the area.” He looked at this watch, “Too late today.” “That’s ok,” I said, “I have an appointment at 4:00.” So I gave him my phone number and email address and bid him farewell.
Out on the streets a festival of some sort was going on. Mexicans dressed in Native Indian garb danced around the square. Some were wearing costumes resembling traditional American Indians while others wore bright colors with elaborate feather headdresses. (I find it odd that Mexican men, who you never see even wearing shorts, will bare themselves half naked for a festival.) I threaded my way through the onlookers and met up with Evaristo and another man at the Café del Jardín. After exchanging pleasantries we got into Evaristo’s car and they took me to the first house. Despite the specific parameters that I had given him ($500 per month to rent, $50,000 to buy) the first house was for sale for $200,000 USD and for rent at $1,000 USD. What a wonderful home. Traditional Mexican, nothing but a wall and a door from the street, it was four floors of different levels and patios with three bedrooms, three complete baths and two half baths. The rooftop has wonderful views and an outdoor bar/kitchen. It is a little faded around the edges but . . . No Charles! You don’t need another house project. You’re here to write! But maybe I could rent out the other rooms. . . No! Keep looking. You can find a place half the size or smaller at half the price or less. Are you sure? Maybe this is meant to be.
The houses we saw after were dumps, over priced and needing tons of work. And the locations were poor (unlike the first house that was just a few blocks off the Jardín).
I had Evaristo drop me off at the Instituto. He assured me that he and his partner would continue to look for me. “We will find you something wonderful not expensive” he said.
I stopped at La Vida for a drink before heading home. There I fell into conversation with a young man from New York. He is getting into the ceramics business here. “Why here?” I asked. “My mother retired here and I come down every year. So why not here?” We kept drinking and talking, me mostly listening because he has this annoying habit of talking right over me. He introduced me to one of the restaurant’s owners and by the end of the evening we were all upstairs playing pool. The owner took me into the residence above the restaurant and showed me his bedroom and those of both of his business partners. They all live and work on the same premises. Everything was very new and clean. All the beds were made. He said he would keep his eyes open for a place for me. The guy from New York says they are building an apartment at his mother’s house that they intend to rent for $400 per month when completed. We agreed to meet another day and go have a look. “Since it’s not complete yet,” he said, “we might even be able to build according to your requirements in some cases.” I didn’t get home until 1:30 AM.
Juanita came today. She arrived before 10:00 AM and I was still asleep. When I got out of the shower she was waiting patiently outside the bedroom door. I crossed to the other room trying to figure out the words for “Pick a time and stick to it” but couldn’t come up with them. She returned a few minutes after she left saying she’d lost her keys. We both looked for them to no avail. She said she’d get new ones from Señora Kahn. I suspect this is all part of her plot to kill me. She’ll have someone use the keys to come in and her alibi will be that she didn’t have any keys. I am not happy with the idea of lost keys.
The water went out again. This time the guy determined that it had been turned off at the street. He turned it on and now I apparently don’t need to use the pump. Whatever. I’ve got to go to the Café. This fucking bird is driving me nuts.
10/8/02
As of today, it is officially one week since I have driven a car or watched television. I did, however, attend a movie at the Biblioteca. “Changing Lanes” with Ben Affleck and Samuel J. Jackson. The movie was good, not great, but good. The weird thing is that as I became engrossed in the film I lost all frame of reference. When it was over and the lights came up, I thought, “Wow, I’m in Mexico. I’ve got a long walk home”. (Why spend a whole $2.00 on a cab?) Another point about the theater; here one is watching a modern picture on the wide screen with Dolby sound and the walls are stone, built hundreds of years ago. It’s pretty cool. And no lines to wait in. Everyone chats with the friendly, handsome Carlos Pasqual (former VP of International Marketing somewhere in Mexico before he came to San Miguel de Allende) who manages the theater and takes your 40 pesos. I loaned him “Live as a House” and “From Hell”. I cautioned him that “From Hell” is not a movie for the weak of stomach being about Jack the Ripper and all. He told me he is thinking about a 10:00 PM showing of that film so that all the old expats who may object will be in bed by then. This guy is a total movie buff. He is planning a classic movie retrospective in the near future. Should be interesting.
That was last night. Tonight I’m sitting in the courtyard still in shorts and short sleeves. I did spray on some mosquito repellent. (Actually, the mosquitoes are not any worse here than in Oakland. Only in Oakland it would be too cold to be outside at 8:30 PM.) I’m writing on the garden table where I’ve placed a candle. Spanish guitar music is playing in the background.
All the lights are on (and there are many) in the main room of the casita. It looks quite nice. If it were cooler I’d light the fire. Despite the vibrant colors painted on the exterior of the casita and in the courtyard, the interior is all white and color is relegated to the throw pillows and seat cushions. It would actually be a great room for entertaining. I just wish it had an oven. It has lovely tile floors and a good sturdy wooden dinning table. Seating is a little precarious what with two comfortable wooden chairs with cushions, one metal wrought iron chair with cushion, and two stools. But it has charm nonetheless. The small living area has a couch (fold out) and two typical Mexican wicker chairs with cushions. Between them is an Indian print area rug. The fireplace is just to one side with built-in seating and (yes, you guessed it) cushions. Along the other wall is an adobe colored concrete kitchen counter that stretches nearly the entire length of the wall. The sink is deep and has two separate faucets, one for hot and one for cold, but I’m getting used to that. Some fairly decent original oils adorn the walls.
I ran into Jeff and Vicky before the movie and they are house-hunting, check in pocket. They say their priorities are shifting now that it is a reality and they’ve become much more critical. Vicky said she’d have me over for dinner at the place they are renting. I immediately became concerned as to how I would reciprocate given the limited cooking facilities at my casita. (Not to mention my inexperience with shopping for food here.) But if I think about it, a larger fry pan with a lid and I could put something together.
Today I opened an account with Lloyds so I really feel like a foreign national now.
I then took the bus to the Tuesday market which is a really big deal here. It is the first time I’ve seen raw fish sold directly across the aisle from tennis shoes. You could buy everything at these tents pitched in the dirt that stretched on for blocks. Had I a family of 10 and knew what half the food items were I would have been in heaven. As it was, I walked past meat, produce, CD’s, DVD’s, electronic equipment, clothes, tools, sweets, cookware and god knows what else. (Ladies, a large sign advertised bras for $1.50.) There were also many things (food items) that I totally couldn’t recognize or even guess what they were. But the Mexicans were buying them by the gross. I had lunch for 35 cents and later paid 60 cents for a soda. I’ve not quite figured out the program here. Initially I was concerned about eating vendor food but the lady from the House and Garden tour told our busload that she eats her way from one end of the market to the other. And Vicky and Jeff say they eat everything including vendor food. Time and experience will tell.
I’ve lost weight. I only know because I’m down to the last hole on my belt. If I lose anymore I’ll have to buy a new belt. I keep forgetting to eat. But despite my ribs showing I still have that 40 something flab around the middle. How much weight does one have to lose before the belly button becomes shallow again? A lot, I think. Or maybe it is impossible without some ridiculous weight training routine accompanied by a protein only diet. Screw that.
Tomorrow I have planed a walking tour put on by the Biblioteca. Proceeds benefit a poor children’s program. It starts at 9:15 AM. I don’t know if I’ll make it. I haven’t been up before 9:00 AM since I arrived.
10/9/02
At 8:14 AM the first propane truck passing by served as my alarm clock.
I had this weird dream that I came home, to my house in Oakland, for Easter. When I walked in the door Bob, Bridget, Nathan, Dean and some other people that I can’t remember, were all seated at my dinning room table. They were using my china, silver and crystal. There was no place set for me and it became painfully clear that I was not invited. I stormed through the house, down the back stairs and into the garage where I threw my bags (never unpacked) into the trunk of my car. I had every intention of heading to the airport and returning to Mexico. Now nowhere in the dream did it explain where I was going to leave my car and how I was going to obtain an airline ticket but dreams can be short on details like that. I have my own theory. Possibly that there is some subconscious fear that if I continue to live out of the country all of you will forget me (only after you’ve stolen all my stuff).
Anyway, I made it to the walking tour. The guide was a gringo volunteer from the Biblioteca, who is a self described retired “Unitarian Civil Engineer”. The “Unitarian” caveat was probably due to all the unflattering Catholic references made throughout the tour. I won’t recount the history of San Miguel de Allende here (fascinating as it is) as this can be found in any good history book on Mexico.
At the start of the tour I met the only other person who was 10 minutes early, Rand Richards Cooper, as it says on his business card. A tall man, younger than I, who is a contributing editor for Bon Appétit magazine. He is doing a story on San Miguel de Allende and the surrounding area. He travels all over the world doing this stuff but his true passion is writing fiction (but that doesn’t pay the bills). He was delightfully entertaining throughout the tour and took copious notes that he told me would later be horrifically reduced for eventual publication. I would have loved more of his time but he had other appointments after the tour. I directed him to “Plum” being that I thought it perfect fodder for Bon Appétit. He’d heard of it and was very interested in my experience. I have his email address now so he can’t hide entirely. (Maybe I could provide periodic freelance updates for the magazine, from Mexico?) He is going to try to make the Sunday House and Garden tour. I can pounce on him then.
An interesting bit of trivia that I learned on the tour is that the Biblioteca is a piece of a monastery that was confiscated from the Catholic Church and was the city’s slaughterhouse for a period. Apparently there were a number of Catholic edifices that were turned into degrading service in order to teach the church a lesson as to how much power and government control was appropriate. (There was no division of church and state in Mexico for centuries.)
Speaking of the Biblioteca, principally its function is to provide philanthropic services for bilingual integration. In other words, provide a virtually free environment for Mexicans and foreign nationals to meet and enjoy language programs and to provide assistance to the poor. It is also a haven for English speaking foreigners to borrow books written in English and to generally socialize. The concept in a town like this is exceptional. Only today I breezed through the entrance into the courtyard that was filled with Mexican and North American youngsters who were helping each other with their language studies. A welcome reprise from Nintendo playing youngsters back home.
I attended an afternoon lecture on “Living in San Miguel”. It was put on by a local real estate guy who clearly uses it to obtain leads. But he also gave a very fair representation of living in Mexico (based on what I’ve read). The discouraging point that I walked away with (there were only 5 of us in attendance so plenty of opportunity for questions) is that there is no way in hell that I will find a decent residence in San Miguel de Allende, for under $100,000 USD. I could buy a nice lot and build for $65,000 but I’m not doing that. That means that I could not own in this city unless I sold Ayala Street, which I won’t do (both because of ties to the Bay Area and because of huge capital gains implications). So rent it is for now. The idea of splitting my time between here and Puerto Vallarta is becoming very attractive. And other places in Mexico for that matter. I understand the winter nights can be quite cold here (near freezing) even though the days heat back up to 70+ degrees. This is high desert. Both rooms are equipped with propane fireplaces but might winter be the time to go to Vallarta? It is a six to eight hour bus ride from here. And winter is the perfect climate in Vallarta.
The real estate guy mentioned that June is San Miguel’s rainiest month. The sky opens up and drops buckets every evening for about 45 minutes. During those 45 minutes one stays wherever one finds oneself. This is because the deluge is so intense that the runoff creates 60 mile per hour rivers through the streets that can pull your feet out from under you and carry you all the way down to the lake. But after, everything clears up, the temperature returns to somewhere between 70 and 80 degrees and the air is washed clean. This year was atypical. Instead of 45 minutes the rain lasted 45 hours and one church by the lake is almost underwater.
If you ask the long term expats here how San Miguel has changed over the last 20 years, most will say that it has changed for the better. There is less garbage on the streets (there were previously no public trash cans so the Mexicans would throw their trash on the street knowing that the next morning someone would sweep it up), and the infrastructure has been improved as it relates to power, cable, telephones, and general amenities like toothpaste and toilet paper. There is nothing you can’t get here, or nearby, now and that includes high-end computer equipment and audiovisual toys. If you have the money (and some patience) it is legitimately available.
I attended a free “Financial Planning Seminar” at the Bibliotece this evening. I thought it would be about portfolio diversification, investment opportunities in Mexico and how to live as an expat. Instead it was five elderly expats trying to figure out how to survive a failing US economy and stock market. It was about stock market picks, index funds and how to continue to live in Mexico given the current state of the US economy. No one had definitive answers but everyone had questions and speculations.
One woman touched my heart specifically. She was very old compared to the others. Her principle concern was how to survive the rampant inflation in San Miguel de Allende. She has lived here over 30 years on a fixed income, and has done so on about $9.00 per day. Now it is closer to $29.00 per day. Due to Fortune magazine articles listing San Miguel de Allende as one of the top 10 places to retire in the world, wealthy Americans are coming down here and driving prices through the roof. One restaurant that I looked at, The Sierra Nevada, albeit stunningly beautiful, requires a dinner jacket and one cannot get out for less than $150 USD per person. This was unheard of when this woman moved here. Another man at the table told a story of going to the restaurant Tio Lucas on Mesones for a drink. When the proprietor asks him why he wasn’t staying for dinner he replied, “Why should I pay $7.00 for a hamburger when I don’t pay that in Boca Rattan or New York?” The proprietor responded by saying, “My overhead has gone up.” “How?” asked the expat, “When you buy your meat at the same place I do. Those prices haven’t changed.” “My rent has gone up” he responded. The American retorted, “Fascinating how that happens when you own the building.” The proprietor bought him three rum and cokes and walked away.
The group parted with an assignment to pick a stock for the next meeting. We are going to create a paper portfolio. They give me the leftover cookies to take home.
Dinner was at Restaurant Fada on Calle Hidalgo. Basic Mexican fare at reasonable prices. What makes it interesting is there is a piano and base player who jam before dinner and the music seems to be more important to them than the customers. I sat overlooking the street, watching two young girls ride their tricycles and then one played the drum while the other danced in a doorway below. A Canadian couple came in and I convinced them to stay and try the chicken Molé.
My shower used to spray in multiple directions making the experience less than perfect. Today I took the Phillips screwdriver that I bought at the Tuesday market, for a dollar, and cleaned the showerhead. Everything is running smoothly except for a small portion that would require I replace the showerhead completely. That I’m not doing.
Speaking of water, I have also found my water fix (my need to be around water that is). The courtyard of Belles Artes is beautiful and has a lovely café where I can sip tea and enjoy the greenery set amongst stone walls and listen to the many fountains. This is the art school that competes with the Instituto de Allende. It has a lovely multicultural atmosphere that makes it a perfect hideaway or at least the ideal breakfast spot.
I’m living in a predominantly Mexican neighborhood. Not exclusively but predominantly. I went to an exclusively Mexican neighborhood on my real estate tour. That was a place where I felt I’d be stared down or killed directly out my front door. This street has a few foreign residents but I see them mostly in their cars. Or they are coming to the neighborhood to eat at a restaurant called “Rinconcita” down the street. (It has been recommended by several people but I’ve yet to try it.)
