Casita de los Perros

Introducing Casita de los Perros; the mother of all dog houses (kind of).

When one marries a veterinarian who is also a breeder and handler of show dogs, one has to adjust. Especially one who has not had a pet in over 20 years.

So to preserve my sanity and keep the peace on the home front, I embarked on a project to build a space for five of our six dogs (Evita, the rescue dog, gets to stay in the house) on a far corner of the property. Since I was pouring a foundation I thought, what the heck, build on a little more to provide a planting area for seedlings and a place to house the potted plants during the winter months.

I also kept in mind that someone who does not need dog runs may one day buy this property so whatever we build should be convertible to a guest house with just a little work.

We went a little over budget but what the heck. (Click on the images to see them larger.)

Bay Area Visit

After our border ordeal, we picked up our rent-a-car and headed out for Robert and Rudy’s home. It was around midnight and the fog had settled over our destination, the Oakland hills. With visibility limited to a few feet in front of the bumper, I crept along only mildly comforted by the knowledge that Rodrigo had no idea that merely a few feet to our right was a thousand foot drop.

Robert greeted us when we arrived and we sipped wine as I shared our customs and immigration story.

The next morning at breakfast Rudy was pouring coffee. “I left the activities section of the newspaper in your room. Just in case you want see what is happening around town while you are here.”

“I hear there is a kiddie porn convention,” Robert said.


Our Bay Area visit was whirl-wind. We only planned a week and it should have been at least 10 days. In addition to catching up with friends in San Francisco we did the tourist gig for Rodrigo’s benefit. This included staying on Nob Hill, hiking Fisherman’s Wharf, shopping like wild men and of course, eating fresh crab at every opportunity. The end of our trip included a visit to the wine country in Napa Valley.

It was great to share my old environment with Rodrigo and he is ready to return any time. And I believe that it was Stew (a friend for more than 20 years) who said, “Tell Rod that if you do anything stupid and screw up this relationship he is always welcome at our home.”

Porn at the Border

Allow me to briefly set the scene.

It is Rodrigo’s first trip to California and my first trip back after selling the house. We are only traveling for a week, so that I can meet with my tax guy and show Rod around a little. We have arrived at Oakland International Airport and are in Customs and Immigration.

“Are you returning from vacation?” the Immigration official asks me.
“No, actually I’m on vacation. I’m a resident of Mexico but used to live in Oakland.”
“What is your occupation?”
“I’m retired.”
“You’re a little young to be retired.”
“Well, I bailed out of corporate America and couldn’t afford to retire in the U.S. so I moved to Mexico.”

About this time he writes a strange number on my customs form and sends me on.

Once at customs a nice official chats me up while he performs the most invasive search of my luggage that I have ever experienced. He even took the lining out of my suitcase; something that I didn’t even know was possible (Velcro! Go figure!). About this time I’m getting annoyed because Rod has already cleared and is waiting for me in the terminal. And the whole time the official is making pleasant small talk.

Then he opens my laptop and turns it on. “May I ask what you are doing?”
“Looking for contraband, like child pornography. Do you have any pornography on your laptop?”
“Yes.” I say indignantly, like doesn’t everyone?
“Do you know the ages?”
“I don’t have a clue, it is just stuff that my old roommate downloaded from the internet and I never bothered to take off.” At this point I’m getting really nervous. Some of the photos are pretty young. I even have a folder entitled “Jail” because a few of the photos look questionable when it comes to age.
“I think we need to take this offline,” he says and pulls me into a private room with two other uniformed officials.

My heart is in my throat. Rodrigo is outside without any phone numbers or address of the people we are staying with, no credit card, nothing. I’m having visions of being hauled off to jail without being allowed to speak with him, all because I was too lazy to delete some old photos. I also feel violated. Like my privacy is being invaded.

I’m sitting in a small room while three guys in uniform are paging down through my porn. Finally one of them says, “I don’t see anything here that is a problem.” And the other two agree almost too quickly, like “Don’t make us look at any more of this!”