Every day I walk this street on my way to the Jardín and probably soon to the Instituto where I will be attending Spanish classes. The Mexicans that I pass tend to stare or not meet my gaze, either is possible. The men tend to avoid me altogether. But I find that the women shoot glances in my direction. None speak and some even appear a little hostile. That is until I say something. A simple, “Hola, Buenos tardes” can change the entire mood. They will never speak first but if I do the exchange is entirely different to that left in silence. So my strategy is not to walk down the street greeting everyone and their dog, but if I make eye contact, intentional or otherwise, I extend a greeting that universally gets a like response. This is a little difficult for them I think; because I wear sunglasses that tend to conceal my eyes. (They are prescription.) Sunglasses seem to be a luxury not often afforded by the Mexicans so initially I’m looked upon with suspicion. But the difference I feel, passing someone with a greeting and one without, is huge. Not to say that one should greet everyone. Mexico has its share of weirdo’s just like the U.S. But taking the first step in a foreign land appears to be our responsibility and that I can appreciate. We are, in fact, the visitors, and I think many tourists forget this.
I was so touched by this experience that I thought of inviting all of my neighbors to my casita for a fiesta. Then I came to my senses. I don’t speak enough Spanish to make this an enjoyable event. Plus I have about $4,000 USD worth of equipment (laptop, cameras) here that could make this a less than safe proposition. But without that, wouldn’t it be a cool idea? Maybe before I leave. Many of them must wonder what it looks like behind the big purple façade.
The children are still playing next door. They are toddlers. It is 10:20 PM. What a different culture.
10/11/02
The bird crapped in my tea this morning. I’m sitting at the little outdoor table, note pad out, planning the day’s activities when I hear this wet sound. He hit not only my tea but left a trail across the table. I want him dead. I can’t throw anything at him without risking it going over the wall and hitting the woman or children next door. The limbs of the tree look sturdy. I could climb up there and lie very still and try to grab him when he lands. Of course, if the woman next door looks up at the commotion and sees a skinny gringo clutching a bird she’s likely to panic and think that her children might be next. And then there is the risk of losing my balance and falling on her or the children. I don’t think getting a gun in Mexico is easy. I have to work on this.
I saw the sobbing European again. It was at the same café and he had two beautiful Mexican women at his table and seemed much happier. In fact, he was positively buoyant. One day’s sorrow can open the door to another day’s bliss. (I made that up – pretty good huh?)
I stopped by the Instituto to see if there was still room in their conversational Spanish class that starts on Monday. Unfortunately there is so now I’m enrolled. On the counter I saw an ad for a house and some apartments that they are renting. I asked if I could see them and was instructed to come back in 10 minutes when the man who had this responsibility would be back. I took the opportunity to walk around the Instituto. It is huge. I went through the gallery that had some pretty impressive work, and then found myself in the back of the Instituto where they have not another courtyard but an enormous sculpture garden with little paths and tables set up among the greenery. It is beautiful and very large. What a great place to study and if you are attending the University of Chicago you can get credit for doing so.
The casa hombre was in the office when I returned and, of course, spoke no English. But I understood well enough that he didn’t have the keys and I agreed to stop in another time. He had amazingly sharp teeth. I couldn’t help but imagine how good they would be at tearing flesh. But it was daylight so he couldn’t be a vampire. Other than this oddity he wasn’t bad looking. If I were a smart dentist in this town I’d snap him up for a before and after advertisement.
I sneak up on Mexicans. I don’t mean to but it just happens. I think it has to do with my height and the length of my stride. Probably also I haven’t adjusted to the Mexican pace and still hurry everywhere. On a half a dozen or more occasions I’ve seen someone glance apprehensively over his or her shoulder as if I were an approaching mugger or would-be sex offender. Inevitably I pass them. I may need to work on this.
Yesterday I called to make reservations for a two-day writing workshop put on by author and screenplay writer, Roy Sorrels. I left my number with a service and a few hours later Roy called me back. I told him I was interested in attending both the “Writing Your Life Story” session on Friday and the “Five Minute Fiction” session on Saturday. He asked me how long I’d been in San Miguel and I told him one week. “Well, you’d probably better take a cab because it is a little hard to find. It is on San Jorge . . .” I interrupted him, “I live on San Jorge, number 54.” “I’m at number 61”, he replied, “I guess you don’t need to take a cab.” He is literally across the street and two houses down. I dropped my check in his mail slot.
Before the movie at the Biblioteca I stopped across the street for dinner. The place served only one thing and I’m not sure what they are called. I must go back. It is like a thick tortilla that they slice open like pita bread and then insert the stuffing of your choice. I picked something that looked like mushroom, spinach and cheese. It was delicious. Dinner cost me $1.80 USD and that included a bottle of water. (Today I spent that on a ballpoint pen.) I was the only gringo in the place. And I’ll definitely be back.
At the Biblioteca I met an expat who amongst his prattle, mentioned that he had a hard time spending 100 pesos per day (that’s $10). Clearly he’s not a drinker. I need to spend a day with this guy.
I walked home and stopped by my regular shop to buy some water. A woman who looks a thousand years old runs the store. I’m intrigued by these people that you very clearly tell that you don’t speak the language well and they yak on anyway. She is one of these. Her granddaughter, or great, great, great granddaughter, was splayed out on the floor doing her homework. Grandma did manage to communicate to me, or rather I understood enough, that five days from now was the girl’s birthday and I really should give her some pesos. First I told her that maybe five days from now I would but she was persistent enough that I gave the girl 20 pesos and wished her happy birthday in Spanish. (I wonder how many birthdays she has per year.)
These shops amaze me. Off the beaten path they are open day after day. There is one jewelry merchant, and I mean quality stuff, that I pass every day and have never seen a customer. How do they stay in business? Many of the shops simply incorporate their evening activities into their work activities. They live and work on the same premises and when one drops in to purchase something you may well be interrupting the family meal or favorite TV program.
So today I walked across the street to my first writing workshop. It was held in a lovely new home and included the instructor, six women and me. At times the class felt more like a group therapy session than a writing class but whatever. I’ve never had to write under pressure and the technique was interesting. Roy would give us a topic and 10 minutes to write about it. Afterwards we were expected to read it aloud and receive criticism from the group. By far the most stress since I’ve arrived in San Miguel. The subjects were: an important lesson that you’ve learned, your first kiss and how your parents viewed the world the year you were born. When it came time to read you were allowed to select any of the three. Several people read before me. They all read the first kiss or the lesson learned, no one read what their parents were experiencing the year that they were born. I was amazed and surprisingly flattered when it came to my turn and the only criticism was positive. The instructor told me that I reminded him of David Sedaris (an author I have read and respect). Here is my first kiss story for your critique.
Her name was Sherrie and she smelled of patoulie oil; bracelet bells jingled as she moved. I know my parents thought that she was white trash (and she was). I didn’t care. I was 15 years old and she was 18. We would sit at the back of the school bus and make out like two dueling chainsaws, until we both had big red rings around our mouths. I thought this was how it was done. My first open mouth kiss was instigated by her and, not wanting her to know that I was a newcomer to this activity I immediately adopted her technique. And this technique was only a three-step process. The assailant would force the person’s mouth open with his or her tongue, plunge the tongue in as far as possible and whip it rapidly around the other’s tongue.
It wasn’t until a few years later, after we’d moved to another city, when Mindy took things into her own hands by saying something like, “What are you doing?” and subsequently began my training in passionate kissing. 25 years later this same Mindy is a professor at Humboldt State University where she teaches human sexuality. She also has a small erotica shop in town. So clearly my later training was superior as it was received from a budding young expert.
Now cut me some slack. I had only 10 minutes to write this so the prose may not be Pulitzer material.
Actually I was very impressed with the group as a whole. There was some real talent among them and the one that struck me was the most fascinating woman. She is an Egyptologist. But more fascinating, she is around 45 years old; I believe Hungarian by decent, and still does not know her real surname. In fact, she has no real identity. She moves from country to country by buying false papers through whatever local underground. In the mean time, she’s been asked to speak at the University in Mexico City. She has never written fiction but has been published for her works as an archeologist in Egypt. She is a natural at fiction and I told her so. Right out the gate, without revision, she can capture a reader. I envy her talent and the ease at which it is apparently executed.
Another woman, not as talented at writing but with a fascinating story peeked my interest. She is a pasty white woman probably approaching 70 if not banging it pretty heavily. At 56 years old she was divorced and moved to Jamaica. There she met a 26-year-old Rastafarian who gave her her first orgasm. She subsequently became a member of his stable and adopted all the Rastafarian culture before eventually coming to her senses and escaping to Mexico. She continues to own the seven acres in the mountains of Jamaica where he lives and can’t sell it until she can get him off the land. Advisors have suggested having him killed. She doesn’t regret the experience but wants it to end. (Could you spell Rastafarian? Spell check knew it.)
I was later again encouraged after another exercise that sparked subsequent discussion. I told a story about a conversation that I had with my father on a sailboat in the Caribbean. The instructor pointed at me and said, “You have to write these stories.” He didn’t say that to the Rastafarian woman (what, is he nuts?) The question is, well he help me get published? I have his email address.
Tomorrow should be interesting.
Although it has only been a week, I think about the long-term perspective. I sometimes get lonely, frequently feel out of place and wonder if my choice is a good one for me. This is hard to do alone. Then I think about the alternative. Beating the streets of the bay area looking for a job (that I might like) during a recession. I’ll take this for a lot longer given the alternative.
Bacon and scrambled eggs for Dinner. This is all I’ve attempted in this kitchen so far. Oh, I had a cup-o-noodles or so for lunch and a granola bar for breakfast, but that is about as far as I’ve branched out. I have a fear of buying meat here. I’ll eat at a restaurant, even a non-American one, but buy it and cook it myself (beyond bacon) I haven’t ventured. Many of the staples of my cooking, Greek olives, feta cheese, olive oil, red onion, etc., I find difficult to find here. The next Tuesday market I’ll be a little more engrossed. And I need a big pot with a lid. I’m going to buy one and donate it to the house. I might do the same for a couple lawn chairs and a table for the roof.
10/13/02
Yesterday was the second writing workshop session. There was one other man this time, and a number of repeat women participants. Interesting exercise. The instructor gave us three starting sentences and five minutes after each to turn them into a story. The sentences were:
A small flock of tiny elephants flew in over the wall . . .
Suddenly the whole world was moving much too quickly . . .
The old man set his beard on fire . . .
I knew if I ate the whole truck I could have anything I wanted for dessert.
After we read each of our five-minute creations and received criticism (that we have to hear without responding), we then had 30 minutes to expand on the story of our choice. I won’t relay them all here but I will give you my expanded tale, based on a true story.
I knew if I ate the whole truck I could have anything I wanted for dessert. It seemed like a truck anyway. It was actually only four small, round, disgusting, smelly, mushy brussel sprouts. As far as I was concerned, swallowing a truck would be easier. The silence was deafening. My Mother just stared at me. I’d look to those awful turds on my plate and then back to meet her stare. It was clear that she wasn’t budging. I wasn’t either. Dessert would have to happen on another day. Today wasn’t going to be it, sad as that is. Tomorrow would be better. Brussle sprouts never appear two days in a row.
(This is where I ended at the five-minute point. The following is the expansion.)
The standoff ended in defeat for both of us. “Ok, you know the drill, no dessert.” I put on my most sullen face and slid off my chair. My Father only grunted from behind his paper.
I ran out the door and down the hill to the rope swing. No one knows when or how the rope swing got there, it just is; with a nice big knot on the bottom where you can sit. Mike is already there. I don’t like Mike; no one does. He’s a crybaby and the one who always manages to get all of us in trouble. But then there are only three other kids in the neighborhood so we all have to tolerate each other. Like me, Mike is an only child. Neither of us shares very well. “Get off. It’s my turn.”
“How is it your turn?”
“Cause you got here first and have hade it a long time already.”
“That doesn’t make it your turn.” Mike has stopped swinging and is just sitting on the knot, looking at me. The thought occurs to me that I should punch Mike. I’ve never punched anyone before but I’ve seen it on TV and at school sometimes. I think I can figure out how to do it. And it’s not just because he won’t get off the swing, it’s because he’s Mike.
I pull back my arm, making a fist and then slam it into Mike’s face, connecting with his left cheekbone, just below his left eye. He falls backwards off the swing. Laying in the dust he looks at me, fear all over his face. Oddly, it kind of hurt my hand. Mike scrambles to his feet and runs home bawling like a baby.
Now I have no one to play with so I go back to the house and into my room. A few minutes later I hear the phone ring. My Mother answers and I hear her speaking in soft tones, mostly listening I think. She hangs up. “Brian get down here,” she says in that voice that can only mean bad news. Sauntering down the stairs I find her at the kitchen table with my father. “Did you hit Mike Myers?”
“Um, I guess so.”
“You guess so. Did you or didn’t you?”
“I guess I did.”
“Why?” she asks. My Father is silent.
“I don’t know. Just ‘cause.”
A smile creases my Father’s face. “I think I understand,” he said, “I’ve found myself wanting to punch him a number of times but that doesn’t make it right.”
“Ok. I won’t do it again.”
“Alright,” he said, “You can go.”
As I leave to go back to my room, I hear my Mother ask, “What? No punishment?”
“Honey,” my Father said, “It was Mike Myers.”
Well, given a first sentence like, “I knew that if I ate the whole truck I could have anything I wanted for dessert,” what would you write?
The criticism that I received from the group was that a Father would never say anything indicating that he wanted to hit a child. It didn’t “ring true.” Well I know children that I’ve wanted to backhand a time or two. Besides, my Father actually said something like that. Later in the day I ran into one of the students in the class. “You’re a very good writer,” she said. “And I don’t agree with the criticism that you got. There are plenty of children that I’ve wanted to punch.”
On my way to the Jardín I ran into Jeff and Vicky at Restaurant Rinconcita, so I pulled up a chair figuring I’d visit with them for a couple of minutes. Two hours later we all got up from the table and headed off in different directions; I with an invitation to their home for dinner on Saturday to meet two friends of theirs who are writers.
On my walk into town I noticed a street crew doing some road work. You know those orange cones that you see on the roads all over the states? Well they had orange rocks. Very practical I thought.
That afternoon, after my daily trip to the Internet café, I stopped in at the Biblioteca to use the bathroom. When I came out I plopped myself down in a chair outside the theater. Pascual is one of the few people I’ve met my age and I think maybe I can get a few minutes of conversation while he is showing the movie. After all, it is Saturday night and I have no plans. He is also Mexican and I don’t want to fall solely into the aging expat community. Come to find out, Pascual is a writer, published in both fiction and non-fiction. He is passionate about writing. We spent the whole movie talking authors, writing technique, etc. He wants to start a bilingual newspaper that he feels San Miguel is severely lacking. Not something that reports the news but more of a literary journal. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about but complains that he can’t do it by himself. While there are a lot of writers in town he wants a young voice, “Our age down,” he said. He asked if I’d like to co-edit. He already has committed graphic layout and distribution points. I told him that I couldn’t commit until I know whether or not I’m staying. We ended up talking for nearly two hours. Just before the movie ended he asked if I’d like to join him for a drink at the “Petite Bistro” where he was meeting his girlfriend. I agreed and went on ahead.
Now the Petite Bistro is part of the Petite Marketplace, which really isn’t a marketplace at all, but a restaurant. And if it is the hip, young, trendy, artsy-fartsy crowd one is looking for, this is it. And whom do we run into almost immediately but Emily, the young actress whom I met when I first got to town. Emily begins introducing me to everyone and those she doesn’t introduce me to she points out and describes who they are and what they do. The crowd is all that much more interesting at this time because Antonio Banderas is in town filming “Pancho Villa”. “That guy over there is a casting agent from New York,” Emily would say, “And him, he is like the most famous actor in Mexico. You can’t see a movie made in Mexico without him. He has a role in the Pancho Villa movie.” Every other person I met or who was pointed out was a photographer, writer, painter, Mexican Rock Star or something that had to do with the arts. No one had what I’d call a “regular” job. And everyone was decked out very nicely.
Pascual and his girlfriend Paula left shortly after we’d arrived. After they left Emily asked if I had noticed any tension at the table. I admitted that I had and she explained that she and Pascual had an affair the last time that she was in San Miguel de Allende. (Now this same Emily told me that she’d “hooked up” with the bartender at La Vida the first time we met, she also told me that her boyfriend just left for another part of Mexico and now I’m hearing the Pascual story. This has been a very busy little 25 year old actress.) “He didn’t even look at me this evening,” she said, “And the last time we tried to work together on an acting project he got all angry with me when I didn’t agree with him on a point and said he couldn’t work with me. I ended up in tears.” So I played amateur therapist and told her that she needed to sit him down and tell him how she’s feeling, blah, blah, blah, etc., etc., etc. “That’s good advice, thank you.” All in a day’s work.
By this time we had a small entourage and the bar was closing. “Come on,” Emily said, “We’re taking you to a Mexican cantina.” I don’t remember the name of the place or how we got there but inside was this mad house of young and old. One large room with couches, tables and chairs on one side and a long bar running down the other. Music is blaring and the walls are covered with artwork. It is dim and full of smoke. Several young men were passed out cold on couches or on the bar. It was like a movie scene. This was not the kind of place where one orders a glass of wine. So after a rum and coke that was nearly all rum, I caught a taxi home. It was 3:30 in the morning.
As this was to be my first day as a House and Garden tour volunteer, I had planned on being at the Biblioteca by 10:30 AM. However, I didn’t wake up until 10:32 AM so that kind of threw a wrench in my plan. Leaping out of bed I took one of the fastest showers of my life didn’t bother to shave and bolted out the door. Fortunately I found a taxi within a few blocks. When I got there the courtyard was already full of tourists. There had been a huge wedding in town and over two hundred wedding guest had descended on San Miguel, many from Belgium. It appeared that nearly all of them were attending the House and Garden tour. We had a head count of 150. When I went into the office to pick up my badge I think they were a little disappointed to find out they had one volunteer and not two. There were two badges made, one for Charles Thomas and the other for Chip Thomas. Rand, the guy from Bon Appétit was there, as was the Texas woman from my “Living in San Miguel” lecture and the guy from my writing class.
I went to use the men’s room before leaving. In the stall next to mine I could hear a man urinating in what sounded like repetitive short bursts. “There’s a prostrate job waiting to happen,” I thought.
The first house already had its allotment of volunteers (being the desirable post since you then get to see all three houses) so Jan asked if I wanted the second or third. I said, “Put me where you need me” so I got the third house. Since the first and second houses were so far out, we had plenty of time to explore our house and visit with the owner, a Canadian widow. The house is beautiful. Only three bedrooms but the grounds and great rooms have sweeping views of San Miguel. There is a beautiful casita on the property where the owner’s lived while they built the big house. She rents it out for $700 USD per month so I got her email address. Given she has only used the swimming pool three times in 30 years I’m sure she’d appreciate her tenant getting some use out of it. The whole place is apparently for sale for $495,000 USD because, the woman says, “It’s so much house for only one person.” I asked her if she wanted a roommate and she just laughed. That is until later when we were touring the kitchen and I mentioned that I loved to cook. She turned and looked back at me, “Maybe I should let you move in” she said. Once the tour groups arrived many remarked that this house was their favorite of the day. This made me feel good since I didn’t get to see the other two.
One of the old expats mentioned that a group of them were meeting for lunch after the tour and asked if I’d like to join them. I did and it is rather strange to be the youngest at the table. Everyone has a story. One woman took a liking to me and said she wanted me to meet her husband and daughter. She has three children, orphan siblings adopted from Brazil. Once girl is in a special learning disability boarding school in some state, the 14 year old boy is a ballet dancer attending a performing arts school in another state and the youngest, now 11 years old, is here with them in San Miguel. “So let me understand this,” I said, “You adopted them all so the family wouldn’t be separated and then you separated them and shipped them off all over North America.” She smiled, “Yes I guess it looks that way. But they’ll all be here for Christmas.” Her house wasn’t far from mine and we were greeted at the door by two aging golden retrievers. Her husband was studying his Spanish. He is apparently a retired photographer who invented some kind of lighting equipment and then sold the company. The house they are renting is beautiful. Their daughter returned from a birthday party she’d been invited to. She was very precocious and seemed to be very interested in her parents guest, me. I found it strange and delightful to be sitting here with the two pasty white adults and their little black child. We visited for a time and then I made my escape, as I needed to get ready for a musical performance that I was attending that evening. Cathy said she’d call me for dinner one night.
I was talking to Dad on the cell phone when I spotted Jeff and Vicky across the street. We seem to run into each other every day or two so now it is just comical. They waved me over, as it was clear that we were all attending the same event. Music is in the Wind at Teatro Angela Peralta was tonight’s venue. All the instruments are pre-Columbian replicas played by children. It was delightful. And the looks of concentration on these small children’s faces were not to be missed. I found myself smiling like a proud parent in the audience. The sounds were very unique and apparently they have received some notoriety and are negotiating with a record label in the states. The ages ranged from 8 years old to 16. The 8 year old little boy was so small that Jeff and I thought he was about 4 or 5. In his little Indian outfit and face paint he was about the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Jeff and I both wanted to adopt him.
10/14/02
Juanita woke me up at 8:30 this morning. This is after I’d been woken up repeatedly during the night, by the barking dog next door. All during my shower I was rehearsing my intended conversation, which was basically to tell her that 8:30 was too early because I tend to stay up late writing. That 12:00 would be best as I would be at school. But by the time I was seated at my computer I decided that she might as well get me up early. At least that way I know when she is done and I don’t run the risk of her coming in later during my siesta.
Our Spanish teacher is Maria Elena. There are only two of us in the class. The individual attention should make it a better learning experience. Although I don’t know how well I’ll speak on the outside if I am practicing with a 24 year old Swiss man named “Urs”. Out the gate I’m a little more proficient than he. However, he is taking six hours per day only one of which I share with him. I imagine he’ll pass me up before the month is over. He’d better. I can’t imagine how he’ll enjoy San Miguel de Allende with that schedule and the corresponding homework. I don’t know how he’ll find time to eat let alone explore. But he’s traveling for a year throughout Mexico and Argentina so I guess he’ll find his playtime later.
Lunch was a grilled shrimp and spinach quesadilla with pico de gallo, guacamole and a coke for $3.90 USD. It was delicious. Folks were right about Restaurant Rinconcita.
During lunch Carlos Pasqual called me and said that he wants to move forward on this literary magazine project and would I be willing to put together a meeting with all the writers that I’ve met since I arrived. I told him of course I would but most of them are older and I thought he wanted a young voice. “I want everything,” he said. Now I’ve got to find all these broad’s email addresses. This is getting interesting. I can see it now, Charles Thomas, part owner of a bilingual, Latin American version of The New Yorker. I’m supposed to be working on my Spanish homework but now I want to start putting together a business plan. First things first. Time for siesta.
I finished my Spanish homework. All that was required was to write a description of my country and then prepare 5 questions for my classmate about his country. The dinning table is covered with reference material. Aside from the 5 Spanish books there are three about retiring in Mexico, two issues of Atención, flash cards and two notebooks. There is barely room for my laptop. The sloppy artist is evolving.
I didn’t run into Jeff and Vicky today. They must be out of town. However, I did run into a woman from my “Living in San Miguel” lecture (she was also at the House and Garden tour) and a woman from my writing class. Given my assignment from Pasqual (he prefers Pasqual to Carlos) I immediately exchanged contact information with her. She is meeting with one of the other women from the class tomorrow so the networking has started only hours after Pasqual called me.
I stopped in at the Biblioteca again to discuss this idea further. I told Pasqual that I thought we needed a stable of 200 English writers and 200 Spanish writers. He told me he was thinking more along the lines of 20 each. You see I was already envisioning myself taking off in my private jet to fly to New York and help out the CEO of the New Yorker magazine. (That is, after I can get rid of Antonio Banderas. He can be such a pest.) Apparently there has been an earlier attempt to launch this project and it grew too big before the first issue was ever produced, and therefore it never was. Pasqual wants to start small and initially it is only about issue number one. I think he knows what he is talking about. I’ll have to call and delay delivery on the jet. (And if Antonio calls I’ll talk to him.)
On the way home I stopped in at a little pastry shop that is only open in the late evening. Apparently people pick up their pastries for the morning at night. Walking in I could smell that wonderful just baked smell. I selected one croissant that was dusted in sugar and two empanadas. When the woman called the pastries “empanadas” I thought it interesting because the traditional empanadas that I’m familiar with contain meat and these were entirely too fluffy and I was sure they were filled with jelly. Two of the three items where devoured before I reached my casita and the other shortly after. The empanadas did contain meat; chicken I’m pretty sure. They were heaven. Here comes the weight back.
10/15/02
I have this fear of running out of drinking water. I’m about half way through the 19 Liter (5 gallon) bottle that came with the casita. I keep buying smaller bottles for the bathroom. So today I called the number that my landlady told me to call to have water delivered. There was no answer. So, being the ambitious type, I took two empty bottles from under the sink and walked the 3 long blocks to the store where I had seen these large bottles. The exchange was brief. The walk home was not. I have no idea how much 10 gallons of water weights but it is a lot, especially at 6,300 feet. After three rest stops I finally made it home with both arms barely in their sockets. Either I find the delivery number or these are going to last me the rest of the trip.
Another student joined us at Spanish class today. Beke, originally from Hamburg but now living in Amsterdam. She, like Urs, is very young, 25 to be exact. Another was supposed to join us but didn’t show. Maybe tomorrow. We were supposed to ask each other questions and one of the few questions that I know how to ask is, “Are you married or do you have a boyfriend?” and I did. I wasn’t hitting on Beke but she kind of gave me a wide berth after that.
After running my daytime errands I returned home and began preparations for my first vegetable diner. While the vegetables were soaking in the anti-bacterial solution (I don’t know how much a liter is so I probably doubled the required dose plus I soaked it four times the recommended duration) I heard a clap of thunder. Now everywhere I’ve lived has been really short on thunderstorms so I got very excited. It has been beastly hot all day and the idea of a thunderstorm to cleanse the air, plus put on a show, was what I was hoping for. (And one gets a lot of false alarms because they are always setting off fireworks in San Miguel, for one celebration or another.) What I really wanted was a big bolt of lightening to come down and hit the tree in my courtyard, thus frying the frigg’n bird that lives there. Unfortunately we only had a sprinkle or two and the storm passed us by. It is the end of the rainy season so I may not see another thunderstorm until I return next year. The bird is dead, one way or another, before then.
I made a makeshift Greek salad. There are no black olives (other than canned) or feta cheese to be found. But I finally found a red onion at an organic food store (where I probably paid way too much for it) and supplemented a ripe avocado for something. (I have not braved lettuce yet) and then, having no oil or vinegar, I dressed it in Hellmann’s Vinagreta. Having no croutons (not traditional in a Greek salad anyway so I was improvising) I crumbled Saladitas Gamesa, Tu Crujiente Compania, over the salad. Basically, saltine crackers. Since I’ve sort of been avoiding salads, it was nirvana. I had two helpings and can’t wait to polish it off tomorrow. It was even better than the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I had the other day. I only hope my purification methods worked or the next week or so are going to be torture. I felt that it was necessary to have this meal since breakfast was two pieces of toast with jelly and lunch was three chocolate chip and pecan cookies. I’m avoiding the bakery tonight.
10/17/02
After the above entry was logged, I tipped the wine bottle only to find that it was empty. “Damn”, I thought, “I’ve done it again.” When writing it is not unusual for me to start with a bottle only to find it empty by the time I’ve finished. It was only about 8:00 so I thought maybe the photo shop was still open. It is not unusual here for businesses to be open as late as midnight (given that they are all closed from 2:00 until 4:30). There was no phone number on the receipt so I donned my backpack once more and headed to the Jardín. The shop was closed and so as not to waste a trip, I headed for “El Petite Bistro” for a drink. Along the way my digestive system revolted. First I thought it was the vegetables then I thought that eating a purely vegetable dinner, drinking a bottle of wine and then hiking a mile uphill at 6,300 feet might be a combination that is not favorable to one’s constitution. Whatever, I found a rather nice restaurant that seemed eager for customers and I excused myself and bolted for the bathroom. I nearly levitated off the toiled from force. The poor chap after me, because the bathroom was scorched.
Now relieved, I continued towards my destination. At the “Petite Bistro” I ordered yet another glass of wine and proceeded to write in my journal. Since I completed my last journal, this was the journal that I had taken to Africa with me and I was long overdue completing that story. I was just finishing when who should come in but Pasqual. He was just explaining to me that “From Hell” was not being very well received by the theater crowd but “Life as a House” was a huge success, when in came Emily. Pasqual left nearly as soon as she arrived.
At this point things begin to blur. All I know is that Emily, her kiwi friend John, and some American young guy named Robert Oliver and I ended up back at “La Cucaracha” on Calle Zacateros. (This is the same bar where I found myself last Saturday night. It was voted one of the best drinking establishments in the world by Rolling Stone magazine about 15 years ago. A dubious reputation at best.) Now Emily flitted off to chat with some friends of hers’ while Robert and I stood at the bar. Robert is a self proclaimed painter, writer and drunk. He is probably no more than 28 years old but has somehow made enough money that he can live the artist life in Mexico. Shortly after we arrived, I asked Robert to watch my bag while I used the men’s room (no emergency this time, just routine). When I returned Robert had moved around the bar to the other side, graciously taking my backpack with him. However, in my condition all I knew was that he was not where I left him and neither was my backpack. In my backpack was my passport, driver’s license, all my credit cards, basically everything. I found Emily and told her my predicament. I couldn’t remember the name of the guy that I left it with nor what he looked like. Emily quickly brought the bar’s owner into the mix. While they were grilling me for details, of which I had few, Robert appeared at my side with my backpack slung over his shoulder. “What’s going on?” he asked. I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my whole life. Everyone rolled their eyes at my performance and we quickly fell back into conversation. Sometime later Robert and I were no longer in the bar but sitting on the curb outside the club, when I looked at my watch. “Robert”, I said, “It’s 4:00 in the morning!” “I better go home and throw up so I’m not sick tomorrow,” Robert said, pulling himself up and teetering off.