Then they all shake my hand and explain that they are sorry for inconveniencing me. “Please understand that we are not judging you, we are just doing our job. You do understand what we are looking for?”
“The really sick stuff I guess.”
“Exactly. Thank you so much for your cooperation. You can go now.”

My head was spinning as I pulled my luggage together and walked to freedom. Then it occurred to me and I pass this on as a travel tip:

Don’t travel to the U.S. with pornography on your laptop, in the same week that the press secretary for Homeland Security has just been charged on multiple counts for attempting to seduce a minor over the internet.

And be assured I’ve been doing some serious editing. I also think that I will not use the word “retired” anymore and I won’t make it evident that I’m traveling with a handsome Mexican some years younger than me. Talk about setting myself up!

Christmas 2005

“Charles, this is Alan Kent.”
“How are you Alan?”
“I’m fine. I have good news for you. Your truck is now on Mexican roads. You should have your things on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas.”
“Five days ago you told me that the truck was leaving the border that day.”
“Yes, but now it has.”

Needless to say, I put no stock in the stuff actually arriving on schedule. I didn’t want to have to explain to a three-year-old why there was no Christmas tree on Christmas so I needed a plan B. Frustrated, after looking for an artificial tree in four stores in two cities, I had to go to plan C.

Off to one side of the property, we have a row of five pine trees. I selected the least “Charlie Brown” looking of these and strung it with 400 white lights. I then ran about two hundred feet of extension cord from the outlet on the Barbeque. My plan was that, on Christmas Eve we would say, “I think I heard Santa outside!” Then we’d run outside and see the tree lit off in the distance. We’d run to that end of the property to find the gifts under the tree, load them into a wheelbarrow strategically (and conveniently) placed near the tree, and return to the house to open the gifts. What an exciting country experience this would be for a little girl from the city.

True to his word, for the first time, my stuff arrived at 9:30 AM on Christmas Eve. The back patio immediately became a disaster. Amidst the jumble of boxes and furniture I found my Christmas tree and ornaments. While I did inventory, Rodrigo and his cousin Chelo set up the tree in the living room.

Two of the shipping boxes had broken. Those containing all my personal files, income tax, insurance, mortgage, etc. It looked as if they’d been scattered down a dusty street. Three-year-old Elizabeth, determined to help, came carrying a cooking magazine and two porno magazines and said something I didn’t understand in Spanish. “She wants to know what kind of magazines these are,” Rodrigo translated. I quickly removed them from her tiny hands and said that they were not interesting and that she should look for others.

One of the movers handed me a cell phone. “Charles, this is Alan Kent. Can you pay the drivers the balance due?”

“Actually, no. I’m withholding $1,000 until you deliver my remaining things that are still in Oakland, at my friend’s house, and remove the boxes for that other guy that my friend has been storing for over a month. Also, I am not happy. Furniture is damaged, stained and some pieces, my favorites, are broken beyond repair. And it appears that I’m missing many boxes.”

“Yes, there are still 10 boxes of books, a chair and some kitchen items yet to come. Didn’t they tell you that?”

“No, they failed to mention anything.”

“Ok, that is fine. I will send a guy to look at the furniture. We deal with repairs all the time. Do not worry.”

“We’ll see.”

I handed the phone back to the mover just as my migraine began to really kick in. However, I resolved that this was Christmas and despite my disappointment with the timing and condition of my furniture, I was not going to spoil everyone else’s Christmas by moping around. The mattresses, bed frame, couch, television, stereo equipment and a lot of other stuff, would just have to sit on the patio for days, until I could find a place for them. Thank god no rain was in sight.

The question, “Can someone carve the turkey while I make the gravy?” was met with blank stares. No one had ever carved a turkey before. “Rodrigo, you’re a surgeon, it is not that difficult.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“Well watch because next year it is all yours.”

After dinner we heard the sound of a bell outside. Santa had arrived. We threw on our jackets and dashed out the back door to see the tree glowing in the distance, and ceremoniously looked into the sky for signs of Santa. Amid ooo’s and aaah’s we trudged across the property to the tree, retrieved the gifts and wheeled them back to the house.

Rodrigo came to me the next morning. “Melissa told Chelo that Santa was a bad boy yesterday, for leaving the gifts so far away.”

So much for two hundred feet of extension cords and the country touch.

My migraine lasted for four days but I powered through a barrage of holiday parties and dinners, unpacking boxes and moving furniture and rugs as time permitted. I have dispersed furniture and electronic equipment amongst friends until we are able to build a casita. Things are beginning to calm but I am still waiting for word on my remaining shipment.

As I sit here typing this, a dog that we are caring for lies by my feet. She smells. She was sprayed by a skunk last night and insists on following me everywhere.

Today I will redeem one of my gifts, a 1.5 hour massage. I need it.

Houses & Dogs

December 10, 2005

Today is my birthday. I woke up trying to remember how old I am. Is it 46 or is it 47? I hope it is 46 because 47 feels too much like downhill to 50. Yes, it is 46. I’ll wait until next year to be depressed.

This morning I was served breakfast in bed. I can’t remember the last time I received breakfast in bed. I’m not sure, aside from a hospital stay when my appendix was removed, if I was ever served breakfast in bed.

The gap in correspondence is because I returned to the states and sold the Oakland house. I was afraid that I’d missed the feeding frenzy of home sales that happened over the summer but I didn’t. The house was on the market for two weeks and I received four offers, all over my asking price.

The most attractive offer, the one I accepted, included a two week close of escrow. So I spent two weeks living off TV dinners and packing over 17 years of living. I couldn’t have done it without the help of Clare, Dean and Rudy. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

During the process I would think, “Should I drag this to Mexico or not? What the heck, it is a 24 foot truck and I won’t come close to filling it so I’ll just take it and I can always give it away down there.” I expected movers with wrapping blankets, a hand truck, etc. What I got was a 15 foot truck, no wrapping blankets and only one guy.

Nearly everything fit but I have no idea in what condition it will arrive. Or for that matter when. It was supposed to take 10 days. It has been three weeks and as of yesterday, my stuff was still at the border in Tijuana. “There is nothing wrong with your shipment,” the moving company told me, “But in the other shipment we are combining it with they found, umm contraband. Is that a word? Contraband?”
“Yes, and not a very good word.”
“Well we expect to have it resolved soon.”

The reality is, I’ve lived three years without all these things so it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it never arrived. But it would suck to spend $6,000 USD for nothing. And I really want my Christmas decorations soon.

But my mood is so good that I’m not letting this bother me. I didn’t realize how keeping one foot in each country was wearing on me. The travel back and forth and always feeling like every trip back to the states was work. Finding new renters, conducting repairs on the house, figuring out what to do with my car (which I ended up giving to my niece), details, details. Letting go of the house was liberating.

Someone asked me if I felt nostalgic, a sense of loss, selling my first home. A home into which I’d poured so much sweat equity. I really think that the moving process is designed to ensure that this doesn’t happen. By the time I was finished I couldn’t wait to get out.

And for that matter, it is in my nature to constantly improve a property. And truth be told, I was done with that house. The future only meant re-doing things that had already been done. Maintenance, upkeep, not fun. Remodel, renovation, creating, fun. And I’ve plenty to do on the house here. The pergola was completed when I got home and I love it. Our architect is now designing a combination dog run, potting shed and green house and the landscaper came this week and is putting together a plan for the whole property that will probably take years.

This will be the first Christmas at the Ranchito. For that matter, it will be the first Christmas in about 20 years, that I’ll spend in my home, not traveling to someone else’s home. I’m really looking forward to the event. Rodrigo’s cousins are coming from Mexico City, with their 3 year old, Karla with Enya, who will be one year old in January, and our orphan friends (those who don’t have any family in the area). We should be about 12 for dinner on Christmas Eve and on Christmas day I’m planning an open house and inviting about 100 people. I’ve been avoiding the subject of New Year’s Eve because Rodrigo wants us to go to Mexico City and spend it with his family (which is huge). I’m not sure that I’m ready for that. I know that my Spanish is not.