I would have taken a taxi (if any were still on duty) but I had not a centavo in my pocket. It was a very long walk home. Lessons learned:
Don’t drink a bottle of wine and after go hiking
If you’re going to drink, leave your passport and credit cards at home.
Don’t drink your cab money.
Just because the bar is open all night doesn’t mean that you need to be.
Don’t select drinking companions who share your lack of moderation.
(Dad, this is the part where you have to toss the lecture. If you’re going to be part of this distribution then you’re going to hear the stupid things that I do in addition to any successes, should there be any.)
Have you ever cut into a grapefruit and there is more skin than edible fruit. Not here. Thin-skinned grapefruit. It’s like having two in one. And they are not “ruby” red they are nearly blood red. I could live off them (and may well have to).
I got a flu shot today. Interesting process. You go to the Pharmacia and buy your shot for 200 pesos and then take your little rectangular box to the emergency room and implore someone to stick you. They were very nice about it. Not surprising, all five beds in the emergency room were empty. (A good sign I think.) I provided them with something to do if only momentarily.
Last night, after the night before, it was a down night and I lit the fire. Not because it was particularly cold, it just seemed a good “comfort” thing to do. Then I curled up on the couch and read. I kept reading until nearly midnight because one has to wait that long for the children to stop playing on the street and go to bed. I see them returning from school everyday, all in their little uniforms, so I don’t understand how they can be up so late. They must have that siesta thing down.
I spied on the participants of “Conversationes Con Amigos” today at the Biblioteca. I wanted to see how advanced they are before I throw myself into the mix. Unfortunately, the placement of “Reserved” signs quickly tossed me out of the main area so I couldn’t hear the conversations. As I left I noticed a bearded late 30’s white man in a “Peace and Freedom” tee shirt talking with a Mexican child of about 13 years old. They had been talking for over an hour and a half. Where else in the world might one see two such diverse people come together for mutual development? This is an amazing place.
“Roof Dogs.” Have you heard of them? They are everywhere. Many roof dogs are huge; big, throaty German Shepards or Dobermans. However, some can be yappy little terriers. They are used instead of house alarms and they must be very effective since they bark down at you all day long. And at night they congeal into a symphony of defensive voices. It is ok until you’re trying to sleep. Then I wish they’d shut the hell up.
10/19/02
Urs looks fried. I think the 6 hours a day of intensive Spanish is wearing him down. When he got to our session yesterday his eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven and every word out of his mouth was half speed. I think it was good that it was Friday.
After class I walked around Juarez Park. The area around the park is supposed to be the “Gold Coast” of San Miguel, the desirable area to live. And I can see why. There are some amazing homes there. Pasqual rents an apartment in this area and he gave me the name of the guy who obtained it for him. His name is Robbie and he works at the bagel shop. I need to track him down.
I’d sent Pasqual an email telling him that I’d found another writer, Robert, and the “La Cucaracha” experience that went along with it. He emailed me back saying that I shouldn’t worry about gathering writers so quickly, that he’d like to see his partner survive at least until the first publication.
I stopped at “El Petite Bistro” on my way home and who should be there but Robert and his friend Carlos. I invited them to join me and they did. Carlos didn’t stay long. I think he is a little jealous. When I’m not there he gets all of Robert’s attention. When I appear Robert redirects his attention to me. He tries to include Carlos but I think we speak English too fast and he can’t keep up. He left soon after they joined me.
Robert is from Columbus, GA. (I told him that I was very familiar with Columbus given my days with Providian and Total Systems.) Robert’s father is deceased and I get the impression that there is some family money but mom holds the purse strings. I heard him say to Carlos, “I told my mom the restaurant idea and she said “No”. She also said that she wasn’t buying a restaurant anywhere where she couldn’t eat. I told her that she could, her credit is good. I should know I have her credit card.”
Robert was a professor at the University of somethingorother in Columbus. He taught computer science but his relationship with the administration soured after he said of the Dean, “He’d suck dick for crack money,” and the Dean overheard him. After that they sort of mutually agreed to part ways. Robert had his heart broken by a girl from Upsala, Sweden, and wanted to run off to Mexico anyway. When the job ended there was nothing to stop him. Now he wants to write and paint. However, he needs an income so he is thinking of doing online teaching. “A lot of companies are off-shoring their development work in order to save costs,” I told him, “You could register with contracting agencies all over the U.S. and they would send you work.” “Yes,” he said, “But if you are writing code then the programs have to work. If you are teaching, what the heck.” I am happy to say that we did not end up at “La Cucaracha” and went our separate ways at a decent hour. I took a taxi home.
I must be slowing down. Two Mexicans passed me yesterday and one was a woman. The sidewalks are very narrow here (being that the roads used to be dirt and they were installed well after the buildings were in place) so if you meet someone one of you has to either flatten against the wall or step into the street to let the other pass. I always try to be the one who steps down especially if the person coming towards me is Mexican. Yesterday was the first time a Mexican woman thanked me for doing so.
10/22/02
Saturday night I met Jeff and Vicky at a gallery opening on Zacateros. Featured were enormous pieces of copper pottery as well as black and white photographs of nudes. It was quite a swanky affair with free flowing champagne and fancy little snacks. Jeff introduced me to his watercolor teacher and her husband and to his and Vicky’s personal trainer from the gym. Their trainer is one of the models whose pictures are displayed. It was rather odd holding a conversation with the man when immediately over his left shoulder was a picture of him, naked, angrily biting into an apple. Yet here he was, fully clothed and seemingly shy. I don’t know if the pottery artist was present at the event but the photographer was. Being young and attractive he was surrounded by women most of the night. I managed to steel over to him hoping to gain a photographic colleague. However, his English is about as good as my Spanish so our conversation was limited. I did find out where he does his darkroom work. It turns out that it is the same place that I stumbled onto the other day. Very nice staff but also very young and artsy fartsy. When I told them I was a beginner they were insistent that they would be happy to help with any questions that I have.
Our group grew a little and by the time we headed off to El Petite Marketplace for dinner we were seven. One of the women in our group, Cynthia, had wanted to escape to Mexico so her friend, who was also at the table, bought her a hotel to run. And I’m not talking a cheap hotel the rooms run $200.00 USD per night. I talked to the chap who bought the hotel for her, to try to figure out how he came to be able to buy hotels for friends. (He was sitting directly to my right.) It has something to do with Microsoft and a non-disclosure agreement. Anyway, he and his partner were leaving the next day for the Galapagos and then on to Machu Pichu.
We had to jump to a new table at one point as it started to rain and the canopy over our table did not cover sufficiently. Also dinning was John, the older photographer from New Zealand, accompanied by two very young and attractive girls (go John), while at another table were Owen and Nancy. I stopped by each of their tables briefly. Owen and Nancy have invited me out to a ranch to visit some friends of theirs a week from Sunday. They said that it is a beautiful place to take a walk. I can’t imagine what kind of a walk it will be; Owen can barely stand and I’ve seen him walk. It was painful to watch.
When I got back to our table Vicky and Jeff gave me all kinds of ribbing for being new in town and knowing everyone. I convinced them to come to La Cucaracha after dinner only because Emily was to be there and they wanted to see her again.
The next morning I overslept again (I’m not certain Sunday volunteer work is a good idea for me) and had to dash to perform my House and Garden tour duties. Upon arrival, blurry eyed and wobbly, one of the women named Jean promoted me. “Your in charge of house number three”, she said, “I detect leadership skills.”
The house was enormous and the owners were very old gringos transplanted from Beverly Hills. (I can’t imagine how they handle all the stairs.) They were very eccentric and upon admiring a portrait the woman told me that it was of her third stepmother, the one she liked the most. And where most owners on the tour tend to make themselves barely visible, this couple stationed themselves at the front door and greeted all 100+ guests.
Later, at Café Etc., I ran into one of the young girls, Laura I believe her name is, that I’d met at La Cucaracha. “You missed the action on Friday”, she said, “Two Mexican guys got into a fight and one of them stabbed the other. There was blood everywhere and I’m pretty sure the guy died.” This was odd because Urs told us during Spanish class, that the previous Friday he was at La Cucaracha and there was a stabbing. Police came with guns leveled at the crowd, followed by an ambulance. Again, two Mexicans. Given this information I’m pretty certain that I’ll be avoiding La Cucaracha on Fridays if not entirely.
I finally tried one of these corn-on-the-cobs that are sold on the streets all over Mexico. They take an ear, shove a stick in the bottom, slather it with mayonnaise, roll it in shredded cheese and then sprinkle it with red pepper. The mayonnaise worried me a bit because it was an enormous jar and who knows how long it has been in service. I ate it anyway and found it really tasty although it was a little messy to eat. Apparently the vendor saw that I was a high maintenance kind of guy and came walking across the Jardin to give me extra napkins.
10/24/02
As I meet more people and my days become busier, events and experiences begin to blur together. Instead of journaling every night, my efforts have largely been reduced to jotting down notes or snippets of conversations in a small notebook that I carry in my back pocket.
I was walking my normal route to El Centro when I noticed a woman lifting a boy of seven or eight years, probably her son, up the side of a high wall. Across the street stood an older couple, probably the grandparents, watching. The woman was hoisting the boy up and propping his butt against her shoulder as he attempted to use his feet to climb higher. It was not clear what he was trying to reach. He certainly wasn’t trying to go over the wall as the top was covered in the customary shards of broken glass. Over the glass cascaded a lovely flowering vine but the glass was apparent nonetheless.
I stopped and somehow managed to communicate that I was offering help to which the boy responded very enthusiastically and positioned himself directly in front of me. I looked to the mother and received no apparent objection, so I hoisted the little chunk up the wall where he immediately began pulling the flowers off the vine. When I set him down I received many thanks from he, his mother and the older couple across the street. It was not clear why they wanted these flowers, certainly not enough to sell. But being “mas altos” it was fun to help.
I’m very excited because I received my first rejection notice from a magazine. I’d sent in a short story about my experience sailing with Bob, Debra and the children in The Bahamas, to Sail Magazine. The editor responded that she thought it would discourage anyone from chartering with children under 21 years old so she was not willing to run it. (At least she didn’t say it was crap.) I see her point. Theirs’ is to encourage people to charter. But I think she might have failed to appreciate the humor. So, off to one of her competitors or more likely, some airline magazine that one finds in the seat pocket in front of you while on an airplane.
I spent an evening out with the fallen professor and self-proclaimed “writer, painter, drunk and most under screwed 26 year old on the planet”, Robert. Yes, he is a pretty boy when most women like them a little more dangerous looking, but he also has the added disadvantage that he is, in fact, a drunk, and is so thin that one is reminded of a praying mantis. He even kind of moves his hands like one and has this little facial twitch. I don’t think he’d know what a body hair was if you showed him one. He is probably just a little too delicate for your average girl yet he is desperate to find one. He apparently met a lovely Korean-American girl on a previous evening and they’d agreed to a lunch date, which they had. She, however, is staying at some ranch out of town and he has no way to reach her. Suspecting that she might appear in the Jardin where he first met her, he was determined that we patrol the square. I made a circular gesture and asked, “Do you want to do the loop?” upon which he responded, “Dude, that was way too obvious. I have to teach you how to stalk chicks.” He came up empty handed, as did I.
The male praying mantis, during copulation, is so consumed by the act that he fails to notice that the female is eating his head. By the time the act is finished, the male praying mantis is headless and dead. If Robert picks the wrong woman I fear he could face the same fate.
Another night we met for dinner. He has this habit of not meeting your gaze and sort of staring off to the side. I think it may be because he is constantly on the prowl for the perfect woman. At one point a man walked bye holding a leash as his dog trotted in front of him. “I don’t understand that”, Rob said, “A leash and a dog and they’re not connected.” In the mean time, I’m looking at Rob’s nose. Now this nose is a little prominent to begin with but now it is bruised. “What the fuck happened to your nose?” I asked. “I had a little fight with my doorstep” he responded. “But that was only after I dropped some girl on the floor at La Cucaracha. I hope she’s ok. Her friends carried her out. We were having a little tug-of-war as to whether she should leave on not. She, being as drunk as me, fell over backwards and cracked her head against the floor. There wasn’t any blood or anything and her friends walked her out. She was still walking. I hope she’s ok. I’m don’t really know what she looked like because I was too drunk. After I walked home I apparently fell in my entryway because I woke up there the next morning. It’s a shared entryway so thank god none of the neighbors or the maid came out and found me sleeping there.” He says all this with a southern accent which makes it all that much more entertaining. But he is a lost sole. For all of his 26 years he is much like a desperate teenage boy. An accomplished computer science expert, he was always the geek in school and didn’t grow up socially as rapidly as he did intellectually. I want to help him, champion of the underdog that I am, but he may be beyond reach. His only claim to fame seems to be recounting all the stupid things that he did while he was drunk and that gets old pretty fast. I’m afraid that if I tell him this he’ll just avoid me thereafter. Not that this would be any great devastation to me, but I fear that it would not be the best for him. He has been in San Miguel quite a lot longer than I and my support group, already, seems to exceed his by leaps and bounds. And those that I know who have met him seem to turn up their noses because they’ve only seen him when he’s drunk. “Catch him during the day”, I say, “Because he is less likely to be drunk and can be quite entertaining.”
It is just after dusk and he and I are sitting at the Restaurante del Jardin while mariachis perform directly outside the doors, customers dance on the sidewalk, and fire dancers display their expertise in front of the Parroquia. “One of the things I like about this town”, he says, “Is that it has a sound track. There is always music.”
10/25/02
I think the bird is building a nest in the tree. Just what I need, a whole family of the noisy bastards.
Curled in the corner of La Petite Bistro is a medium sized dog. She has coloring like a German Shepard but she is much too small. Undoubtedly a mix of some kind. Her nipples are evidence of litters born in her younger years. The music is loud but she doesn’t seem to notice. She shifts position. Her name is Lupita and she is the town mascot. She has no permanent home. Different people take her home with them some nights but on others she just disappears out the front door. She eats better than most people in San Miguel de Allende as she wanders from restaurant to restaurant sampling fine cuisine. Chefs are known to prepare meals especially for Lupita.
The local dogcatcher once picked up Lupita. Over thirty people showed up at the shelter claiming to be her owner. Afterwards a local proclamation was drawn up granting Lupita freedom and a guarantee that she would never be taken into the shelter again.
In an early lesson in Spanish class, our instructor, Maria Elena, learned that I have no great love for President Bush. One of our exercises is to ask each other questions on a given theme. Yesterday Urs had asked me what was similar between Mexico and the United States (all in Spanish, of course). As I was stumbling with my response, Maria Elena started waiving her hands and saying, “I know something, I know something!” When we turned our attention to her she said, “Presidentes malos!” (Bad Presidents!) Then she howled with laughter. I think I’ve started something because Urs’ question of me today was if I agreed with the stupid President of the United States.
Learning a language is much more difficult than I ever imagined. I see that I have years of work ahead of me. It probably doesn’t help that there are so many English speaking people here. Sometime, during class, I think that I’m really beginning to catch on. And at other times I’ll stare at Maria Elena and think, “What is this noise coming out of her mouth?”