Our latest bit of good news is that Rodrigo was approved for a tourist visa to travel in the U.S. So we hope to see everyone next year, on a trip when we can be tourists and I don’t have to worry about home repairs and such. His only experience in the U.S. was Michigan State University during a veterinary exchange program. I’m excited at the prospect of showing him California.

So to you and yours, wishing you very happy holidays from colonial Mexico and the herd here at the Ranchito:

Charles and Rodrigo, and of course, Tisha, Cosette, Hagrid, Evita, Fantine, Phoebe and Fazhou.

Gored by a Bull

We’ve had our first serious accident with a visitor. My longtime friend Demetrious came to visit from Los Angeles and within the first 24 hours of his stay he managed to get gored by a bull.

Now I don’t want anyone to get the impression that we have random bulls wandering the ranchito or the streets of San Miguel. But his visit happened to coincide with the annual Pomplonada, or, running of the bulls. While my friends and I huddled in front of a television to watch the event, Demetrious decided that he wanted to be in the thick of it, and take some photos with his new camera. Near the end of the event I received a call on my cell phone.

“Charles, this is Demetrious. I’m in the hospital. I got gored by a bull.”
“Yeah, right. Listen, are you going to meet us here at the bar or do you want to meet somewhere else?”
“Charles, I’m serious.”
“You’re kidding right? I mean, if you’re kidding you need to stop right now because this isn’t funny.”
“I’m dead serious. I got gored in the leg, twice, by a bull. I’m in the emergency room. Can you come get me?”

After establishing which hospital I walked into the emergency room just in time to see them putting him under, pant leg cut open to revealing two gaping wounds.

Long story short (the long version is his prerogative and he has already written about the experience from his perspective – much more vivid than mine), he is going to be fine. He will have two huge scars on his leg to remind him of his Mexican experience. He spent the night in the hospital, under observation, and was released the next day. Subsequent swelling and pain convinced us that he’d better cut his trip short and return to his doctors in the U.S.

He did get his picture. The rest of us just got drunk.


I ran into an old acquaintance. He and his family used to rent the house on Vergel before I did. We were at a gallery opening when he launched into a tirade about his wife leaving him, and their three adopted children, for an old high school sweetheart. He was on a rant.

“That guy better have his dick insured! She came back to me showing remorse and I told her to forget it. I’d never trust her again. I’ll take my chances.”
“You should do well here. There are a lot of middle aged single women in this town.”
“Yeah, it is like a friend told me, “The odds are good but the goods are odd.””

I thought that was a brilliant description.

Flies and Family

I kill flies. I’ve made it my personal mission, or new career of sorts.

I understand that the flies are part of ranch life. But it is a part that I do not embrace. Normally they are not bad. But one barbeque can summon them from neighboring ranches and they descend like a plague.

I’ve purchased fly swatters in a variety of colors and keep them like a bouquet in a vase. I pass them out to friends when they visit and we sit outside. But my friends lack my skill.

I’ve killed as many as five with one swat. Sometimes I swat the flies while they are on my friends. This has not gone over well.

I like to kill two at once, while they are mating. When this happens I feel that I have not only destroyed their coital bliss, I have also prevented future generations from ever haunting me.

I’m on my second handyman. Eleazar, the first one, vanished in the middle of painting the living room. Alex and Andrea showed up to play a board game and Eleazar bolted for the storage room. We took off to buy some cheese and when we returned, he was gone leaving open paint cans and wet brushes and roller. Hours later he still hadn’t returned.

“What was his name?” Alex asked.
“Eleazar.” I responded.
“I wonder if that is the same Eleazar that was our driver and we fired him for stealing.”
“This guy is young, married and lives in Rodriguez.”
“That’s the guy.”
“What did he steal?”
“He used to go out for supplies and make a deal with the store to up the amount on the receipts and then split the difference with the shop person.”

Clearly he recognized Alex and his car and whatever guilt he had was enough for him to abandon the job. And he seemed so nice, worked well and quickly. One just has to be careful. So now we have Roberto. He came highly recommended from some friends. But now I purchase all the materials myself.

I am learning how big families operate. I was raised as an only child and I find the dynamic is quite different. A few weeks ago seven members of Rodrigo’s family, five adults and two children, came for the weekend. I came home late from a party and expected to find people sleeping on couches throughout the house. Somehow, all seven packed into the two guest rooms. I know that there were air mattresses involved but I still don’t get how they did it.

After a dramatic wailing scene between Santiago, the four year old, and Melissa, the two year old, (cousins who had to be torn from each other’s arms) half the family was headed North while Aunt Chelito and cousins Pancho, Chelo and Melissa were to stay another night before heading back to Mexico City. Rodrigo went off to work and left me to take them to the botanical gardens. Quite a work-out for my Spanish as none of them speak English.

Speaking of speaking Spanish. If one is a beginner in a language, I don’t recommend going through a Kentucky Fried Chicken drive-thru in a foreign country. Trust me, after screaming your order into the crackly little speaker, you never know what will actually end up in your box. Go inside. It helps when you can point.

This weekend I hosted a baptism for my new god-daughter, Enya. Since the father, Maurico, was raised Catholic and is non-practicing, and the mother, Karla, was raised Mormon and is non-practicing, we had a non-denominational service performed by Rodrigo and my 75 year old friend, Reverend Nancy Anderson. Nancy read in English and Rod in Spanish. I had rented a tent and tables to accommodate 40 people and we were filled to capacity. Since the father is a bass player in a rock band, the crowd was quite interesting. I don’t think some had slept in awhile. I hired my maid’s family to cater the event. It was a wonderful day albeit long and draining.

Now Karla speaks English – lived in the states for a period of time. So when she said, “I will come back tomorrow and help you clean up,” I really thought that it would be just her and maybe Enya. We planned to heat up some leftovers for lunch. Instead, down the driveway come Mauricio, his cousin, Karla, Enya, Karla’s mom and Karla’s aunt. We already had Rodrigo’s cousin Gus staying with us. So the day I had envisioned myself lying on the couch and watching movies, ended up being dinner for eight adults. They stayed all afternoon, eating, drinking beer, reading magazines, talking, feeding the baby, etc. I learned later that this is common in this culture. They even have a word for it. “Recalentado” which means to re-heat. But it has evolved to mean, “The day after the big party when everyone shows up to eat the leftovers.”

I’m scared to death as to what Christmas will bring.

A Bat in the Bathroom

During a recent storm, the river behind the house flooded its banks slightly and came to within a few feet of the house. Rod and I surveyed the scene and seeing no impending danger, we found a dry spot in the house and put Bram Stoker's Dracula in the DVD player. As we’re sitting watching the film, something flies past the TV and into the guest bath. I sat there for a moment and thought, "Not another bird in the house!" But then it was moving almost silently. Maybe one of those big moths I've seen. So I walk into the bathroom, turn on the light, and guess what. A bat. How ironic is that? Watching Dracula and a bat is flying around the house. I have no idea how it got in. I’ve purchased a “Bat House” to encourage bats onto the property but I never invited them inside the house. (But the must prefer my house to theirs because their’s remains empty.)

So life in the country continues to offer its challenges. Almost daily we see rabbits hopping around the yard and they are probably the little bastards that are eating away at our vegetable garden. I was blaming them for devastating some of the lillys in the front yard until I saw a line of leaf-cutter ants carrying off the evidence. Later the same day I chased a snake off the front porch as Mary, our maid, watched through the glass doors.

Speaking of Mary, her brother invited us to his son’s tres años. A birthday party for a three-year-old like I’ve never seen before. It was held in a local reception hall and there were about 150 guests, almost all family. And Mary says that it represents only about one quarter of the family. Her mother was there and told us that she is grandmother to 30 grandchildren. The party started at 4:00 and went on until 4:00 the next morning. (We only lasted until about 9:00 PM.) I and my friend Marc were the only gringos at the party and I was a little embarrassed as Mary and Celia (Marc’s maid and Mary’s sister) saw to it that we were served first. There was music, children’s games, piñatas, food, cake, and of course, beer and tequila for the adults. I understand that after we left, there was dancing. (Not because we left, just because it was time.) I very much wanted to kidnap one of the children. I mean, with a family so large, would they really notice?