10/25/02
As I was leaving the Jardin today a police truck went by. In the back were an officer and a well dressed young Mexican man leaning up against the cab. I suddenly realized that he was handcuffed. I don’t think this is exactly a sleepy little Mexican town as it is advertised. (By the way, did you know the Spanish word for handcuffs is the same as wife – esposas?)
10/26/02
AOL crapped out on me today. I was logged on just fine this morning. I logged off and when I went to log back on all I got was an error message. This is bad. Not only does it prohibit my reporting any experiences back home, but I’m also unable to contact many of the people that I’ve met here in San Miguel. Thursday night we’re supposed to have our first editorial meeting for the bilingual periodical. I have no way to contact the writers.
I ran into Rachael in the Jardin one night. She is the woman with the Rastafarian story I mentioned earlier. I’d heard rumor from some of the other students from the workshops, that she was putting together a writing workshop of her own. So I approached her, got directions to her home and said that I’d be there. I showed up at the appointed time and found that it was only I and one other student. Rachael ran the session nearly stealing everything from the workshop we’d just had with Roy Sorrels. Randall, the other student, didn’t want to read his work so it was primarily Rachael and I in a private coaching session. Finally Randall lightened up and began to contribute. At the end of the two hours Rachael asked if we’d like to continue the exercise every Monday and Wednesday for three weeks. We both indicated that yes, we would. “It’s 500 pesos for the six sessions” she sprang on us, or at least on me. I was under the impression that it was free. But what the heck. It is probably worth it if she is going to open her home and facilitate each session. However, when I return here in May I’m going to set up a free rotating session amongst the writers that I’ve met.
After the workshop I had dinner at Papa Joe’s. Papa Joe’s is hamburger joint run by an expat named Zandra. I’d met Zandra at the Gallery opening and the dinner that followed so I thought I should patronize her establishment at least once. It was a decent burger and she and I visited afterwards as it was early and I was the only customer.
I left Papa Joe’s to meet up with Jeff and Vicky at the Peralta Theater. Jeff had phoned earlier to say that here was to be a slide show featuring two prominent photographers, one of whom works for National Geographic. This is an annual event that goes of for several weeks featuring famous photographers from all over the world, and it is free. They’d attended last year and found it outstanding. This year was no disappointment. Amazing images from all over the world brilliantly presented by the artists. Two different photographers will be presenting on Wednesday. We’ll be there.
Before the presentation started Vicky turned around in her seat. “This is what is wrong with this town” she said, “Does it look like we’re in a foreign country?” I turned and saw what she meant. It was difficult to spot a brown face among the sea of white. There are a lot of gringos in this town. At least at events such as this.
Last Saturday, after whatever chores I managed to drum up for myself, I decided that it was time to venture out of town if only a little way. I called Rob from the Jardin. “Hey skinny man,” I said, “I’ve decided it’s time that I explore the Botanical Gardens. You go there all the time. Feel like playing tour guide?”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“I’ve been painting. Give me twenty minutes to get cleaned up.”
So I spent the next 15 minutes calling my credit card company trying to figure out why they called my house in California. (My tenant had emailed me to say that they called.) At $6.00 USD per minute all I learned was everything was fine.
I met Rob at his place and we continued up the hill past amazingly pristine mansions and townhouse complexes, all with spectacular views. Above Rob’s street is definitely the upscale neighborhood.
Always staying left and heading up, we reached the back gate to the park. It wasn’t locked and we pushed it open. It was Saturday and hardly a sole in sight. We spent the next three hours hiking. There are amazing cactus gardens, some housed in architectural wonders complete with running streams and small fish, with types of cactus that I’ve never seen. We circumvented a small lake, dodging swampy areas and wandering through fields of corn and poppies. As we rounded the lake we saw people crossing the dam. A section of it is at water level and a small mount pours over the spillway. The effect from a distance was that the people crossing the dam were walking on water. When later we crossed the same area, ducks curiously watching us, Rob said, “Look at me. I’m just like Jesus, only skinnier.” Before heading back down the hill we hiked a path through the large gorge and took in the waterfalls.
10/31/02
Jeff, Vicky and I attended the second round of photography lectures. Again some amazing images. John, the kiwi photographer was there as well. After the show he asked me if I was going to El Petite. “I’ll go have a drink with you.” I said. So I bid Jeff and Vicky ado for the evening, extracting a promise from them that we’d dine together before they leave San Miguel next week (I’ll miss them). Anyway, off I go with John for “A drink.” John pretty much hated the photography lecture. “It has all been done a million times before,” he said, “There was hardly an original thought presented.” (John shoots entirely digital now). Well pretty soon Lauren shows up, then Emily and Brian, some other people whose names I didn’t catch. We are looking at people’s sketches, photographs on someone’s laptop, there is about 7 different conversations going on at the same time and before I know it John is long gone, Jane is giving me a massage and we are all planning to go to La Cucaracha. (I think that if I just don’t cross the threshold at El Petite I’m safer. These people are all in their early 20’s and 30’s and much more resilient than I.)
When I realized that our first meeting for “El Otro” was scheduled for Halloween, I stopped in at the Bibliotece to try to convince Pascual to reschedule. Even before I could open my mouth he said, “We’ve scheduled the meeting on Halloween, we need to reschedule.” No convincing needed. He then took me into his office and showed me the graphic layout for the paper. It is very impressive. This guy knows his stuff. And he’s already got commitments from local businesses that he hopes will support the paper through the first six issues. By now I’d opened my hotmail account and managed to reconstruct my writers mailing list so I fired off an email to reschedule for next week.
Last Sunday Owen and Nancy, true to their word, took me out to the country to a barbeque. We traveled over an amazingly bad road, our bodies thrown this way and that inside their jeep and after about an hour we arrived at a large Mexican country house. There at the grill was Chi, a young Mexican artist, and his tall beautiful girlfriend from Belgium. She and Chi live at the house with Chi’s mother who is about the most gracious person you’ve ever met. And Chi is a character. He says everything in Spanish and then repeats it in English. He is a little man with a big laugh. When I first met him at El Petite he was standing there in a cowboy hat, shirt open to nearly his navel, girlfriend on his arm. He was such the stereotypical Mexican, like right out of an old movie, that I accused him of not being from San Miguel but from Los Angeles. “And button up your shirt” I said. He reminds me of the old cartoon, “Speedy Gonzales”. Chi’s father is not really in the picture anymore. He is a jazz singer and is on the road all the time. Nancy doesn’t think he’ll return. Anyway, people kept appearing and before it was all over there had been three seatings at the large dinning room table. I expected more Mexicans but aside from Chi, his mother and one other chap, everyone else was from somewhere else; Belgium, Canada, the U.S., Poland, England. And nearly everyone arrived with a dog. There were dogs everywhere, romping around in a big pack. The two that lived at the house knew how to push the door open and kept sneaking in and crawling under the table. They’d try to avoid Chi’s mother’s hands as she grabbed them and threw them out. We wanted to leave before dark and as we did so, Chi came around the house carrying a large can of gasoline. “To start the bonfire,” he said. (I hope the house is still there.)
Back in town Owen and Nancy took me to the house they are renting. It is up the hill from Rob’s place on the same street, nearer the fancy neighborhood. The apartment has three floors that are connected by a narrow circular staircase. (Both Owen and Nancy appear challenged with their mobility so what they are doing in a place with stairs I don’t know.) The bottom floor is one big room with kitchen, living and dinning rooms and a fireplace. Out the door is a beautiful patio. The second floor is a bedroom and bath and the third has a bedroom and bath and a terrace. Both the second and third floor have unobstructed views. The place is very new. They are paying the same amount that I am for my hovel. Since they are currently negotiating on the purchase of a house, I’m going to do all that I can to secure this property to rent for myself when I return. Owen and Nancy are helping me.
I was in my neighborhood grocery store. “Tiene huevos?” I asked. They did. A girl reached under the counter and pulled out a bag, not a carton but a bag, of eggs. They don’t sell them by the dozen but by the kilo. Each egg has a church stamped on it and the name San Miguel.
Juanita returned my laundry. I seem to have lost my gray tee shirt with the small iguanas on it in exchange for a gray tee shirt with a large surfboarding shark. I haven’t seen her recently but when I do, this is going to be a challenging conversation.
I met an ugly American the other day. She was in the grocery store. Stringy blond hair, bright pink lenses in her glasses and food stains on her tee shirt. “I want queso, the other girl knows what kind,” she was saying, “She always gives it to me.” The woman kept babbling at the clerk in English. “The other girl knows,” she kept saying as if this “other girl” was going to somehow materialize. Now I’ve a pretty good idea that the clerk understood everything this woman was saying but she was not about to make it easy on her. So the American woman spotted me and asked if I could translate which I did. “She wants to know what kind of cheese you want,” I explained. “The other girl knows. It’s the cheapest kind.” This gave me something to go on and I translated. The clerk was actually very nice to me despite my limited Spanish. At least I was trying. The ugly American then invited me to a Buddhist meeting and was floored when I ask, “Do you mean nom yo ho reng ge quo?” “You chant?” she asked. “I used to” I said, “Not for many years now.” “Oh you have to come. Here is the information. Don’t forget now.” Something tells me that I might just skip this event.
Halloween is not a Mexican tradition but it has caught on here. Children accosted me in the street holding out decorated boxes and bags. But instead of saying “Trick or Treat” they say “Halloweeeen!” (Jane told me she could overhear a neighbor teaching the children how to say “Happy Halloween” and she was in stitches, as the children would all respond with some variation barley resembling the original. The constant was the emphasis on “Halloween”, something like, “happy HALLOWEEEEEN.”) I didn’t know the drill here so I dashed into Café Etc. “Juan, what’s the custom here? Am I supposed to be dropping pesos into all these boxes? Because if I am I’m going to be broke.” He assured me that it was supposed to be candy not coins. I don’t know why they’d think I’d be carrying around a bag of candy but some must or else they probably wouldn’t ask.
11/01/02
I attended the Gypsy Night at the Instituto on Halloween night. There was a bond fire, Spanish guitar and people dancing. Food and drink could be purchased. It was a nice affair but rather tame. The courtyard is such a vast space that it takes a lot of people to make it festive. The crowd leaned toward the older expat variety. Fortunately I ran into Jane and her friend Stephanie. We hung out for a while and then they invited me to join them at Mama Mia’s. Stephanie was driving her neighbor’s car and asked if I wanted to ride with them. Now there is something a little wrong in moving here to live the “Mexican experience” and finding yourself racing narrow through cobble stone streets in a new Lexus SUV with two twenty three year old girls dressed as gypsies, singing at the top of their lungs to Billy Joel’s “It’s Still Rock and Roll To Me”. Not very Mexico but very San Miguel.
In contrast to the Instituto, Mama Mia’s was a pulsating throng of young people dancing to an excellent local rock band. I never expected to find a band of this caliber in the middle of Mexico. What I also didn’t expect was the number of really beautiful young people. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an attractive collection of people in one place. I was clearly one of the oldest people in the club. I ran into Urs from my Spanish class and told him that I felt a little like a chaperone. He told me not to worry because I don’t look my age. (Now this is something I’ve heard repeatedly in San Miguel, when I tell people how old I am. Gringos and Mexicans alike have told me that they would have guessed mid-thirties. I’m beginning to think that my driver’s license and passport may be wrong. This is reason enough for me to live here.)
So we danced and met new people and the inevitable question came up, “Where next?” You guessed it, La Cucaracha (or “La Cuca” as the locals refer to it). And a festive night there it was, being Halloween and all. People were climbing all over the couches changing places to talk to different people. About 17 conversations were going on in the group at any given time. Everyone describing his or her own San Miguel story. It was much more like a private party than a bar scene. One very good thing came of it. I met a chap who visits San Miguel frequently and he is a magazine editor from New York. He was very interested in my bilingual periodical project and offered any assistance that he could. I whipped out my trusty pad and pen and took down his contact information. Everyone was still going strong when I took a cab home at 5:00 AM.
Urs and I were in about the same shape the next day at Spanish class. Beke is out of town so Urs and I had to describe our previous evening to Maria Elena in Spanish. Neither of us had gotten more than four hours sleep so our brain cells were not firing well. Maria Elena howled at our stories but had to really help us through them. “Isn’t La Cuca a very dirty place?” she asked. “Yes,” Urs responded, “But you don’t notice so much when it’s late and dark and you are drunk.” He is right of course. The place is a real pit but it is the only bar open that late so that’s where everyone shows up. La Cuca has quite the reputation in town with locals and foreigners alike.
It is really cooling down in the evenings now. At least the last couple. Jackets are beginning to appear. I’m sitting outside Café Etc. with a cup of tea and wearing a flannel shirt. Jane and Lauren were just here, looking a little ragged around the edges from last night’s festivities.
11/2/02 (Dia de los Muertos)
Last night I stopped in the Jardin for a bit, to watch the crowd. Being the night before Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), children were out dressed up in different costumes and looking for candy. One little chap dressed as a skeleton with his face painted, insisted on having a conversation with me. So he and his mother joined me on my bench. He didn’t speak any English nor did his mother but he was determined. He asked me if I spoke English and said yes, I did. His little singsong voice made it difficult for me to understand him so I had to keep saying, “Otra vez”. So then he asked me how to say “Otra vez” in English. He asked me my name and so I asked him his (something like Aaron). (The entire time he is twisting and squirming around on the bench next to me, apparently barely able to control all of his energy.) He asked me where I lived and if I had a wife (maybe he was trying to set me up with his mom). So I told him San Francisco which he didn’t seem to know so I expanded it to Los Estados Unidos. (He and his mother are from Guanajuato.) I told him that I don’t have a wife, that I am “soltero”. I asked him if he had a wife and when he said “no” I asked him why not. Very seriously he responded that it was because he was only 5 years old.
One the way home I stopped in at El Petite where I found Rob with two young Mexican girls. He jumped up and introduced me as his best gringo friend in San Miguel. He was hammered. The girls were not. Come to find out that he had started his evening with a Margarita at Papa Joe’s. Papa Joe’s Margaritas are notorious. The girls don’t speak much English so it was actually good practice. They invited me to join them for dinner at Rob’s house on Tuesday (I don’t know if Rob knows how to cook but what the heck). The prettier of the two girls was obviously the object of Rob’s attention. I learned that she had recently discovered that her boyfriend had cheated on her with multiple women and they had broken up. Rob kept going on and on, in Spanish, about what a bad boyfriend this guy had been and how Rob would never think of doing something like that to her because she is beautiful, kind, perfect, blah, blah, blah. He kept repeating himself to the point that I got out my electronic translator and began to look up the word for “subject” so that I could say, “new subject”. (Nuevo sujeto if you’re interested.) Rob got sloppier and sloppier as the evening progressed but the girls didn’t seem to mind. Twice I told him, “Stop gulping your wine!” While we were sitting there, Emily, John and Brian came in and took a table.
Rob actually managed to procure a lunch date for Monday with his target and then the girls took their leave. I began trying to convince Rob that he should probably call it a night. At some level I’m sure he knew that I was right because he ordered a bottle of water and I ordered him a second. I got up to use the bathroom and when I came back he was over annoying Emily, John and Brian. A little sterner I said, “Come on Rob, let’s go.” “I have to use the bathroom first” he responded and headed off. I turned to Emily and Brian, “I’m sorry he bothered you I’m trying to get him out of here. He’s a nice guy just a horrible drunk.” “He’s worse when you’re not with him” Emily said.