Ranch Life

“So you remember Sebastian from the party?” Andrea asked as we were lying on the lounge chairs in the back yard, on what we fondly call our periodic “Charles and Andrea love each other day”.

“Yes, he was that good looking German boy, Sophia’s friend from Hamburg.”

“Well you know that he has some big corporate job and quit to take another. He told Sophia that before he starts his new job he has two weeks vacation and wants to do something that he has never done before. So she invited him to stay out at the ranch. He jumped at the chance even though he doesn’t speak any Spanish, and is going to be working out there, helping out. Sophia is still in Argentina with her mom, Regina, so Alex and I took Sebastian out to the Ranch yesterday. You know the spot right before the hacienda, where the river is? Well now the river is completely dry. Not even the soil is wet. So we’re driving up and on the other side of the river, right in front of the hacienda, a dead cow.” Andrea held her arms up, “Legs straight up in the air, all bloated, flies everywhere. And you know Lobo? She had 13 puppies so there are about 20 dogs running all over the place, toys from Mary Elena’s six kids scattered all over the court yard, the bathroom a mess, just horrible.”

“Oh my god. And Sebastian is from one of the most beautiful and pristine cities in Europe.”

“Exactly. But he took it all in stride, kept saying how amazing and beautiful it was. And all I could think was “gross.” You know it is because Regina has not been there for over a month. They need a boss. Someone to tell them what to do. How do you say it? While the cat is away the mice are playing?”

“Close enough.”

So we go inside to introduce Sebastian and get him settled and start taking notes to call Regina. With no rain they’re running out of food and water for the cattle, they don’t know what to do . . . What water is left is stagnant and making them sick. Anyway, we come back out and by now the dogs have gotten into the dead cow. Bloody dogs everywhere. And Poopaw, you remember little Poopaw? She is INSIDE the cow’s butt, head buried inside, tail wagging. Oh Charles, it was so gross. And the smell!”


While life at the ranchito is not as rustic as a real ranch, we’ve had our share of country living. The first big rain storm found us scurrying around the house with bowls and towels, moving furniture, drying dogs. It also left us without power for a few hours and without a phone for four days. Then the critters began coming out.

Ever heard of June bugs? Someone told me that is what they are. These little flying beetles that commit suicide in the fountain and pond and leave a layer of carcasses on the front patio from slamming into the lights. Hundreds of them all appearing in one night. Then the next day swarms of birds had a buffet in the front yard and now there are hardly any.

Rod brought a tortoise home that he almost ran over, about the size of your palm, and we set it loose in the rock garden. He later found a five foot snake in the back yard that slithered off and we don’t know where it went. A few minutes later we watched a tarantula swagger across the patio. Two ducks were in the pond the other morning and there is something that we can hear scurry very quickly across the roof several times during the day and night.

Next?

Barra de Navidad

“Don’t go to Vallarta,” Marcos said, “Vallarta is not a place for a romantic getaway.”

“I think you should go to Acapulco,” Armando said, “Acapulco is great. I remember the days when you could sit down at a table and say to the waiter, “I’d like a martini, a gram of coke and a boy.” And the waiter would say “Si Señor,” and you got it.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the kind of vacation we’re looking for either. We were thinking something more remote, palapas on the beach kind of thing. What do you know about Bara de Navidad? Rod has been there and likes it.”

“Don’t know it,” Marcos said, “But I hear that it’s nice. I like Vera Cruz.”

“I don’t want to go to Vera Cruz,” Rod said. So plans were laid for Bara de Navidad.

“You’ll be going through Guadalajara,” Victor said, “So you should stop and check out the Icipali furniture place. My mother and sister are also living there and could show you around.”

We packed up the SUV, turned the house and little car over to Christine and gave her instructions for the staff and the animals. “We’ll be back on Friday evening, after the girls and the gardener have left. So I’ve left envelopes in the buffet with their names on them. If you could just put them out on Friday. I’ll pay Mary on Saturday.”