We stopped at a street vendor and I bought Rob a hot dog and a Pepsi. He began to sober up a little and was very excited about the prospect of his date. A few minutes later I poured him into a cab and I caught another as we were going opposite directions. I got a thank you email from him this morning.
For the last few days I’ve been trying to find the cemetery. I’d heard that on El Dia de los Muertos families go to the cemetery and decorate the graves with flowers and it becomes a rather festive event. But no matter where I walked I couldn’t find it. Today, as I stepped out onto Zacateros, I saw numerous people laden with flowers headed up the street. So I followed them.
What I found was amazing. Before the entrance to the cemetery there are street vendors selling flowers and food as well as tropical drinks. Throngs of men, women and children are pouring into the cemetery laden with flowers and buckets of water. The path is muddy from sloshing pails. Additional water can be acquired from industrious young boys drawing it from a fountain. In a few hours the entire gray cemetery is transformed into a blanket of colors. Candles are lit in a small chapel as well as placed on individual graves. Tears and laughter blend together in somber festivity. There are few gringos, I feel a little like an intruder. Prayers are read over a loud speaker and then the crowd begins to sing. I don’t understand the songs but I am brought to tears. I see Juanita. She doesn’t appear to see me. Her bucket is empty as she walks past. I wonder whose grave she has decorated, maybe her husband’s. I wonder if she is now on her way to clean my casita. I hope not. She should have the day off.
A beautiful teenage girl in Calvin Klein jeans scrubs a gravestone clean with water from a bucket that bares the Coca Cola logo. Some people have brought folding chairs with them, apparently to spend the day admiring their handiwork and remembering their departed loved ones. People sit on tombs and greet each other over gravesites.
On the other side of a large gate, the gringo side of the cemetery is all but empty. These grounds are more pristine and obviously cared for year-round. No one decorates these graves.
As I leave, the crowd is still pouring in with armloads of flowers in every color; lilies, chrysanthemums, daffodils, gladiolas, roses, carnations, mums, baby tears and the occasional festive ribbon. As I walk toward El Centro I see more and more of them coming, on foot and in cars, trucks and taxis. There doesn’t seem an end to the line.
11/4/02
A young man from West Virginia came into Le Petite fearful that he’d lost his dog. She was sleeping under our table. Turns out she is a stray pup that he found his first day in San Miguel. He thought she seemed sluggish so he took her to the vet. She had an infection of some kind. She had been to the vet twice now and is recovering nicely. She goes everywhere with the guy. “Have you given any thought as to what you’re going to do with her when you have to return to the states?” I asked. “Haven’t got that far yet” was his response.
Jeff and Vicky are gone. I’ll miss them. They prepared a fabulous meal on Saturday and then we dashed off to catch a movie at the Bibliotece. Afterwards Pascual asked if we wanted to grab a drink at El Petite so we agreed to meet him there. Unfortunately the sky opened up and produced a deluge. We managed to catch a cab and made it there reasonably dry, even as the streets were beginning to resemble rivers. John and Paula were not so lucky. They’d been walking to the bar when a car came racing by and threw up a wall of water that nearly knocked them off their feet. They came in the door looking like they’d just climbed out of a swimming pool fully dressed. That same night the bucket in my courtyard was filled to the top by the time I got home. That is well over 12 inches of rain in a matter of a few hours. And it has barely subsided over the last three days. Now mind you the rainy season is over. Everyone is baffled by this weather. Sure the evenings get cold this time of year but the days are always sunny. Or so they tell me. It sucks for me because every time I need to go from the kitchen to the bathroom I have to take an umbrella just to cross my courtyard. One good thing. I bet the bird is miserable. Oh, and another. The dogs don’t bark when it’s raining.
If you come here don’t order a margarita at Papa Joe’s. They’re jet fuel. Each contains four ounces of tequila and at happy hour they are two for one. Zandra says she just makes them the way she likes them. She must like to be drunk. It is now clear why Rob was such a mess the other night. We’d gone in for clam chowder (that sounding good what with all the rain) only to find that the kitchen closes at 6:00 PM on Sundays and normally they close the doors. However, an Australian tour group had taken over the front bar area and Zandra was staying open as long as they were drinking. She was very kind and said soup was something she could do for us so we both got a steaming bowl of comfort food. (Plus she makes this bean dip that she calls “San Miguel Caviar” and it’s really good. Rob ordered a liter of it for his dinner party on Tuesday.) For entertainment we got to watch the Australians fall off the high bar stools. One woman went straight over backwards without spilling a drop of her drink. We heard one fellow say to his friend, “Well you can just find yourself and alpaca sheep and fuck off back to New Zealand.” (It is much funnier when said with a thick Australian accent.) At that point Rob and I started laughing and they spotted us and subsequently insisted that we come join them. When Zandra finally did close the doors it was with the Australians still inside with Beethoven’s 9th symphony blaring away.
11/005/02
It looks like rain again today. I’m running out of clean dry clothes. Juanita came yesterday and took my laundry (and the tee shirt with the surfing shark that doesn’t belong to me). I don’t know when or in what condition I’m going to get it back, because they don’t use dryers here. Everything is line dried. But if it rains every day . . . Well, you get the idea.
I had just had my shoes shined (for $1.00 USD) and was heading to a bench in the Jardin when I noticed a pack of young women following me and whispering. There were five of them and they were wearing school uniforms. Apparently I (or any other unsuspecting English speaker) was their homework assignment. They descended on me as soon as I sat down. I thought that they were high school girls, from all the giggling, but they were all in their early 20’s. It was actually quite fun because I spoke more Spanish than they English. So they tried to cheat by asking me questions in Spanish. It was helpful because if I couldn’t understand their question when they tried it in English they could ask in Spanish and I would coach them on how to ask the question in English. I didn’t cut them any slack (my teacher doesn’t me). They all deferred to one girl who was clearly the lead English speaker in the group. But I made them all work. When I ask them a question I made each one answer individually. It was fun but the shy ones will probably avoid me if they get this assignment again.
Owen and Nancy were driving home the other day and around the corner from their house they had to stop and wait because there were 60 some odd goats in the street. The boy herding them paid no mind to the vehicle behind him. The front door of a home opened and the goats, apparently accustomed to the routine, headed up the front steps, through the open door and into the house. The boy followed and closed the door behind him. We suspect that they spend the evenings in the yard behind the house and that the only access is through the house. But for all we know, all 60 of them could be curled up at the foot of the bed.
Rob’s potential Mexican girlfriend became ill so the dinner party has been postponed until Friday. He had already purchased the food so he decided we should do a practice run. He bought shrimp and paid way too much for them. I told him that he was nuts buying shrimp in the middle of Mexico. They were twice the price we pay in the states and once he took the heads off there was barely enough to feed the two of us. (I guess the practice run was a good idea.) But he did a surprisingly good job. He curried the shrimp and made a cucumber sauce for them. I was in charge of the rice and it actually turned out despite the fact that I couldn’t find anything resembling “low” on the stove. I had to put the pot on for a few minutes and take it off for a few, repeating the process until we were ready to eat. And I’m supposed to be able to repeat this process on Friday. I vote for baked potatoes. He made a salad of spring greens and feta cheese and made his own dressing. He has figured out where to purchase the hard to find (and expensive) items. I was impressed. Who would have thought a 26 year old from Columbus, GA would know how to cook and further, know how to cook Indian food.
While I was at Rob’s I called Owen and Nancy’s landlord. When I told her that I was interested in renting the place for a year or more, she dropped the price to $500 USD per month and said she would give me preference over another party who is interested. This preference bestowed because of Owen and Nancy’s referral and because the other party only wanted the place for six months. I may be nuts to sign a one year lease before I’ve got long term tenants for my place in California but I don’t want this apartment to get away. Besides, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble subletting it when I’m not here. Rob may be interested but I’ve got to make sure he cleans up his act a little first. He seems to be doing much better. We had stopped in at Papa Joe’s (to pick up some of Zandra’s “San Miguel Caviar”) today and when Zandra offered him a margarita he ran for the door.
I ran into Brian, John and Emily on my way home. John has an opening on the 14th. He and one other photographer will be featured. Brian is moving to Puerto Vallarta at the end of the week. I told him that I would look him up when I get there this month and again in January.
11/07/02
I saw Grant, the boy from West Virginia who adopted the dog, at the Instituto this morning. “Where’s your dog?” I hollered across the courtyard. “She’s at home,” he said, “She’s not a morning dog.”
It is so frigg’n cold here right now. It is hard to hold a pen. I hope the new house is warmer although I doubt it. I need some of those gloves with no fingers.
11/8/02
I heard that they were looking for gringo extras for the Poncho Villa movie so I walked down to the hotel to register. I was directed to a large room at the front of the hotel. Inside were only three people but there were workstations for about ten. Drafting tables and desks with computers surround the room and the walls are covered with photographs and movie stills. A woman with three phones on her desk, one of them red, informs someone on the line that a driver is coming to pick the person up. The room seems very “Hollywood comes to Mexico”. After completing her call she directs me to another room in the hotel where extra casting is done. There is no one there so I’ll return another day.
I stopped at a Pharmacia to pick up some Imodium (just in case). No one appeared to be in the shop. “Buenos Tardes” I called out. Still no one. I waited a few minutes and when no one showed up I left for Dinner. I guess theft is not a problem in El Centro.
I had dinner at Restaurant Fada. Only one other table was occupied. It appeared to be two Australian women and four Mexican men. “Someone told me, “ the blond Australian woman said, “That it is a Mexican saying that if you don’t say ‘salude’ before you drink you won’t have an orgasm for a year.” The Mexican men at the table assured her that this is not a Mexican saying. Whoever told her that was pulling her leg. “Good,” she said, “I was getting really tired of saying ‘salude’”. One of the Mexican men pulled out his accordion and began serenading them.
In general, Mexico is notoriously bad with change. No one has any. Shopkeepers, taxi drivers and tonight, waiters. When I saw my waiter going down the stairs I knew he was headed out the front door to get change. I waited patiently, and waited, and waited. It was only 40 pesos change and 10 was going for a tip but I’m on a budget here and 30 pesos is a glass of wine. My decision was made for me when I saw a cockroach crawling on the chair across from me (the first I’ve seen in San Miguel). I therefore opted to leave an overly generous tip and get out before any of these creatures took up residence in my backpack or jacket.
The woman at the Pharmacia had returned to her post. When I asked for Imodium she pulled a package off the shelf and opened it to show me that there were only three pills left. Now this is the thing in Mexico. You can go into a store and buy two aspirin, one or two Imodium, two rolls of toilet paper out of a package of four, whatever. They think nothing of opening a package and giving you only what you need at this moment. Gringo that I am, I pointed to another shelf where I saw another box of Imodium. It was full and I bought it.
It is a little scary to break wind here, as one fears that more than wind may be involved.
I was walking home the other day and passed a pickup truck full of young schoolboys in their uniforms. They all started waiving and saying “goodbye”. I guess no one told them that one typically begins with “hello” and ends with “goodbye.” I waived back saying “hello” and they all changed to “hello”.
We had our first meeting for el Otro. Nine English-speaking writers, including me, showed up to hear Pascual’s pitch. What an eclectic group I managed to pull together. Some knew each other, most did not. There was John the kiwi photographer, Rob the fallen 26 year old professor, Helena the self absorbed Romanian Egyptologist, Michael the peace and freedom tee shirt wearing architect, Rachael the Rastafarian survivor, Owen and Reverend Nancy the frail older couple, Lynn the woman who fled the US to escape her ex-husband’s debt that she got stuck with in the divorce and me, the disenchanted ex-banker and wannabe writer. It was a spirited meeting. Everyone participated and I can predict where fur will fly in future meetings. Bottom line, everyone loves the idea, wants to contribute and we are now meeting every Thursday evening.
Pascual led the meeting with vision, wisdom, purpose and humor. And he even put on a sports coat for the event. Nice touch.
When the meeting was over, it wasn’t over. People lingered in the courtyard and broke off into different groups, getting to know their new found colleagues. I allowed myself a touch of pride knowing that it was I who brought this diverse team together.
So Rob’s dinner party finally came off. Working together we prepared a bean salsa, salad and a shrimp and mahi mahi platter with spinach, broccoli, and rice that came off brilliantly. I think the object of Rob’s affection was impressed despite the fact that we made her chop vegetables and do the dishes through the whole ordeal. Initially there were six of us, Rob and I being the only English speakers. Later Carlos showed up with two guys who were bilingual, one being married to an American woman and the other engaged to one. The later was adopted by a woman from Finland and his English is perfect.
Rob, surprisingly enough, did not touch a drop of alcohol all night. I’m proud of him and I think the drunken thing is just an act.
Rob and I went to Owen and Nancy’s apartment today. Rob thinks that it is a good deal and hopes he can sublet when I’m not there. It is $200 USD cheaper that where he is now and while his place is wonderful; this is nearly as nice for less money. And it beats the shit out of my place. I sign papers on Monday.
11/11/02
I woke on Saturday to the return of San Miguel’s typical weather. It is hot again. As I’ve been told, days are in the 70’s and 80’s and nights cool down to 50’s and 60’s. The cycle seems to have returned and at 10:00 this morning, I headed off in shorts and a tank top to hike the Botanical Gardens. I stopped at Rob’s on the way and he opened the door clutching his stomach. “Did I poison you with my cooking last night?” he asked. “No,” I answered, “In fact I was just headed up to the Botanical Gardens and was stopping to see if you wanted to join me.” “I want to but I don’t think I should.” So off I went. The lake had risen from the previous days’ rain and made the waterfalls more interesting in the gorge.
On my way back down the hill I remembered the Imodium in my backpack and dropped it off with Rob. I then came home and began culling through my journals in an attempt to find excerpts that might be submitted for El Otro. It is difficult because most of what I have written I never expected anyone in San Miguel to read. I may need to change some names to protect the guilty.
On Sunday, the House and Garden Tour did not disappoint. I was in charge of house number two yet there was one other volunteer, Silvia, who kept offering unsolicited suggestions that were downright stupid. I tolerated her briefly and then cut her off altogether. A few minutes later I heard her say, “Oh, that would never work. Never mind.” The homeowner is a fellow House and Garden Tour volunteer and it was to his expertise that I was deferring, as he’s been through this in his own house before. A while later one of the other volunteers came up and shook my hand. “Congratulations at deftly handling the control freaks” he said. When the last tourist had waddled onto the bus, our group joined so we could see the third and final home. It is right in El Centro, on Calle Aldama, and was apparently a tannery at on time. Now it is an enormous casa. I counted three living rooms, one outside and two inside. The entire compound surrounds a courtyard with formal Italian gardens. One of the volunteers from the previous house approached me. “I don’t know who was in charge of this place but the flow is awful. I don’t know what I’ve seen and what I haven’t.” An offhanded compliment to me I think. So when I’m back in the states, if anyone wants a tour of your home, turn it over to the professional and I’ll take it from there.
I ran into Marlene from my writing class. Her brother and his new bride had just shown up from Paris so she was having an open house for them and invited me. She lives on Calle Reloj only about two blocks from the Jardin. After brunch with nine of the volunteers, I headed over to her home. A house that could well be on the tour, a young Mexican man in white shirt and black bow tie opened the door. He led me to the bar while a large fluffy dog named Charlie greeted me. The courtyard was filled with people eating and drinking. Across the courtyard, inside the house, was a large dinning table laden with food that I recognized; caviar and eggs, pate, roast beef, assorted cheeses, marinated mushrooms, cheesecake and carrot cake. I was in heaven. At the foot of the table was a roaring fire. Marlene had purchased the place intending to turn it into a bed and breakfast but with three dogs and a cat, she never managed to get around to it. Her guests would have to be pet lovers, I noted as Charlie rolled on a big white couch. Every inch of wall space, every corner, every nook and cranny is filled with some kind of art. An artist herself, Marlene is quite the collector. She has been living in San Miguel for about 15 years after leaving a life selling Real Estate in Southern California. The entire crowd was very artsy fartsy.
After leaving Marlene’s I got a call on my cell phone from Carlos the photographer. He wanted to know if I wanted to meet to practice our language skills so we met near the Jardin and walked to El Petite. We’d only been there a few minutes before Rob walked in with his Carlos (everyone here should have a Carlos) so we had two English speakers and two Spanish speakers. It made for a fun session. But when I saw Jane, Lauren and Monica come in I was afraid it would turn into another late night session so I left.
Fortunately I was in bed by 10:00 last night because the fireworks began at 6:00 this morning. They lasted about 45 minutes and appeared to be launched by a church about 5 blocks away. Given my unique little sound chamber of a casita, it sounded like someone was firing a shotgun over my bed. I gave up and made breakfast with my ear plugs still in. Just as well, today I need to withdraw money from Lloyds for the deposit on my apartment, make bus reservations for Puerto Vallarta, meet with my new landlord and sign papers, have lunch with Owen and Nancy, check email and send off San Miguel 2.1, submit a couple of pieces for El Otro and attend a writing workshop. Kind of busy for someone without a job.
I’m sitting here at Restaurante del Jardin having successfully completed my first two transactions at Lloyds. The first was to withdraw some spending money from my Lloyds account and the second was to cash a check on my Bank of America account back home. The Bank of America transaction was to procure my deposit money for the apartment. I now have fifty 200 peso bills in my backpack that is securely wedged between my feet as I have breakfast. Furthermore, Lloyds will handle my monthly rent payment directly so that I don’t need to worry about it when I’m in the states. I wonder how I should handle the phone and electric bills.
11/12/02
I slept 10 hours last night. No fireworks this morning, minimal barking dogs and the children must be on a field trip or something. It was great.
After breakfast I headed out, walking, to find the bus station. I knew that it was on Calle Canal so I took the back way and found Calle Canal easily. I’ve ridden in a vehicle down Canal but never traveled it on foot. Where the Jardin area is tourist central, the end of Canal is one place where the real locals conduct business. I bought a new potato peeler for $1.50, got a haircut for $3.50 and bought two Bic pens for 50 cents; I’m being frugal.
At the bus station I’m unable to find a direct bus to Puerto Vallarta. I’m almost sure someone told me that there was one. The only one that I can find connects through Guadalajara. So I’m not buying a ticket yet. I resolve to email Chi and find out how he and his girlfriend did it. And Brian supposedly left for Vallarta last night so I emailed him as well.
On the way back up Canal I finally found a men’s clothing store. I’ve been looking for some time for a new pair of black pants. The pair that I brought down with me are a size 35 waist and when I put them on I look like a kid trying on his father’s pants. The other day I stopped at a second hand store, Segunda Llamada, to see if they had anything that would work. A very nice lady who spoke English well attempted to help me. When I told her that I’d gone from a size 34 to a size 30 in six weeks she translated this information to the other two clerks in the shop. They began rattling away in Spanish and inspecting their own waistlines. We were unsuccessful and as I was leaving the shop one of the women said something to me in Spanish that I didn’t catch. The other woman translated, “She say maybe you have lost weight because you are in love.” “Please tell her I wish,” I said. And then, thinking of nothing else, I lifted the back of my jacket and said, “No tengo trasero!” (I have no behind!) I could still hear them laughing when I reached the corner.
So anyway, here I am on Canal. I find a pair of black jeans that fit and pay $40 USD for them. So much for my financially frugal afternoon. I did get a Spanish lesson though. The proprietor took me around the shop telling me the words for the various articles of clothing. He spoke no English but was determined that I speak Spanish and made me repeat each word several times while a young girl giggled behind the counter. I think people are nicer once you get away from the Jardin. Don’t get me wrong, no one is rude. But the further from the center the more playful they seem to be. The people in El Centro have probably had their fill of tourists.
The woman who cut my hair, in her little shop where I had to duck my head to get in, ask me if I was married. When I told her that I was “soltero” she told me that with my new haircut I was sure to get a girlfriend.
Two American children just chased me out of the courtyard at Café Etc. They were running around the fountain and my table shrieking like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. The parents did nothing to control them. I was wondering if the fountain was deep enough to drown them. Mexican children do not behave this way in public.
On the way home I remembered a store that several expats had mentioned. It is around the corner on Mesones. It is called “Bonanza” and is supposed to be where you find the hard to find stuff. It looks like nothing from the front but when I entered, it went on forever, deep off the street. Bliss. I bought olive oil, capers, anchovies, French mustard, vinegar, feta cheese, shampoo, tea, soy sauce (“salsa Kikkoman”), wine (of course) and pretzels. The stuff const more than in the states but I was caught up in a wave of familiarity. I spent $32 USD rationalizing that these items would go along way and it would be some time before I had to restock (except, of course, the wine).
Tonight is a photography opening put on by the Santa Fe Photo Workshop so I resolve to create some pasta dish and salad out of my purchase. Given what I’ve spent today there is no way that I can permit myself dinner out.
I also need to cull through my notebooks and see what else I might submit for el otro. I need a good editor. I’m afraid Owen and Nancy would be too critical given that, at lunch yesterday, Owen asked what I was writing for. When I said for myself and for entertainment he asked if I didn’t think that this would seem shallow after awhile. I think Owen wants me to write to save the world. I bought myself some space when I said that I was using my skills to provide a vehicle where other people’s voices could be heard. (Whew!)
Sometimes I read my own stuff and think it either needs something or something taken away. But when you’re so close to your work it is difficult to be objective. This is where a good editor adds value. Leona mentioned that she is reading a manuscript for someone. Maybe I’ll give her a go.
Patti called while I was making dinner. When we hung up I started to cry. I miss everyone so much.
11/13/02
New comers are a little intimidated by the bartender at La Cucaracha. “He never smiles,” said Urs of him.
Rob peers behind the bar. “Dude, you know he’s got a shotgun back there.”
“Actually, it’s a two by four” Brian says, “I’ve seen him come over the bar with it and chase five guys down the street.”
His name is German (pronounced “Herman”) and he is not a large man. He has wavy jet black hair combed straight back and a small goatee. Dark, heavily lidded eyes take your order and you get the feeling that he is looking down at you even though he may be shorter than you.
I don’t know who threw the first lime, whether it was Emily or German, but it became an all out war. It was about two in the morning and the only people in the bar were me, Rob, Brian (who obviously hasn’t left for Vallarta yet), Emily, Carlos and of course, German. I didn’t know what was going on until German launched a lime at Emily and in so doing knocked over my drink, shattering the glass on the floor. I started to look for a broom to clean it up. German made me another drink ducking incoming limes while he worked, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Once I had my drink he was back in action. Some limes actually connected with Emily, as she sat on the couch, while others knocked over empty beer bottles sending them to the floor with a crash.
After the lime war, German ran a lighter under the bar to spot cockroaches. He would catch one and come around the bar to drop it down Emily’s shirt. Now Emily is a young blond with very large breasts. So the more she would hop around the happier the men were.
It ended as fast as it began and German closed the bar, not bothering to clean up any of the broken glass. He then led all of us to some café on Calle Hidalgo, a family run place that was still serving meals at 4:00 in the morning. I had the best enchiladas that I’ve had since arriving in San Miguel.
Table conversation revealed the boy behind the man. German is only 24 years old, yet he is divorced and has a son that he hasn’t seen in eight months. Apparently his son lives with his ex-wife in Guanajato. She is threatening to put him up for adoption, although it was not clear to me why.
After dinner, breakfast, whatever one calls a meal completed at 5:00 in the morning, the group broke up and headed off in their respective directions. That is except for Brian and I. “Come on,” he said, “I’m taking you to a real cantina.” A few blocks later we turned and entered a bar. Now this is what I expected a cantina to look like; formica tables, metal and vinyl chairs reminiscent of the 50’s and three or four Mexicans. The bartender clearly knew Brian, a fact that I find humorous because Brian doesn’t speak Spanish and doesn’t really try. Yet here he is, hanging out in a cantina. A rather ratty looking woman tried to get us to dance with her but we politely declined. “This place is cool,” Brian said, “If anybody gives you any trouble the bartender will chase them out. Don’t go to the cantina across the street. I got chased out of there by a bunch of Mexican transvestites one night.” When I say the sky getting light outside I knew that most of this day had been lost. I grabbed a cab. I think it was 6:30 AM when my head hit the pillow.
11/14/02
Shopkeepers mop their floors daily here. They then toss their bucket of mop water into the street. I was walking down a quiet street on afternoon when the soapy contents of a bucket flew out of a doorway slightly ahead of me, missing me by only a few inches as, startled, I stopped dead in my tracks. A gringo coming opposite me on the other side of the street witnessed the near miss. “She almost got you!” he said with a chuckle.
We’ve only had one meeting of the newspaper team and we already have our first conflict. Nancy doesn’t like the tag line, “A schizophrenic newspaper for a schizophrenic town” and has emailed a letter to the entire group with her reasons why. This has fueled a number of conflicting opinions that are now clogging email boxes everywhere. Tonight’s meeting should be interesting.
11/15/02
The meeting was poorly attended given all the other events that were going on in town. But after John’s particularly articulate rebuttal to Nancy’s email, even Nancy was swayed. The tag line stays. And actually, the email exchange instigated by it would make for a great feature.
John’s photography opening was the same night. He was showing with one other artist. All digital photography, very individual styles, both very good. El Petite was packed with people and dogs. One girl’s dog, a female, kept picking fights with all the other dogs which made quite a commotion at several points.
Pascual had slipped out during the movie to see the show and have a drink before returning to the Biblioteca. Rob and I found El Petite to be too crowded so we decided to go to En Agua. We said goodbye to Pascual and just as we were leaving, Pascual turned to go back into El Petite and bumped the hostess stand. Unfortunately, people had placed empty glasses on the stand and three of them were on their way to the tile floor as Rob and I exited. Poor Pascual. I feel bad that we abandoned him but we certainly didn’t want to be implicated.
Later a group of about 10 of us ended up at La Cuca yet again. No lime fight this time but some 19 year old German boy tried to see me shares in a Russian hotel. “What’s the minimum investment amount?” I asked. “20 million dollars.” Toby replied. “Will you take a check?” I asked.
11/17/02
Something tells me that I need to dial back the social calendar a notch or two. All around town people are waving at me and saying “Hi” and I don’t have a clue who they are. Names and phone numbers of people are appearing in my notebook and I don’t know to whom they belong. The handwriting is not mine.
Yesterday the first Christmas lights began to appear. Is it that time already?
I’d had it with the dog the other morning. I got out of bed, climbed the stairs to my roof and crawled over the neighboring roof to peer down into the yard where this dog is kept. I see no habitable structure, just an empty lot. I think the owners of this dog drive him in from somewhere else and leave him to guard the property at night. What he is guarding is not clear, as the lot looks empty to me. Maybe he barks at home so they bring him here so they won’t be bothered. Someone once told me that dogs bark when you leave them alone, because they think that you are lost. So they send out their signal so you can find your way home. And it works because you always return. And this dog has a pattern to his bark, like, “bark, bark, bark, BARK BARK BARK!” (Repeat.)
“You there!” I yell.
He looks up, “Woof.”
“NO!”
“Woof?” sort of under his breath, his ears cocked.
“NO!”
I must have looked the sight, pillow hair, in my pajamas, on my hands and knees peering over this wall and having a conversation with a big black dog. And it worked. He stopped!
Friday night I met Jane at her house. She actually has a small studio in this complex owned by an American woman. It is a number of units, some small, some large, that all open onto a courtyard that includes fountains and an enormous covered outdoor living room including a huge fireplace. Old issues of Vanity Fair are stacked around. Adjacent the outdoor living room is the outdoor dinning area. After a quick drink, Jane, her friends and I all pile into a jeep and head out of town for “La Gruta” hot springs. We have rented the entire place out for the night. When we arrive we are given little plastic buckets with candles in them. We use these to navigate our way through the tunnel from the warm pool to the hot pool. And this is no short tunnel. This was like something out of an Indiana Jones movie but instead of walking on cockroaches we were plowing through four feet of water. Water that got warmer and warmer as we approached the cave on the other side. There we find a large circular room, or pool I should say. In the nooks and crannies of the walls were candles to illuminate our now sauna like environment. We set up the bar on the steps into the high temperature pool. This worked until the waterfall let in sufficient spring water that the bar supplies began to float. By now we are about 20 people, another group having arrived by car and one by taxi. Jane bravely chases a large cockroach away from our makeshift bar. About midnight Lauren is ready to go and so am I. She has a potential date with a nude model who just shaved off his beard for the shoot. So we abandon the group and head out to the main road to try to hitch a ride back into town. We are completely dressed for the cool night as two or three cars pass us by. I suggest that I hide in the ditch while Lauren puts her bikini back on to improve our chances of getting a ride. She doesn’t go for it. Finally our group is done in the pool and we all pack into two cars (kind of like the clown circus cars) for the ride back to town. Very nice young people, all of them. They invited me to a “rage” at the pyramids the next night. “Come eat mushrooms and dance all night. We’re planning on leaving around midnight and it is a four hour drive. All the best DJ’s play after 4:00 in the morning.” I decline. They are lovely but I’m too old for that crap.
11/18/02
I had a burger at Zandra’s place today, Papa Joe’s. And it was kind of raw in the middle and tasted funny. I didn’t want to insult her by not eating it. I hope she didn’t poison me.
On the way to the Jardin I ran into John. He was shooting a lovely black girl. Some schoolboys were walking by and one of them jumped in next to the girl to have his picture taken. John obliged.
11/19/02
It happened again. I was walking down Calle Hidalgo and from across the street some Mexican guy hollered, “Hey Charles!” I turned and waved. “How are you doing?” I asked. “Working. I need to make some money.” “Good for you.” I don’t have a clue who the guy is.