So off we went, at the crack of noon.

The drive to Guadalajara is about three hours and took us through plains of blue agave fields (the cactus used to make tequila). Rod had us scheduled to meet with Jose Antonio, or “Gordis” as Rod calls him, an affectionate name for a fat person, who is another dog breeder and handler. Most of the evening they spent rattling on about different dogs and gossip about different kennel club members. I didn’t mind not understanding much as had the conversation been in English I probably would have been equally bored. Gordis then took us to the Icipali furniture factory where I ordered furniture for the front patio.

The next morning Victor’s mother, sister and two nieces, ages 6 and 8, met us at our hotel. After a brief discussion as to where to have breakfast, we set out to a popular spot a couple of blocks away. The 6 year old walked up to me and took my hand and didn’t let go all the way to the restaurant. When we arrived at our table, her mother asked her where she wanted to sit. “Next to him,” she said in Spanish. Before the meal was over she was in my lap, her sister standing next to my chair as we pointed to things and traded words in Spanish and English. I wanted to steal them both.

After breakfast we kissed the girls goodbye, eliciting promises that they would come to San Miguel soon, and continued on. We crossed plains of dry lake beds throwing up dust tornados, past the impressive Colima volcano (which has since erupted and still is) and began to see roadside stands selling fruit and candies. And then as if someone had drawn a line on the landscape, we entered the tropics.

Bara de Navidad was like a time warp, like stepping into a beach community from the 60’s. A lagoon on one side and bay on the other, and then in contrast, a huge five star resort, Grand Bay I think it is called, sat perched on the peninsula. The town only has two main streets, one on the lagoon side and one on the ocean side. On the lagoon side we ate dinner over the water and watched blow fish snack on scraps tossed to them by customers. Our hotel looked out over the bay side where hardly a soul was on the beach. It was strange for me to see so much empty sand in such a beautiful setting.

“I noticed when we were at the bar that you didn’t talk to the other Americans that we saw,” Rod said, “Don’t you like your culture.”

“I heard those guys talking by the pool today,” I replied, “One of them said, “The only thing that could make is place better is more naked chicks.” That’s not exactly my culture and I don’t think we’ve a lot in common.”

We decided to live large for an evening and made reservations at the best restaurant at the fancy resort. At the water taxi station, security called to confirm our reservation and then we were given tickets for the return. After crossing the lagoon inlet we were greeted at the dock and passed through pristine gardens, multiple water falls and swimming pools and reached the elevator where we ascended several floors to the restaurant. It felt strange being surrounded by such elegance. Also, being low season, we were practically the only people at the resort and were the only people at the restaurant. We kept giggling as waiters fluttered around us (having no one else to serve and nothing else to do). And I have to admit, it was one of the better meals that I’ve ever had.

On the drive back temperatures reached 107. We stopped at roadside stands and sampled strange fruits that I’ve never seen or tasted before. Everywhere people were gracious and in good humor, despite the heat. We spent the night outside Guadalajara and after shopping the next morning, we returned to San Miguel.

Shortly after we arrived at the Ranchito, Christine returned from her teaching job. “You’re cramping my style,” she said, “You’re early.”

“It’s five o’clock,” I thought to myself. Then I noticed the envelopes for the staff on the buffet. “Why haven’t you paid the girls and Fidel?” I asked.

“Because it is only Thursday,” Christine replied.

Rod and I looked at each other in disbelief. “No it’s not,” I said, “It’s Friday.”

“Umm, Hello! I ought to know. I have to work tomorrow.”

“We could have stayed another day at the beach!” Rod said, “Take me back.”

The opening of Rodrigo’s new clinic was last Friday night. The day before I asked him to call my father’s doctor and invite her. She, her husband and son came to the party and presented us with two coffee mugs. On the front was the logo for Rod’s business and the name of the clinic, and on the back of one cup his name, mine on the other. Her husband had driven by the building that morning, copied the logo and made the cups before coming to the party. I continue to be impressed by the kindness and accepting nature of this community.