Emily called me on Sunday, and later that night Jane came looking for me after she got back from Guanajuato. They both had the same story. Apparently on Saturday night Rob was drunk at La Cuca and two Mexican guys stole his Armani jacket. Rob flipped his lid and German’s father threw him out. German brought him up to El Petite and dumped him on Emily. He was on a total rant, yelling and knocking over furniture. No one knew exactly what to do with him. “We need to call Charles” Emily said to Jane. “I already tried,” replied Jane. Emily tried again but I was home, sound asleep with my cell phone turned off to charge. Somehow they got him into a cab. When they relayed the story to me it was with genuine concern. “I know he’s not dead,” I told them. “I got an email from him this morning. He told me about the jacket but managed to leave out the rest of the story. So I kept calling him but his line was busy most of the day so I knew he was on his computer. When by Monday I hadn’t gotten through to him I picked up two large bottles of water and hiked up to his house. When he opened the door I handed him a bottle of water and pushed past him. I wasn’t giving him the opportunity not to let me in. “I’m here on behalf of the city of San Miguel to make sure that you’re ok.” I told him.
“Oh dude,” he said. “I’m a sick man. I mean sick in the head. I don’t know who that person was that I became but I know I can’t drink anymore.” I agreed with him and we spent a couple of hours discussing activities that we could do that don’t involve alcohol; writing exercises, studying Spanish, movies, day trips to neighboring cities that get us back to San Miguel late. That night we went to Tio Lucas for a steak dinner and then went to a French film at the Bibliotece. It was about 10:00 pm when he headed off home, sober. One day at a time. Tonight the Mexican girls are making us dinner at Rob’s place.
11/20/02
This will be Rob’s third day of sobriety if he made it through last night. Carolina, his love interest, was two hours late for the dinner at Rob’s. Ana Rosa and I got so hungry that we riffled through his refrigerator and, along with some avocados and tomatoes that I brought, we were able to whip up a pretty mean guacamole. By the time Carolina arrived with three other friends, I’d filled up on guacamole and chips and was exhausted from all the walking I’d done yesterday. Besides, the girls had bailed on the idea of cooking and were ordering pizza. I excused myself and headed home for an early night.
This morning the casita was freezing so I showered and dressed as quickly as possible and headed out for breakfast. I had just turned onto Calle Zacateros when waves of school children went marching by in their various school uniforms. Directly behind a marching band was a group of about 30 drummers, pounding out the beat to which they were all marching. On the side of the street closest to me, one of the young drummers looked familiar. He looked back at me in recognition as well. I thought he kind of nodded his head at me. It couldn’t be, I thought, German?
As the group marched by, me slack-jawed, I began to doubt what I’d seen. I pulled out my cell phone and called Emily. I knew she lived around the corner and I was going to tell her to get down here. She apparently shares the phone with another renter who said, “She doesn’t get up this early.” It was 10:00 am.
The more that I thought about it the more I began to doubt myself. After all, the band guy didn’t have a goatee. And how many people can one La Cuca bartender be? So I followed the throng of young people until I spotted him again. He was not playing, just standing on the curb with his colleagues. I kept looking and kept doubting. The hat he was wearing, like a French beret, didn’t help. He was staring straight ahead, like a soldier, something I thought German would do. I knew he’d seen me. I took a picture and then walked up to him. I was standing at his side, he still staring straight ahead. “German?” I asked. “Hola Charles,” he said, turning and shaking my hand, “Que pasa?” I was so stunned that I couldn’t think of a word to say to him in Spanish so I just nodded and walked on.
After breakfast I was walking to the Jardin and could see the parade coming. It is “Revolution Day” and all the school children march. I thought the sea of children would never end. Little boys dressed as Pancho Villa with mustaches drawn on their little faces. Small girls wearing Victorian dresses. They played instruments, tumbled, displayed martial arts moves, gymnastics, anything to entertain. Police officers made human towers. The Jardin and surrounding streets were mobbed with onlookers. And near the end, here came German with has marching drum band. No favoritism involved, they were the most talented musical performers. Even though they had been on their feet, in the sun, for nearly five hours, they positioned themselves in front of the Parroquia and played for a solid 45 minutes. By this time I had run into Emily. “Look there,” I said, “Do you know who that is?” It was her turn for a look of disbelief. “Don’t tell me that is German.” After we watched for a while he finally acquiesced and shot us a smile. Either that or it was intended for some pretty girl other than Emily. He probably thinks that I called her out to witness the event. And yes, I had tried to call her but unsuccessfully. Our meeting was purely coincidental. She can’t wait to tease him about it. I think that it is good that I’ll be out of town for a few days.
After the parade Emily and I stopped into Restaurant del Jardin for a coke. We looked out of the restaurant to see a one-legged man crossing in front of the Parroquia on crutches. Not 10 feet behind him followed an ambulance at a slow crawl. “Do you think they are following him in case he falls over?” Emily asked. “Maybe he wanted to go out for a walk and his wife didn’t want to go so she hired the ambulance to follow him.” A few minutes later he entered the restaurant and took a table behind us. “Look” I said, pointing to the curb out front. There the ambulance was parked.
11/21/02
I took the bus from San Miguel de Allende to Celaya. Celaya is about an hour and a half, by bus, from San Miguel. The bus was “second class” which means that it stops just about anywhere anyone wants. It was standing room only when we departed and along our course the bus would stop and disgorge passengers seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Four or five passengers would step off the bus and follow some well-beaten path apparently to some town or village off in the distance. By the time we hit the outskirts of Celaya, a town of nearly 350,000 inhabitants, there were only three of us left on the bus. The other two got off at some random place so then it was just the bus driver and I. This made me a little nervous as for all I knew, his route to Celaya was finished and we were headed back to San Miguel. But I rationalized that Celaya is over three times the size of San Miguel so we must hit a bus station of comparable size or larger before the journey is done and I was correct. (The Celaya bus station resembles a medium sized airport.) There I disembarked to wait for my night bus that was to depart for Puerto Vallarta at 9:15 pm.
A security guard caught me reading, “Spanish for Gringos” and immediately struck up a conversation. He used to be a UPS driver in Los Angeles, CA, but moved back to Mexico with his wife and two sons because he was tired of the random violence in L.A. “Drive bye shootings every day,” he said.
My backpack was open to the right of my feet while we were talking. “I want to find a job in San Miguel de Allende,” he was saying, “It is difficult to find English speakers in Celaya and I don’t want to loose my English.” Out of the corner of my eye I noticed two other Mexican men, one of whom was peering into my open backpack. When my head snapped around he backed up and said something. “He says he’s sorry,” said the security guard. “I don’t care if he’s sorry,” I said, “What’s he doing looking into my bag?” “He’s sorry man” the guard said and kept rattling on about the US and Mexico and racist immigration officials. The other two men kept lingering by my baggage so I closed my backpack and strapped it on and then wedged my duffel bag between my feet. The two men appeared offended but I didn’t care. I had a skinny security guard with a club at my side. They eventually walked off. I was the only gringo that I saw at the station and I certainly attracted a lot of stares.
The “Primera Plus” night bus was really rather plush. There was a separate cockpit for the driver, television sets airing some dubbed American move about a chimp in the NASA program and the seats recline nearly as well as in business class on a transatlantic flight. The ride was much smoother that I expected, sort of like flying in light turbulence. But, in general it was much quieter than flying. However, on a night bus, one feels a little like one is in bed with five other people; the two in front, the two in back and the one at your side. And just my luck, the person at my side was not a young European on holiday but rather an old, snoring, snorting, hacking, farting Mexican man. It was a long trip.
I’m now in the Jardin in Puerto Vallarta and the destruction of the hurricane is still very evident on the Malecon. Much of it is closed. Some stores and restaurants have reopened but you need to enter through the back doors. Some of you will be happy to hear the “Hooters” is still open for business (I guess it would float) and others that Paco Paco’s is as well.
11/27/02
So this is what being an extra is all about. I’m sitting in a dim holding area, my bowler hat on the table in front of me, waiting. I understand that there will be a lot of this, this waiting. My alarm went off at 3:15 am and I was at the Hotel Real de Minus at the designated 4:00 am. We were herded onto buses and driven to the outskirts of Guanajuato. There we off-boarded the buses. It was still dark, there was a bonfire and trucks full of equipment and costumes. We disbursed and piled into smaller vans. Apparently the streets are too narrow for the busses.
The process begins; breakfast, hair, makeup, and costumes. Thank god that I wore black shoes. My costume shoes are missing. Michael, the costume director, says my shoes are ok. I’m supposed to be a reporter in 1914. Most of the men are dressed in tails, a couple are in army uniforms and the boys are ushers. The women are the real show. Floor length beaded gowns; hair piled high, fur coats. (The costumes are from the Titanic movie.) They, the women, also take longer to make up. Thus the reason we men are sitting around.
Men from the crew talk into microphones in their lapels. The movie is an original HBO film about Pancho Villa, staring Antonio Bandares. Antonio’s shots are all done though so he’s no longer around. I recognize several of the other actors from films and television but I couldn’t tell you their names. One of the guys was Lenny of Lenny and Squigy in the old Laverne and Shirley series.
I just returned from five days in Puerto Vallarta. Bob and Karen are thus far, the only two dedicated enough to make the extreme sacrifice of taking time off from work and flying down to spend five days in 80+ degree weather in an enormous home overlooking the swimming pool and Banderas Bay. How they suffered, margarita by margarita.
The house is Casa Dulce Vida and was built for the French nobleman, the Marquis D’Otremonde, Mssr. Jacque Derney. Being built in 1963, it is a little faded around the edges but the rooms are enormous and it is furnished very dramatically. In addition to the pool the grounds include a beautiful terraced garden with brilliant vegetation frequented by humming birds and monarch butterflies. The Gardner used to work for Richard Burton. One problem, the god dam bird from my tree followed me and brought his two friends.
11/29/02
Happy morning after Thanksgiving everyone. My Thanksgiving dinner was rice, beans and a chicken tostada in a parking lot someplace in Guanajuato. I’m sitting in La Cuca at 1:45 in the morning having my first margarita. Our bus got back from the shoot at about 1:00 am and rather than go home and eat, shower and go to bed, I opted to come here. Some of the other Pancho Villa extras should be here shortly. After 28 hours of “work” in two days, I needed to re-immerse myself in San Miguel before bed. Rather, I needed a drink. And boy does it taste good. Although there seems something terribly wrong about spending Thanksgiving in La Cuca, but it’s after midnight so it’s not really Thanksgiving anymore.
12/1/02
A morning conversation with Bob on the balcony of Casa Dulce Vida:
“What’s TIA?”
“I don’t remember what the acronym is but it’s like a mini stroke, a blood clot in the brain. I still feel sort of off at times, like right now. I just feel slightly out of sorts. I see the neurologist on Wednesday.”
“What are you going to ask him? Doctor, the morning after I drink 17 margaritas I just don’t feel myself. Is there anything you can do?”
“You may have a point.”
Another night we stopped at a bar next to Paco Paco’s. A woman there had a small kitten. When Karen stopped to admire it the woman handed it to her. “It’s yours now,” she said, “Someone just gave it to me and now I’m giving it to you.” Karen looks at Bob with pleading eyes as the kitten falls asleep on her chest.
“Karen, no! We cannot take a cat back on the plane.”
“Maybe Charles can take her back to San Miguel on the bus.”
“I’m not adopting a cat. My new apartment has a no pet rule.”
“Give the cat back, Karen.” Bob takes it from her and hands it back to the woman.
The rest of the night Karen kept looking at her empty hands and then up at Bob. We were at Los Balcones when he finally crumbled and went back to the bar where we’d seen the kitten. His intention was to give the woman our address and if she didn’t find a good home for the kitten, she was to bring it by the house. Fortunately, the woman was no longer at the bar.
Our last day in Vallarta a family checked into one of the other units at the house. They have a baby boy and two precocious daughters, the older of the two (about six) being the most caustic. “Dad! I want you here NOW!” I wanted to tie a rock to her leg and push her into the pool. At one point I heard the mother calling the other girl, “Malaria!” I swear, the girl’s name is Malaria. I wonder if the other girl is named Ebola and the boy Hepatitis.
Bob and Karen’s flight was a couple hours earlier than my bus so I bid them adios and choked back tears. I stopped for dinner on my way to the bus station. The proprietor tried to sell me a house while his chubby daughter sat at my table and colored, talking to her self the entire time. That night a helpful guard at the bus station nearly put me on the wrong bus.
“No Chones, No Ropas.” No Underwear, No Cloths. These signs are posted all over the costume fitting areas.
Extras don’t even reach the level of second class citizens. We are the underbelly of the movie business. The actors and crew find us a necessary evil and tolerate us with distain. I had heard that we got fed all day. This is not true. We were served breakfast when we arrived in Guanajuato, around 6:30 am, and didn’t see another morsel of food until around 3:00 pm. We marched out of the Teatro Juarez and at the base of the steps were tables covered with steaming chaffing dishes. “Now we’re talking,” I thought. Then they marched us past the tables back to our holding cell where we stood in line to collect our beans, rice and tortillas. The elaborate buffet back at the Teatro was for the cast and crew. I had just finished my Jello cup and was walking back up the steps to the Teatro when I say the cast and crew finishing their ice cream.
The cast and crew got orange juice, we got orange water. They got bottles of water, we could have cups of water. In the evening one of the coffee stations had muffins and pieces of cake. Several of us helped ourselves and were told, “Don’t eat the crew’s food.” About 60% of the extras were English speakers. 90% of our direction was given in Spanish. Late the second night I found a half full box of cookies under the refreshment table. I pulled it out and extras descended like ducks when breadcrumbs are tossed into a pond. One of the boys playing the role of usher tossed the box back under the table when he saw a crewmember approaching. We stood around with guilty looks on our faces.
One extra, Kevin, had showed up at the 4:00 am call directly from a party at Mama Mia’s. He told me that he’d had about six beers and a hit of ecstasy. On the ride from San Miguel to Guanajuato the bathroom on the bus was out of order. So while everyone was sleeping the bus driver opened the door and Kevin got the opportunity to pee out of a moving bus. “God I love Mexico” he said.
12/12/02
While this concludes the San Miguel adventure, the Mexican adventure is far from over. However, I doubt that I’ll continue to send reports. There are several pieces of fiction that I need to focus on. In addition, since I’ve rented out my place in San Miguel for Jan, Feb, and March (to Rob), I probably won’t return to San Miguel until April. I have a prospective renter for my house in Rockridge and if it all works out I’ll head down to the Yucatan in February and take two months to work my way back up to San Miguel. My German friend Toby has invited me to meet him in Villahermosa where he is staying with family friends. We would then rent a car and tour the Yucatan for a couple of weeks. Then I’d leave him in Villahermosa and cross to the other side of the continent and work my way up the coast, stopping in Acapulco and Zihuatanejo along the way. I hope it all works out.
So when we next speak, remind me to tell you about some of the following:
Steve pretending that he was the beautiful actress with the broken blood vessel in her eye, “Pancho Villa did it to me. He stuck his big dirty Mexican finger in my eye!”
Rob who hasn’t had a drink in over 20 days, and who is buying me lunch today so I can fix him up with a 19 year old girl who thinks he’s cute.
Brian and Ty getting beat up by six Mexicans outside of La Cuca while German stood by and watched and Annelle ran off home.
The mummies in the Guanajuato museum (including Toby’s comment about the mummy with his hands in his boxer shorts).
Hasta luego,
Carlitos
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